Not Easily
By Russell Hindley, Summer 2002
Chester was teeming with couples
and groups out for fun, also with rain, the night of my special date.
I pondered the human race’s
ability to communicate so well, and so badly as half-drunk revellers passed us
in the deluge, unaware of how little they understood their friends. No such
problem for my partner and me that night. We were closer than a couple, closer
than brother to suister, brother to brother, twin to twin, identical or
otherwise.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”,
he murmured.
“Difficult not to”, was my
bemused response.
I was still in shock, of course.
It had only been three hours since my wife had come to me with warnings of “an
exciting evening ahead”, finally explaining the reason for two weeks of
mysterious closed-door activity in our spare room, said door staying locked at
all times when I was around. I’d managed the briefest of glimpses inside the
room during that time, seeing only some books and candles, and some kind of
altar…
“It’s something nobody has
experienced since the days of the druids, and you are very privileged, that’s
all I’ll say”, was all she would say.
Her interest in all things occult
had been passing at first, until she discovered a dusty old book in a junk
shop, untitled, its blue leather cover seeming as old as the hills but intact.
The metal clasp clicked open as soon as she tried it, to the amazement of the
equally old-looking shopkeeper.
“Never could budge the damned
thing, and believe me I tried”, he exclaimed as he put the still-unopened book
in a bag for her. Both had seemed unwilling to open it since the superstitious
chill had blown through us all when the clasp clicked. I can still hear it now,
clear as day, like an echo from a distant time and place. All other sound
seemed to fade, coming back slowly as we registered the open clasp. He seemed
in a hurry to be rid of us after his initial surprise…
A week after that, the sessions
in the spare room began, culminating in her announcement. I was to get myself
ready to go out (“Smart casual, don’t forget to wash your hands and face”), in
two hours, with a special guest. The evening would be informative to both
parties, and I was assured the guest would be “Interesting company”. She then
disappeared into the spare room leaving me to ponder, and to wash.
I was waiting in the living room
two hours later, when a strangely familiar voice called from the spare room. I
hadn’t realised anybody was up there with her. I went up the stairs slowly,
knowing somehow that my life would never be the same again. What confronted me
on the threshold of the spare room was proof of that. I did a classic
double-take, even (bless) rubbing my eyes to clear the strange image. Standing
there, large as life and at least twice as ugly, was myself.
“God”, I blurted in shock.
“No, just me”, he quipped in
familiar fashion.
Who are you?” I asked.
“You” he answered.
“Who?”
“You”.
“How?”
“Not easily”
“Where is my wife?”
“Here”
“Where?”
“Here”. (Points to chest)
“How?”
“Not easily” (grins)
“You’re disguised as me?”
“No, not exactly. I look and
think as you do, but my spirit is still her”
“Oh”
“It lasts until midnight. Shall
we go?”
“Go?”
“As in … out?”
“Ah. Ok then” (voice still and
octave higher than usual)
So out we went into the rain, and
the unknown. I didn’t know where to start. Luckily he did.
“This will be interesting for both
of us”, as we put our first drinks down. Bottle of Bud for him, “Same, I
suppose” for me.
“When I revert to my own self,
your wife, I will remember how I felt about everything we discuss this evening,
and I’ll have an insight into what makes you tick. So, for that matter, will
you – if you ask the right questions”
Our first comic moment had
already been and gone, as “We” jockeyed for position in the righthand seat of
the bench outside the wine bar. Eventually we settled for seats facing across a
table. I studied my own face with mixed feelings, noticing the wayward right
eye with displeasure, the over-full lower lip with distaste, and the open mouth
with something akin to disgust. How does she put up with that? I thought,
closing my mouth and attempting to breathe through long-disused nostrils. He
must have noticed it too, as he did the same.
“Questions, you want questions.
Hmm. What’s it like meeting yourself?”
“Interesting, as I’m sure you’ll
agree. Visually no great shakes. I’m thinking you’ll probably be better company
for Lyn after this. Not so sure about he reaction though. She’ll be a little
surprised at how much attention you pay to other women, but as I’m you at the
moment it seems perfectly reasonable”. (They both watch two women passing in
the lessening rain, casually studying their figures as a chef would study a
fresh turbot)
“Yes, perfectly”
“I mean, if they didn’t want to
be looked at, why dress like that?”
“Her reaction to that question is
that they like to look nice to themselves”
Pause as two more pass, like
sweets in cellophane. They simultaneously lift their bottles, smiling at the
coincidence. The Bud tastes as good as ever.
“Makes you drunk, this stuff you
know”
“Yeah, yeah, yawn yawn”
The evening passed slowly, as we
both struggled to find questions to ask. I reflected that my wife, alas, was
better company. The verbal jousting was less informative than the visual
information, but both were dwarfed by the vast shock of watching my own body
language. Countless times I cringed,
countless times I saw him cringe. As the evening drew on, I noticed the
frequency of these cringeworthy moments grew less, asif the whole thing had
been an exercise in self-improvement.
I was tired by the time midnight
came around. He seemed the same, probably from the strain of obsessive
fascination in every move the other person makes. Goodbyes were short, I thin
he knew I just wanted my wife back.
“Well?” she asked, emerging from
the spare room, large as life and at lest twice as beautiful. Her look was
knowing, not surprisingly.
“Well, that was a shock”
“That’s nothing. Just wait ‘til
next Friday, you’re going to be me for a night”
“Who?”
“You”
“Who?”
“Me”
“Ah. How?”
“Not easily”….
