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Two Perch

Eggfecker kept the wolf from his door by the simple strategy of living solely where wolves were extinct. At this time he happened to be parked at the edge of a meadow in a little country called England. He basked in his solitude. Since driving off the ferry he’d spoken to no-one except the farmer who owned the meadow. The second day, towards dusk, he was fishing for his supper when a plump, black, naked woman came out of the bushes about twenty metres downstream. She dropped her carrier-bag and stood still for a while. He was entranced by the gleaming of her skin, by the plethora of curves. Then she ran towards the water - daintily, like a rhinoceros - splashed in and swam about for ten minutes or so, using a variety of strokes. When she emerged she was white, her curves subtly moderated. She pulled a towel from the bag and dried herself. Then she donned a gypsy-coloured dress and walked slowly towards him, rubbing her close-cropped head with the towel. Eggfecker stared at his float, fearing that he was about to be accused of voyeurism.

“Caught anything?”

“Very little.”

She lifted his keep-net to reveal the occupants.

“Perch?”

He shrugged, not knowing the local name.

She squatted down beside him. He wasn’t interested. He preferred to relish the twin images in his mind, the black her and the white her, unsullied by any personality.

“Do you live ‘round here?” she said. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I only just arrived,” he muttered. “My van is over there.”

He waved vaguely with his left hand.

“So you’re a traveller?”

“Of course.”

“Why of course?”

“There is only one kind of peoples without any insanity.”

“Who?”

“Nomads.”

She didn’t respond for a while. Then she laughed and said:

“Ah, I get it.”

He was disappointed with the falsity of her laugh, this being the first joke he’d ever composed and delivered in English.

“It is the natural condition for our species.”

“Possibly,” she agreed. “But what if you find somewhere you love, that feels just right for you? What if you feel saner than you’ve ever felt?”

“In this case, you stay, of course. But it never lasts. If the place doesn’t destroy you then it will be destroyed for you. There is always, how do you say, a spanner in the work.”

“I know what you mean. I’m really a traveller too. My van is just back there. It’s been a year now since the others left, but I still haven’t felt the need. There are things about this spot which are just so wonderful.”

She stood up.

“I’m going back to get warm. Why don’t you come and visit tomorrow? Just follow that path over there, you won’t miss it.”

She held out her hand.

“I’m Tamar.”

He took it and shook it:

“Rudolf.”

“Come about midday.”

* * *

The night was a tumultuous affair. The two little perch he’d caught and killed and grilled and eaten were soon resurrected in his stomach, where they set about inflicting hours of pain. Eventually, after extracting from him a promise to become a vegan forthwith, they tired of vengeance and came to terms with their new life. He only began to sleep properly when it began to get light, with the result that he didn’t wake until nearly noon. He immediately remembered the invitation. He scowled. Having decided that he certainly wouldn’t go, he jumped up, dressed and went.

The river was now, apart from a narrow channel in the middle, an expanse of gleaming blue-grey mud, decorated with oystercatchers, curlews, dunlins; fringed with mist. He branched off up the path he’d seen her take and soon emerged into a clearing, occupied by an amazingly dilapidated van, piles of rubbish, scrap metal, tires. As he approached the vehicle he could distinguish on its rusted side the remains of hand-painted psychedelic fantasies. There was no answer to his first knock. To his second, a sleepy voice replied:

“Come in.”

The interior was a cross between a jumble-sale and a Hindu temple. He smelled a blend of fish, musk and incense. Tamar lay beneath a vermilion duvet.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, although it was obvious he’d woken her.

She arose and stood before him, naked again.

“I usually take a mud-bath at low-tide. Do you fancy it?”

He shrugged:

“Why not?”

“It’s probably best if you leave your clothes here.”

He stripped and followed her out of the van and back down the path.

“Keep behind me,” she said. “There’s an area here where the mud is particularly pure.”

* * *

Her belly laughed beneath him like a buddha. The mud slurped; the mist retreated; a flimsy sun appeared. Bewildered, he felt within him a flying flock of starlings. Having abolished all his prior life, her pelvis thrust him into the next, where flesh became word and starlings became grammar; where consonants became gods and gods became ornithologists; where time swooshed in million-winged circles.

For aeons afterwards, they lay entwined - paralysed by ecstasy. Eventually he managed to get to his feet and was just helping her to hers when he heard a loud crack and simultaneously felt a slicing hot pain across his right buttock. He dived back into the mud.

“Probably Bobby,” she said.

“Who?”

“My son… Don’t worry – he wasn’t trying to kill you, only frighten you… I’ll go and disarm him if you like.”

“Yes. I would like.”

He remained prone until he heard her call his name from the shore. He looked up to see her holding the rifle. He dragged himself to his feet and tentatively walked towards her. She tossed the gun away and came to meet him. She inspected his buttock.

“Stopped bleeding already,” she said.

“Where is he now?”

“Hiding somewhere, I should think. He knows he’s done wrong. There’s no need to worry. I’ve told him you’re his new mudfather and he’s O.K. with that.”

As they set off along the path, the sun at last became fully emancipated from the mist. Now brown, now green, now iridescent, her body as she walked entranced him.

His reborn desire instantly shrivelled as a man emerged from the undergrowth and faced them on the path. He wore grimy jeans, tattoos, muscles, nipple-rings.

Eggfecker, assuming the man to be her lover, felt as though he’d been dragged into some corny psychodrama. He’d occasionally played this part before, but so long ago he’d forgotten his lines.

“Bobby, this is Rudolf. Rudolf, Bobby.”

Bobby held out his hand. There was no hint of menace in the grip.

“Sorry about your bum, man. No hard feelings?”

Rudolf slowly shook his head. His feelings were anything but hard: they were misty, unfocussed, lightly tinged with fear.

He wondered how Bobby could possibly be her son when he looked old enough to be her twin.

“How long will lunch be, Mum? I’m starving.”

“I was just going to get it started. If you fetch some water it’ll be even quicker.”

They reached the clearing. A prehistoric black motorbike now leaned against the rear of the van. Bobby picked up a couple of buckets and a pole and went off up another path.

Tamar embraced Rudolf.

“Come on,” she murmured. “We’ve got at least fifteen minutes.”

But his starlings had now emigrated en masse, the few stragglers easy prey to anxiety.

“I’ve got to get some clothes on.”

“Why?”

“I feel awkward naked with your son around.”

“Hardly naked. First you’re wearing your birthday-suit, and then a brand-new mud overcoat on top of that. I’d say your pretty well-dressed.”

“Very funny… You must understand how I feel.”

“Maybe. But you can’t wash it off until the tide comes up. And if you did it wouldn’t have time to work properly… Hold on a minute.”

She skipped into the van and re-emerged with a mass of dried grass, which turned out to be a skirt.

“Why not wear this? I sometimes put it on if I’ve got prudish visitors.”

Rudolf was wary of such a solution. Nevertheless, he tied it around his waist. Looking down at himself, the grass seemed slightly out of focus. His pelvis began to twitch, to undulate, to gyrate. The grass swished gently in accompaniment. The rest of his body joined in without waiting to be bidden. He’d never danced or even felt like dancing in his life before. The skirt sounded like a combination of soft maracas and whispering choruses. She laughed at his antics for a while and then went into the van. Eggfecker carried on dancing. If he didn’t know better he’d say he was leaping higher than humanly possible.

Out of his half-closed eyes he vaguely saw the figure of a crucifix. For a moment he thought he was on the verge of a vision of Christ. Then he realised it was not God’s son, but her son, his arms out over the pole, at each end a brimming bucket.

The look on Bobby’s face may have been disdain; it may have been disbelief; it may just have been disinterest. Whatever, the energy left Eggfecker like air from a punctured balloon and he soon came to a standstill, despite the efforts of the skirt to yank him back into action. Bobby squatted until the buckets came gently to rest on the ground, then he approached. Eggfecker, still half-expecting some kind of assault, prepared to defend himself.

“Nice moves, Pop,” said Bobby, as he passed.

He went into the van, emerging with a panful of peeled and cut potatoes. He filled the pan from one of the buckets, returned it to his mother and then slouched off towards the river.

Eggfecker wandered around the clearing, vaguely examining some of the discarded machine-parts, wondering whether he’d be wise to stay here much longer.

“Excuse me,” said a male voice.

He turned round to see a young policeman standing there.

“Hello.”

“What are you, then? Some kind of performer?”

“Actually no.”

“We’ve received a complaint about lewd behaviour.”

“What is ‘lude’? I don’t understand.”

“Indecent. It’s a trivial complaint, really, but I’m obliged to follow it up.”

Tamar stepped down from her van. Eggefecker was reminded anew, via the policeman’s transfixed gaze, of the vision she presented.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing’s going on. We’re just living a simple life, minding our own business. Is there a law against that?”

“Of course not. Don’t misunderstand me. I was just curious.”

“We took a mud-bath earlier. We’re keeping the mud on as long as possible. It’s got the most amazing therapeutic properties.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got no quarrel with you personally, but we have had a complaint about what you and the gentleman here were doing in the mud.”

“Oh, dear. I had no idea we could be seen from anywhere.”

“It was someone who lives above the opposite bank. Mind you, he has got quite a powerful telescope.”

“He’s a pervert.”

“It was his wife who complained.”

“She’s a bag.”

Eggfecker was aghast to see Bobby emerge into the clearing, unsling the rifle and take aim at the policeman’s back.

“Bobby, put that down!” she shouted.

The rifle remained aimed as the policeman turned round.

“Oh, shit,” he said, with a trace of a whimper.

“He’s not even after you,” said Tamar.

“Who’s he after, then?” asked Bobby.

“He’s come to see me.”

A shot pinged out. The policeman’s hand darted up to his left ear. He stared at the blood on his fingertips. Eggefecker saw an excision from the edge of the ear, about the size of a mouse-bite; remembered the similar superficiality of his own wound; induced from these two examples a pattern to Bobby’s marksmanship.

For maybe ten seconds the policeman stayed stupefied. Then he ran. Another thirty seconds further on they heard his car screech away.

Bobby slung the rifle over his back and swaggered across to join them.

“That’s got rid of the filth.”

“Oh, yes. Very clever,” said Tamar, cuffing him across the head.

“What was that for?”

“Give it to me this minute. What on earth is the matter with you?”

“I was only trying to protect you.”

She whirled the .22 around a few times before letting go. It landed far away, deep in the gorse.

“Come on then.”

They followed her in and sat at the fold-down table. She served them with wooden plates of boiled potatoes - some green, some black, some both.

“Is this it?” said Bobby.

“I’m sorry. The cupboard is bare… Hold on.”

She waltzed out, coming back a few moments later with a few sprigs of mint, which she tore up and scattered over their spuds.

Bobby now turned his attention to Rudolf’s plate, soon discovering a discrepancy:

“He’s got more than me.”

Sighing, she swapped the plates.

“He’s still got more than me.”

Then, as if realising the infantility of his behaviour, he laughed and began to wolf his portion.

When they’d all finished eating, there was a short discussion on the likely reaction of the police. Tamar didn’t think there’d be any, as ‘it was only a little nick’, and as the Devon & Cornwall Constabulary were the most easy-going of forces.

“If he reports it,” said Bobby, shaking his head. “They’ll be down on us like a ton of bricks.”

“How can he not report it?” said Rudolf. “You shot him. Maybe it was a good shot, maybe a bad shot. But he doesn’t know. As far as he was concerned you were trying to kill him.”

“So either we prepare to defend ourselves or I split.”

There was a silence, during which the defensive option quietly expired.

“I guess I better split.”

He stood up, crammed a few things into a haversack, shook hands with Eggfecker. Tamar went out with him. After a few minutes the ancient four-stroke came roaring to life. Eggfecker smiled with nostalgic pleasure. When she reappeared, her tears had left trails through the mud on her cheeks.

“He’ll be all right, yes?”

“I don’t know. He can be so stupid sometimes… I suppose it was high time he left home.”

“I think we should get out of here as well. At least you should drive round and park next to me?”

“I might if I could, but I’ve got no engine.”

“What?”

“My friends who left last year took it - theirs was kaput… Don’t worry. If the police come back I’ll tell them Bobby’s gone and that’ll be it. They’ve got no quarrel with me.”

Eggfecker’s ideas were more doomy. He reasoned that once they’d been fired upon they’d be justified in firing back. There need be no time-limit between aggression and retaliation, and no symmetry either: a single bullet off target could legally be responded to with a fusillade on target.

She admonished him for his ignorance: this was a peaceful country and the police were keepers of the peace. Nevertheless, perhaps they ought to at least get washed and dressed. They went back down to the river, each with a carrier-bag of clothes and shoes. They lay together in the sun on the bank while the tide came in far enough to provide a good swim.

* * *

As they set off back along the path they heard a strange sound coming from the direction of the clearing. Eggfecker realised it was a megaphone-voice, though he couldn’t make out the words. They crept off the path and through the undergrowth until they stumbled across a kneeling, armed, helmeted figure, who waved them urgently away. They retreated a little and watched as another helmeted figure ran up to the rear window of the van, smashed it, threw something in and ran back to cover. Eggfecker assumed this to be tear-gas, meant for Bobby. (Funnily enough, at that very moment there were tears streaming from Bobby’s eyes, but they were caused neither by gas nor by anguish, merely by the head-wind as he tore up the motorway.) After a few minutes the procedure was repeated, this time accompanied by a small explosion from inside the van. Smoke now emerged from the smashed window, soon followed by flames. Only by exerting his whole strength was he able to restrain her from rushing to the rescue.

“That’s my home. That’s everything.”

“It is not worth dying for.”

“The bastards. I can’t believe this.”

“Come to mine,” he said, dragging her back towards the river. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“I can’t believe it,” she repeated.

“Look at it this way: your son is safe; you are safe. And also, we still have the skirt.”

“Big deal.”

“Maybe tomorrow we will go back and see if there’s anything to salvage.”

To his surprise and relief she was already looking a lot less distraught.

“Gosh,” she said, when they reached his van. “It’s so shiny, so clean.”

For a while he became unaccountably diffident, as though all that had gone before had not gone before; as though she were a stranger to be wooed from scratch, and he a wooer unsure of his chances.

She lay on the bed while he cooked. They sat side by side and ate in silence.

Afterwards, she said:

“You know I always thought I’d have twins one day, yet for a long time I was also afraid I’d become infertile. I now realise it wasn’t me. It was the men. I just never found the right one until today.”

Eggfecker stared at her, dumbfounded. He searched through what she’d said for any conceivable ambiguity; found none.

“Come and listen,” she murmured, stretching out on the bed.

He pressed his right ear against her belly.

* * *

Like nothing on earth, the twins lay nimbly in their green tent, in their yellow desert, in their blue beyond. Fast asleep, they teemed with dreams, yet sat up the moment they felt their father coming true. Then they crawled out of the tent and set off towards their mother’s red cathedral, shimmering in the distance, just above the horizon.

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