She of the Mountains (11 page)

And yet, he resisted this translation out of genuine bewilderment at who was saying it: other gays.

He found it strange, alarming even, to be reminded of something he was implicitly aware of, namely his own desires. Did they think he had forgotten or that they were aware of something about him that he wasn't? At first, he was certain that the confusion arose from language; more specifically, the failure of language. He had refused to call himself
straight
. There were too many coffee breaks fantasizing about hairy chests to account for. But, conversely, calling himself
gay
rendered his love and relationship an illusion, an experiment, an exception.

So he abandoned language altogether (although, if pushed, he would state that that he was Hersexual, she being the immediate house of his desire and happiness). But with the absence of language, of a label, came an unfortunate implication: shame. To not commit to a label, however committed he was to his relationship, was to be

                     
indecisive

which meant

confused

which meant

closeted
                            

which meant

GAY.
                     

He anxiously waited for the right moment to come out to the other gays as being in love with a woman, which felt remarkably similar to when he would come out to the straights as gay: the
fear of condemnation, the waiting for the inevitable smirk or narrowing of eyes or flurry of questions that were actually comments, which usually started with a

But

followed by

            
have you considered that

and/or

                     
maybe you are scared

and ending with a question mark, that if put into words would sound like:

YOU'RE GAY
.

He felt he owed the other gays answers, a detailed explanation, beginning with his teenage years, of how he had come to be in this relationship, of how his story was not the same as histories of gay men lying to their families and taking their wedding rings off before going to the baths. But at some point, he began to worry that his detailed explanations came across as

            
defensive,

so he said very little about his relationship

which suggested

                     
he had something to hide,

or rather,

he was hiding
                            

which meant

GAY.
                            

Until the word
queer
found him. The word had been surfacing more often in his social circle—mentions of
queer
parties or
queer
art—but he hadn't immediately considered it as his own.

He recognized that she and he could hold hands and kiss in most spaces and that landlords wouldn't think twice about renting to them. But
queer
spoke to all the other spaces and moments his body and his heart didn't fit into.
Queer
acknowledged both the cocksucking porn on his laptop and the wanting to be underneath her.
Queer
encompassed every time his gender was read as wrong and the words “fucking faggot” were spat at him. Wearing
queer
allowed him to shed the sense that he was lying to one group or another. His love, and the person he cherished most, no longer needed to be kept secret. He could be everything all at once. Ironically,
queer
meant whole.

So I have been thinking of identifying as queer,
he said to her.

Well, I love my queer partner,
she responded. Hearing her say those words, he realized that she too needed the word
queer
, especially in that sentence, if only to be able to counter the Duped Victim narrative that had been projected onto her.

His claiming of queer did not suffice for the gays. If anything, it only angered them.

SCENE FOUR

(Setting: Holiday party—group of friends sitting around fireplace in living room)

Him:
Actually, my partner is a woman …

Stranger 2:
You fuck a woman?

Him:
Yes?

Stranger 2:
Really? But you are the GAYEST man I have ever met!

SCENE FIVE

(Setting: Starbucks
—
he and Friend 2 are having a heated conversation)

Him:
Well, that's why I prefer
queer
as a label.

Friend 2:
But you know you can't really call yourself queer without a dick in your mouth.

It occurred to him that the gays and the straights had more in common than he had considered before. Just like the straights, the gays were intent on preserving and presenting a uniform, singular version of themselves; in this case, their gayness. They hadn't been saying:
you're gay! You're GAY!
They were actually saying:
Our way! OUR way!

Sunday mornings on the balcony. Fresh croissants, Havarti, and sparkling grape juice. Her slicing the Havarti so thin that it tasted like a perfect layer of butter.

Applying her rose-tinted lip gloss to his lips with her fingers. Lip-glossed kissing.
So sticky
, he said.

Slow dancing under the first snowfall outside their apartment on Bloor Street, her nose pressed into his cheek for warmth. Slow dancing while waiting for the Queen streetcar and him being grateful that the streetcar was late, as usual. Trying to slow dance in the shower, and her getting shampoo in her eyes. Slow dancing while brushing their teeth before bed to Madonna's “Crazy for You.”
Two by two, their bodies become one.

Waiting for his workday to be over, to be standing outside their apartment, keys already in his hand, hoping she would be on the other side. Waiting to flood her face with kisses and then share the newest work or friend or family gossip. Waiting for Thursday night to see the midnight premiere screening of
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
. Waiting for the summer, for evening walks and gelato and her body glowing with a light sheen of sweat. Waiting for her thirtieth birthday to surprise her with a trip to New York City.

Arguing about her lack of effort with his friends as they walked up to the Eiffel Tower. Preparing for his job interview on the road trip to Ottawa.
You will be charming, you always are,
she said. Sweeping up her long curly hair from every corner of their apartment and missing that hair when she was out of town for
weeks. Surprising her at Pearson Airport when she returned.

A
Felicity
marathon during the February snowstorm, and getting sick from eating too much stale delivery pizza. Splurging on a clear glass punch bowl for their Thanksgiving dinners, her favourite holiday. Fingering her on the Ossington bus on their way to his friend Trisha's housewarming, and her being sure that they were going to get kicked off. Trying on her black lingerie after making her promise not to take any photos.

Days of him disappearing into inexplicable sadness, and she his beacon. Holding her hand so tightly at the hospital while they watched her grandmother die. Him wanting her to know that however great her loss, he was beside her if she needed to lean.

Two a.m. in bed, belting out a medley from Tegan and Sara's
So Jealous
, her impressing him by mimicking the intricate background vocal parts. His snoring keeping her awake for hours. Her holding onto his body after his alarm clock beeped, strategically rolling her leg over his. Her saying,
One more minute
. Every morning.

This is how seven years goes by.

KALI

I have never understood the relentless desire for immortality, which would suggest a cosmic irony, since I am Parvati, Embodiment of Life. But there is a reason why my partner is The Destroyer—I understand the necessity of balance, that the beauty of life is truly in its precariousness, its limitation. The beauty of life is that it ends. If I were mortal and could be granted anything, I assure you, my request would not be for something as dull as longevity.

Centuries ago, the evil demon Mahishasura prayed for so long, forsaking food and water, that his prayers began to generate heat, a heat that could turn toxic and would need to be tempered. Brahma, the Father of Men, appeared above him.

Oh Mahishasura! I have heard your prayers and bless you. What do you desire?

Lord Brahma! I desire to live forever.

Son, this cannot be granted to any man. Ask again.

Then make me indestructible by any god …

This boon gave Mahishasura permission to express his brutality, which he did, knowing that there could be no divine retribution. It is tragic how many equate this kind of power with being a god.

The gods gathered at Vaikunta to seek counsel and comfort from the Great Protector, Narayana. It was eventually determined that
gender was a loophole, and I could slip through it. I am not a god, after all, but a goddess.

On the battlefield, I took on a new warrior form as Durga. Eight different weapons in eight different arms. My lion attacked Mahishasura effortlessly, and I stabbed my trishul into his gut. A clean, swift victory. The gods sighed.

Until the first drop of his blood hit the earth. The red vibrated and exploded into another version of Mahishasura.
Alive
.

How could this be? I pounced on the new Mahishasura, this time slicing off his arms and legs. More blood was spilled. More versions of him sprang forth surrounding me from every direction, every one of him laughing at a secret joke that I was not prepared for.

I retreated into the cave of my mind, while Durga continued to fight valiantly.

Who bestowed this power upon him?

Who would dare to betray me like this?

The questions circulated and repeated, new questions forming after every cycle. One new question for every new Mahishasura.

How can there be life without my will, my touch, my love?

How can there be life born from death?

I began to lose sight of my own body and the battlefield under a thick haze of red. I was drowning.

MahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishasuraMahishas—

For the first time, I wanted to die. Not out of fear or hopelessness but to understand my enemy. To understand the dark magic behind the mystery I couldn't solve, the multiplication I couldn't divide. Perhaps death was the only way to know the other side of the equation.

That desire expanded and burst out of my head, in the shape of
her
. For a moment, I thought it was Shiv. The long, unruly hair, the hunger for death in her eyes.

I watched this being who had erupted from my brow get on her knees, open her mouth, and drink the red river that surrounded us. With every drop of blood, she became more excited, her black skin more radiant. At one point she looked up at me, smiling with all her teeth exposed, her red tongue dangling, and I understood that she hadn't manifested to kill. It was pleasure she sought, the sweet savour of life.