I Get No Kick from Champagne

STUDMUFFIN (3)

The next morning, I showed Tiltheus how to use the shower. Ancient Greeks cleaned themselves with olive oil and a scraper to take of the surplus oil and dead skin cells and gunk. I wasn’t having any of that in my room – even if it did give you a nice clear skin and a beautiful complexion. But Tiltheus didn’t seem to mind, and I was amused to hear him singing lustily in the shower, just as if he’d been doing it for years. Of course he wasn’t singing Metallica or Abba or Queen or even Gilbert and Sullivan, but the principle was there. I lent him boxers and socks, and he wore the shirt he’d worn the night before. His leather pants were way cool. If I was going ‘across’, I would get some too, I decided. I told him so.

“I was admiring your jeans,” he said, a little shyly. Damn, my boy was a quick learner. He used the English word and almost pronounced it right, too.

“I can buy you some, next month,” I said.

“Next month?”

“I get paid monthly. And I’ve spent most of this month’s money. And what I have left, I need to pay for food . . . . .”

“. . . . . kai oinon,” he said with a grin. And wine. Dr Wang had been right. He wasn’t harmed by wine. But it was a pity about the green stuff. Still, he was as good a drinking partner as I’d had. And he’d kept my mind off Jane. So who’s complaining, already? Then he said something interesting. “I have my own money, only it’s still in my pack on the horse.” Great, I thought, on the other side of an unopened gateway, and anyway, by now, it’s probably been lifted by some passing low-life. “I don’t know whether I could use it here,” he said doubtfully.

“Do you have a coin with you?” I asked. He dug into the pocket of his leather pants and produced a gold coin and a couple of silver coins. The gold coin had a picture of a woman on one side and a man on the other. “Who are these people?” I inquired.

“The supreme Goddess and God.” Zeus and Athena? I wondered. The coin wasn’t as well made as one of ours, but on the other hand, it was gold, and rare. An antique shop or rare coin merchant might change it into useful money, the kind that has the signature of the Governor of the Reserve Bank on it. Next I looked at the silver coins. They were similar, with the head of a woman on one side, and a figure on the other. Til explained that these were the coins created by the queen.

“The highest Goddess’s and God’s portraits go on the most valuable coins, and the queen’s with a lesser God or Goddess on the others.”

“How do you know what the God and the Goddess look like?”

He looked at me as if I was demented. “The sculptor has seen them,” he said, flatly.

“You’ve seen the God and the Goddess?” I asked incredulously.

“Certainly. I am a servant of the Light, and they are the Gods of the Light. Their images in the otherworld would have been invoked for the sculptor by a priest or priestess so that the sculptor could see. Of course, he or she would create a model of the essence of the Gods, because you see that better in the otherworld than their physical nature, but it’s true enough all the same.”

“Til, they just invented a face.”

“No they didn’t,” he said stubbornly. “Have you never been into the otherworld?” When I shook my head, he went on. “Another name for it would be spirit-world, where the physical world, the one around us,” and he waved his hands vaguely at the things in the room, “is as dim and unreal as the spirit world is now, while the presence of the spirits is strong. It’s a reversal of the way things are in the world we can see and touch and sense with our bodies. Our spirits travel outside our bodies, and we are aware of the essence of things, of their souls, not their physical natures. Of course, there is a connection between the two worlds. Until you experience it yourself, it is hard to explain.”

“Will I experience it?” I asked, humouring him.

“Why not?” he shrugged. “I have seen the Goddess and the God, not every time, but often enough, when I have journeyed to the otherworld. And in essence they looked like their pictures on the coins.”

Oh dear, I thought, a religious maniac. I wonder what he’ll think of earth’s religions. I decided that I wasn’t going to try and explain them to him. Yet there was a convincing certainty about his view, much more comforting and convincing than the confusing peddlings of Earth’s religions. And to have proof . . . . . . . That would be ace. Despite his disgust at the hypocrisy and flabbiness of the church, grandpa had believed, completely, in the presence of some divinity. He didn’t label It, and thought that dogma was usually the enemy of transcendence, and probably enough in fact to actually cut us off from God. He would have been fascinated by Tiltheus’s revelations, and would have had all sorts of interesting questions to ask. If I’d been even halfway intelligent, I should have asked some too. Pity I didn’t learn how things worked until it was too late.

We needed breakfast, and with all the excitement the day before, I hadn’t bought any groceries. I decided we’d go out, and have breakfast in a pavement café in Lygon St¹. I opened the cupboard, quickly looked to see if the gateway was open (it wasn’t) and pulled out my motorbike helmet and the spare, which Jane had used on the rare occasions she’d gone riding with me.

“Try this on,” I said, putting it on his head.

“Are we going into battle?” he asked in Greek, as I rearranged his hair so that it wasn’t all knotted up, and did up the buckle under his chin.

“Only with the traffic,” I said in English, with a grin, and a shake of my head. I shrugged into my leather jacket, and gave him my denim jacket. We’d have to get him a cheap leather jacket from the second-hand shop in Sydney road, for the cold, if nothing else. I locked the door of my room – not because there was much to steal, but because I didn’t want the gateway opening while I was out, and dangerous creatures coming through into my world. Harpies or giant eagles, for example. I had some dependability and responsibility, after all, whatever Jane said. Or what I thought, secretly, in my darkest corners.

On the way out, on a hunch, I looked in the phone book on the same page where Dr Wang’s advertisement had been. It didn’t surprise me at all that there was something quite different in its place.

When Til saw the bike, he looked like a small boy when he first hears from close-up the thud-ta-thud-ta-thud-ta of a giant diesel locomotive, and decides he wants that power under his control. He drooled and slavered. He also looked nervous, but he was much less frightened of new technology than I thought he would be. In fact, he seemed almost blasé about it. Either he was very brave (probable – I felt a little humiliated by the thought) or he was stupid (most unlikely). It was odd. I shook my head to dismiss the thought.

Graziella was the most beautiful Ducati around, yellow and black, with one thousand cc of hot, highly-tuned engine between my legs. I loved that girl. I’ve always had a fondness for rough trade, and Graziella was rough, tough and elegant. It didn’t hurt that I knew how sexy I looked on her as well. That was literally the only time I felt that I had any looks at all, in my leather jacket, crouched over Graziella’s petrol tank. I have chestnut hair and green eyes, and a good body. OK, I’m lying about the body. I should tell the truth, and say I’m a bit chubby, and my body’s pretty ordinary. My nose is too long, I think, though some of my girlfriends have liked it. My chin isn’t all crisp and beautiful like a model’s. In fact I’m pretty ordinary, actually, not much of a catch. But on my bike, in my imagination! Ah, then I am sexy, desirable, maybe, even, with a bit of luck, lovable.

Yeah, I know. Don’t say it.

I stuck the key into the ignition, and started the motor, feeling as always, a small frisson of arousal as I did so. I mounted and told Til to get on behind me and to hold tight. I didn’t want him falling off because he leant the wrong way when I cornered. He clutched me closely round my waist. I have to admit I actually enjoyed it, and just for a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like . . . . . . . . .

At the café, Tiltheus was fascinated by the tablecloths, the outdoor gas heaters and café lattes. He wanted six. After the third, I started ordering decaf lattes. I had no idea what caffeine did to elvish constitutions, but I didn’t want him to be totally wired all morning. Tiltheus may have found the place fascinating, but everyone else found him fascinating. They stared surreptitiously, nudged each other and commented in English when they heard us talking Greek, thinking that we couldn’t understand. These were completely dumfounded when I ordered the next round from the waiter in perfect Strine². Everyone clearly took us for a gay couple – we’d arrived together first thing in the morning, on a beautiful, non-macho bike (well, it wasn’t a Harley), with Tiltheus plastered to my back, his arms wrapped tightly around me (mostly from terror, but they didn’t know that), while Tiltheus, at least, was too beautiful to be straight. I noticed some wistful glances from women and even from some of the men, and for the first time in my life, because I wasn’t romantically involved with the person I was with, felt sorry for those who lusted hopelessly after my friend. Oddly enough, it didn’t bother me that they thought I was also gay, because I knew I wasn’t.

There were some who noticed the pointed ears, but most took that in their stride, if they even noticed – it was the rings that drew their attention. I inspected them closely for the first time. There was one simple hoop of gold; one of silver, thick and flat, and three sparkling with precious stones. I asked him about them.

“They are given between lovers,” he said. “If you love somebody a lot, then you exchange rings, and have them set in your ears. If you have no rings, it is known that you have never taken a lover.”

“You have five rings. Is one of them from Danethon?” I was interested in the easy way they accepted gay relationships, but also how they formalized all relationships with the exchange of rings.

He looked at me with his changeable eyes, blue being replaced by stormy grey. I knew already that that was a sign of strong emotion.

“Yes,” he said, “it was this one,” and he touched one set with a small sapphire.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I should not have mentioned his name.” He smiled a little to show it didn’t matter. Emboldened, I continued. “So you have had five lovers.” It was a half question, because I didn’t want to intrude, though after our drunken weepings the night before, there wasn’t much we couldn’t talk about. “That obviously doesn’t count people you’ve fucked.” (I used the Greek word for erotic love)

“No. The rings are for the important relationships. Just as well really, or I’d have no room in my ears!”

Braggart! I thought, irritated, and also envious. I’d only had one or two one-night-stands and two steady girlfriends. Well except for Amanda, from typing, last month. And Linda from marketing the month before. And that woman I met in the pub at the Christmas bash. I was embarrassed at my self deception, now that I counted them up. And with each one it had been wham, bam, thank you ma’am. No wonder Jane had dumped me. Lovable! What a joke. To distract myself from these thoughts, I asked, rather snootily, “Isn’t five a lot for somebody as young as you?”

“I’m not young! I am nearly thirty years old. Five rings is not many, especially since almost all of them remained my lovers for two or three years. And most of them are still my friends!”

Thirty! He looked younger than I did! But wait, maybe a year was shorter in their world. “I wish my lovers were still my friends,” I said aloud, wistfully, without thinking. The grey eyes paled to blue. The storm was over.

“It is always good to end one’s love affairs with grace and courtesy,” he said gravely.

Yeah, I thought bitterly. You might be able to, but some of us are too clumsy for that. We losers don’t – can’t – end our affairs with grace and mutual affection. We losers get chucked on our arse in the snow.

Something of what I was thinking must have shown in my face, because completely unselfconsciously, he put his hand on mine and said, softly, “You will find someone else, my friend. Do not fear.”

I noticed the two women at the table next to us exchanging significant glances. Not if you keep on clutching me, I thought. Everyone will assume I’m taken. But I was curiously comforted by his concern. It had been ages, from the time when grandpa died in fact, since somebody had so unmistakably cared about me. Damian was fond of me, I knew, but he was so reticent, so bloky, that he found it hard to show me how much he cared. I knew that he was sorry that I’d split up with Jane, because he himself could not conceive of being happy without having a woman close to him, but he would never tell me how sorry he was, nor would he ever hug me or squeeze my shoulder. Tiltheus obviously had no such restraints. Yet, as far as I could tell (and I was no expert), he was not coming on to me. He was just warm and insightful and kind-hearted.

“Well!” I said, trying to make light of it. “With my next lover, I will follow your fashion, and give her a ring, and she can give me one.”

He looked at me for a moment, thoughtfully, and said, “It is a good custom.”

I went in to pay, and then helped him put his helmet on, again doing up the strap under his chin. I caught two youths grinning lecherously at me from behind Tiltheus, and I gave them my best upper-class scowl. I put on my helmet, mounted the bike, Tiltheus got on behind me, and again clutched me close. Just before I roared away, I turned and gave the two students another glare, silent and disdainful. There is something very frightening (or erotic) about a stare through the visor of a helmet, whether it’s a bike helmet or (as I was to discover) one worn in battle. I was gratified to see them both look away, discomfited.

Don’t make assumptions about me! I thought. I was angry.

And I didn’t stop to consider why.

Back at the house, Dr Wang was waiting.

“Good morning.” The fact that he was waiting inside my room, with the door still locked, didn’t appear to strike him as inappropriate, though it sure as hell did me.

“Good morning, Dr Wang. I do hope that you are perfectly comfortable.” Sarcasm was wasted on that man. He complacently replied that he was, and waved my copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets at me. I’d only brought a few of my books with me – poetry, Greek and English and Latin, Shakespeare, and Homer and Catullus and Virgil.

“I have been entertaining myself. He was a beautiful poet, no?”

Tiltheus asked me what the good doctor was on about. I explained. Tiltheus immediately became interested, and wanted to read the sonnets, pointing out that I could translate for him. Instead, I gave him my copy of the Oxford Book of Greek Verse, which has the poems in Greek above and translations below. I assumed that Tiltheus’s ‘Greeks’ used the same alphabet as the Ancient Greeks had. (Afterwards, I found out that they did, but what was much more interesting was that Tiltheus recognised none of the poems or poets featured – a Greece without Homer or Hesiod, Simonides, Pindar, Sophocles or Sappho! And that meant that there were new undiscovered poets that I could read. Oh, bliss!)

I took his helmet and mine and put them in the cupboard.

The gateway was open again.

I said, loudly, to them both, “It’s back!” Tiltheus may not have understood the words, but he certainly understood the tone of voice. They both charged over to look through the back of the cupboard into the room beyond. The door was still barricaded shut with the timber bar that Tiltheus had slotted into place the day before. The walls were still rough, undressed timber. The floor was still beaten clay, hard as stone.

We all looked at each other, and then as one man (man/elf/wizard – you know quite well what I mean), we moved to the door, and started to lift the bar.

The scene outside the door didn’t look terribly different from what it had looked like the day before. The sky was a bit bluer, and there were fewer clouds. We all stared at it in silence for a moment. I turned to Tiltheus.

“You can go back now, if you want,” I said. And all of a sudden I knew I would really miss him. Bugger. What was wrong with me? And then it was a comfort that I remembered that whatever his task was; I was going to help him. As I said, I had no idea how I’d gotten myself into this position. “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked, off-hand, embarrassed.

His eyes turned a stormy grey, and he said, very quietly, “Would that you could come! I’d like that.” I liked his subtle use of the optative, suggesting that I could refuse if I wanted to, that it was not a foregone conclusion.

I turned to the doctor. “I’ll be going with Tiltheus to help him in his task.” Alea iacta est³. I could misquote that old queen Caesar as well as anybody.

“Not so fast!” Dr Wang stopped me, one hand on my arm. “There are a few issues to discuss first.” He closed the door and barricaded it with the bar. We followed him back into my bedroom.

<<Chapter 2       Chapter 4>>