Authors: Guy Mankowski
Love's
A House Is Not A Motel
chimes from speakers positioned around the fountains. The silver flumes look poised, resolved against the black sky. Francoise is laughing gleefully as she dances, pouring out champagne for James.
Someone turns the music up and at once all of the bodies seem to throw off their shrouds. Colour passes into the exposed flesh of the women in their stylish dresses, as Graham and James hoist their arms into the air and spill champagne over one another.
Georgina is dancing a salsa step in the water, flinging water from the tail of her dress as she swings it around her legs, smiling unselfconsciously as Franz and Elise applaud her. She shakes her hips, making Franz howl in delight over the chattering drums. Lilting Latin guitars fill the night sky. Soon, I'm dancing in the pool of the fountain with them, watching Francoise click her fingers above her head as the music builds to a crescendo. The blood in me stills as I see Carina stepping into the pool, biting her bottom lip as she pulls a lock of black hair behind her ear. She seems to throw off her caution, dancing, swinging her shoulders to the beat, her hair shimmering as she struggles to contain an infectious smile. Graham is pushing me towards her as she looks up at me, her mouth opening. Francoise's dogs are flying through the water, kicking up a spray around us, galloping around in tiny circles, barking joyously. All this commotion turns the black water into a mess of droplets and waves; the moon passes milky ripples over the surface. Everyone applauds and screams as my glass is refilled by a butler; alcohol burns in my neck, incense fills the air. Francoise's hand, slim and warm passes around my shoulders, and I kiss her ringed hand, smiling when she spreads her arms out. Fireworks erupt in the sky, blossoming into scarlet and orange bulbs, lighting our spectral faces before fading into the dark. They define everyone, before we slip into darkness again. Franz laughs at the smoky crackles as everyone forgets their failures in this mysterious night.
What makes the dance so glorious is that all of us are joined by something, by a decision that has belatedly been made for us; and all of us dance because and in spite of it. Everyone reveals themselves at their most spontaneous, their most reckless, their most unafraid. The gold light from the house warms each face while the pale stream of light from the moon above stills us, making each pose the women strike seem like a perfect camera still, an immaculate portrait of their true selves.
The drink possesses me, turns my body, makes me twist into the music. The water splashes around us, teasing us, tearing at us. Elise looks over at me, and all I can see of her is that very blonde hair, slick and shining, and the slither of lipstick matching the thin scarf round her neck. She lifts her glass to me, and I try to lift mine back, but I have lost control of my actions. Franz is dancing behind Carina, who's becoming more self-conscious. For a second I think that she is looking over at me. Soon I am at her side but she doesn't look up, she only gazes into the water, moving her hips to the rhythm of the music.
Someone again turns the music up and in the same instant three fireworks collide over our heads, lighting up the three fountains, revealing them as glistening silver monuments. All three are spouting their wares into the sky ecstatically, and when my eyes fall back to Carina she is looking directly into my eyes with a mystical expression. I rest her fingers on my hips; she holds her smile and keeps dancing, looking up at me, her perfume blazing into my body and drawing me into her dancing flesh. The colours in her skin are revealed by moonlight and laughter. I capture for a second that fugitive Mediterranean essence of hers, I can almost taste it. I want to dissolve into that fragrance, and she is so gentle and sure. The fountain seems to hold something more vibrant than the rest of the world as we dance. We fling drops of black water over each other; watch them trail down our bodies like beads of sweat. I'm lost as her hands touch my sides, the sheer pleasure of living rolls through my body and cascades out of my fingertips and now she is looking back at the water as if she is dancing with her own shadow. It feels so good to hang onto each second, to let each instant trail and fade in reckless anticipation of the next and the full bodied way you seize it, the way you twist on its wave, spreading your body even as it breaks in those rare seconds that seem so potent you are sure they will never end, those flashes when you give into the surges of the flesh.
As she smiles her expression turns ghostly white as another firework erupts over our heads. While we are dancing together each moment burns with a furious ecstasy. It seems so obvious then that everything will be alright, that every instant from now will distil into a sequence of shivering moments that will fly from our fingertips like the water around us. I hold this belief firmly in my hands for a few seconds, and I clench it tight until it begins to trickle out. Carina looks up at me as the song ends and I wonder if she's held my smile, her face slightly askew, looking at me with curious interest. Suddenly her face lights up, garish and beautiful as a Catherine Wheel spins to life beside us.
I see an expression of pain thrown across her features and I promise myself to remain with her from now on, whatever happens. I resolve to whirl around with this new sense of possibility until everything falls perfectly into place. Then the light from the wheel dissolves away, the willows fade to black, her face darkens and the memory ends.
We carry the rhythm of the song in our movements as we all step into the drawing room. I approach that elegant, high ceilinged room with a kind of awed reverence, as if approaching a grave garnished with decaying flowers. To me the empty wine bottles, the crumbs of cheesecake on the plates and the chipped champagne glasses are all decorations at the graveyard of the party. They're like ghosts, stuck at the site of their demise. The guests similarly stay in each other's orbit, restrained by the circular comforts they offer each other. In my eyes they too are defined only as a larger category and yet are unable to gift rejuvenation to their accomplices. It seems that the axes they revolve upon withhold them from their particular destinies. I wonder if people are reluctant for parties to end because their departure severs them from the synchronicity they have forged with their fellow guests. When we are severed from the malnourished umbilical cord of a party each of us are propelled back into the world with no rhythm to now follow except the one that punctuates our anxieties.
The detritus of the party does not disappoint; each of it as hopeless and gorgeous as I would have imagined. Candlesticks burnt to the root, now turned black from the flames which once lit the hopeful faces of the guests. The plates of shattered tortillas and party streamers, their bright colours now faded. They look to me now like intestines sprawled over delicate plates, decorated with chipped gold italics, charming and forlorn under the warm light from the lamps. And perhaps most mournful of all are those huge wine glasses, once vessels of joy and abandon, now holding the tired lip of wine in their bellies. The red rinse that clings to their side makes it appear as if the remainder of the wine is struggling to escape the glass, before slipping back into its sleeping position having failed, just like us. Just like all the bodies here.
A jazz record quietly burbles from the gramophone as Francoise cradles a wineglass in her fingertips. With her eyeliner streaked and the strap of her dress falling from her shoulder she is a picture of elegant decadence. She catches my eye for a second and then takes up the cigarette at her side. The flame briefly sparks in her gloved hand and then slips into a small orange circle between her pastel coloured lips. The considerate look she gives the bodies before her makes me wonder if she has more plans for them yet.
At the start of the night each guest presented a pristine image of themselves. But their veneers started to slip as the small hours revealed the large thoughts. Though their makeup is smeared and their evening dresses are ruffled each are all the more beautiful for it. What can be more alluring than a person who has unfurled enough to reveal their essence? Who really finds a perfectly shored up mind an attractive prospect? Our appearances finally reflect how abandoned each of us are, languishing in the company of the similarly trapped. Each of The Intimates possess talents that have been mercilessly denied expression. And each of us has since started to twist in themselves – some, like James, have started to convulse.
The momentum of the party has faltered. We exchange glances at one another but remain mute. Perhaps it's the incessant gush of the fateful fountains outside, but this silence terrifies me, and as our hostess Francoise seems culpable for it. A hostess is lauded not just for what she offers, but for what she restrains. When the momentum of a party slows we are each offered a frightening glance at ourselves; frightening because we have began to unfurl. At such moments I see that even in the company of others we are isolated. The loneliness one feels at a party is almost existential in its ferocity, as a party is an occasion specifically designed to prevent that possibility.
I realise then the illusory quality that any good party has. It must briefly convince us that the vaulting emptiness outside our window is not real. It must make us forget the bitter aftertaste of solitude that lingers behind every mouthful of life. But somehow we're never able to forget that silence is always waiting. We grip onto people to dance with, seize people to open up with, all the time not daring to look over our shoulder. The party will inevitably end; and even if the relationships within it do not, new silences will be carved within them in time. But gazing amongst these faces I see that none of that matters. That illusion is essential to our sanity, because in moments of companionship our voids are forgotten. Never are they dismissed more heartily than when we laugh; then even existence winks into insignificance. That emptiness is nothing to be feared; it is what makes us urgently grip onto our companions. We sit in silence, and for those few moments I feel sure that we each belong together.
“I like this song,” Carina says, as a new record starts.
“Then we must dance to it!” James replies, his voice slurring. As he rises, his glass slips through his fingers and onto the floor. He staggers loudly into the dessert trolley.
“James, I fear you are too drunk to dance, my friend,” Graham says. He rises to take Carina's hand. “Would you permit me to take this dance with her instead?” he asks.
“A pleasure,” answers Carina, easing to her feet.
James composes himself, dabbing a streak of red wine on his shirt. “She's rejecting me,” he says, as they begin to dance.
“She is not rejecting you.” Georgina replies.
“I asked her for a dance, and she turned me down,” he insists, moving to meet her eye. Georgina waves her hand dismissively. Elise leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Meet me in the bedroom, two floors above here in a couple of minutes.” Her eyes are wide and conspiratorial. A moment later she stands up, and smoothes her dress. “Excuse me for a few moments.”
James is watching as Carina and Graham gently waltz through the room. “You'll give James the next dance, won't you Carina?” Georgina asks her. But Carina's eyes are closed; she seems lost in a reverie. I watch them step into one another for a minute, and then set my glass down before leaving the room.
On the way up the stairs I see a flash of red in one of the rooms and wonder if I've caught a glance of Elise. But then I hear the unmistakeable sound of Franz's voice, low and placatory.
“I'm sure I heard someone move,” a female voice whispers, in response to him.
As I quickly pass the door that the sounds emanate from I catch a glimpse of Franz pressed against Barbara, whose dress is hitched up to reveal her black stockings. I quietly press on up the stairs before either of them has seen me.
Elise throws her scarf around my neck and pulls me into a side room. She seems driven by some new passion; lust or jealousy. Usually I have to earn intimacy with her, but this time she's charged with a sharp new motivation. I can still smell Carina's perfume on my jacket, and by thinking of her I allow her to enter the room too. She becomes the third person many couples suppress in memory or threat. I've never known Elise be less sensual than when she throws me against the window, before letting go of the scarf with one hand. The window's still open and I almost fall through, but then that scarf loops over my head and draws me back towards her.
Shadows cast by the figures outside flash against the opposite wall. They crowd behind Elise as she steps closer, her lipstick now resembling a streak of blood. She pushes me against the window frame, her lips flashing across the room. As her tongue clamours into my mouth I feel that dizziness return. My mind is still dancing in the fountain, that feeling has barely started to recede from my limbs. I know this should be the climax of the evening but all I can think of is the flying water and Carina's strange, nervous movement. These nights preserve their wonder in strange moments, but never in ways you'd imagine.
Would Carina struggle to open my shirt and kiss me passionately, with a tongue I barely respond to? Would she tear at my clothes with a steely smile? She would surely lie beneath me, she would twinge slightly as if I'd hurt her when we made love, she'd look pale and sensual afterwards wrapped in the sheets. She would look at me with vague eyes and smile only faintly when I reached for her. I try to pretend it is Carina's mouth that smothers my neck with kisses, that it is Carina who gives away her flesh so easily, persuading herself from her dress. Elise pushes me over with one hand, and I trip backwards onto the bed. As she towers over me she starts to wind her neck scarf around one fist.
“Does this mean that I finally have your attention?” she asks, coiling it tighter. I wriggle like a nervous animal, and with flashing eyes her teeth find my neck. Her mouth meets mine, and when she bites my lip her teeth draw a little blood. She parts from me, a strap from her dress falling to her elbow.