Finding the angles - Page 4
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 26: Stories for Today
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Lee Kofman
4. Angles
MELBOURNE SMELLS OF spring flowers and red wine. She gazes at the pool balls. She'd love to smash this meticulously arranged triangle to hell. But it's his turn.
‘So, babe, I know you got a scare in Sydney, but it's natural the first time. Next time you'll have as much fun as I did, I promise. Love you.' He misses the shot.
‘Two for you,' he tells her, as though she is a novice to the game; he strokes her long hair. She gets her ball in. She hopes the clicking sound of its fall will cover her sharp heartbeat.
‘I've found a place,' she says. ‘Tomorrow I'm moving out.' She focuses on the green velvet of the table.
‘Ahaaa...' He stretches the word, taking his time; his muscles swell, crawling from underneath tight sleeves.
Finally, his face turns blood-red: ‘You think you'll manage! You don't get it, do you? You're nothing without me in this country. You can't speak English properly. You don't even drive! You should be grateful I keep you, you little bitch!'
She tries to focus on the angles of the balls. How odd: they are so perfectly round, but each is also a totality of angles. That's it – a sudden revelation. That's it! She has been losing because she has only been noticing the round surface instead of the essence of the balls, the angles.
The guy in the Corowa pub had told her what to do; she had just never followed his advice, perhaps content with Paul always winning (he was an awful loser). ‘Lean your chin on the cue,' the guy had said as Paul was watching them from afar with that strange glint in his eyes. ‘Look at the ball through the point of the cue.'
Focus, she orders herself, and sinks her balls one after another. One-two-three. Like a waltz. One-two-three. She filters out the roundness and sees only straight lines stretching between the angles. She knocks the black ball down into the abyss. She straightens and stares into the roundness of Paul's pupils. Focus. She leans her chin on an imaginary cue.
She filters out her anger at him: How do you know I won't manage! What the fuck do you know about me at all? And why don't you hold me? She filters out her constant loneliness and yearning for him. The straight line from the cue tip to his pupils leads to a great sorrow, but it's his, not hers: the sorrow that he won't have her anymore. She'll still have herself.
And what will he have?
The fascist-tamer cries. It is not her usual crying – the guttural sobbing of a baby waiting for Paul's consolation – this is a silent, refined crying. The tears are large and perfect, like the balls. The audience above the arena whistles its contempt, but she doesn't care. The show is over.
She wipes her face. ♦