Silpa: the Art of Love

Chapter 5
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Debra’s first home at six-thirty, obviously haggard after what’s been a
long day and far from having recovered from the weekend. Seeing her in
such poor shape, I resist the urge for my news to be the first thing out
my mouth, trying instead to think of something to do with her before
saying anything about myself.

“How are you, Debra?” Is all I can come up with on the spot.

“Don’t ask,” she answers flatly, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table,
staring off into space somewhere.

“Can I make you a coffee?”

She semi snaps out of it. “How about a Bloody Mary?”

“Sure, if we’ve got any tomato juice in the fridge.” I check. “Yep.” In the
freezer there’s a bottle of Stolies, and I go about fixing two stiff drinks.

“Thanks, Anna,” she says, taking hers from hand to mouth and gulping.

I try my best to look on the bright side. “What did you get up to on the
weekend? I didn’t catch sight of you from Thursday until this morning.”

The alcohol must have shot straight to her head, fueling a reaction.
“What didn’t I get up to on the weekend? I was on a bender from hell!”

“Who with?”

“Anybody and everybody. If you weren’t so busy with work you could
have helped me hold up the bar.”

“Yeah, I’ve been working too hard. But it’s paying off,” I hint, beaming.

“Oh, yes. How did it go today?”

“I got it! I’m flying to Thailand in two weeks!”

“That’s great, Anna, I’m pleased for you,” she says, trying to sound
enthusiastic.

“I was beginning to think my career had stalled, you know, because I’ve
been so caught up in the PhD and teaching I’ve had no time for my own
art. Now I’ve got this great opportunity to bring the two together.”

“Fix me another drink will you, I’m stuffed.”

I take the empty glass and fix the drinks. Handing the drink to her I ask,
“What’s up, Deb? You’ve not been yourself lately.”

“Glad you’ve noticed somebody else’s life around here besides your own
for a change,” she replies testily.

“See that’s exactly what I mean, you never used to snap at me like that,
and I can’t seem to say or do anything right any more, not as far as
you’re concerned.”

“Everybody changes, Anna. Whatever happened to the young woman
that first moved in here with us? The one who was so excited about her
art, the creative process, and exhibiting? The woman that always made
fun of the academics who’d been teaching her and who wanted only to
be a ‘real’ artist? What happened to the woman that used to hit the bars
with me to have fun and pickup guys? Now everything for you is about
the uni. And for a man, Christ, the only man you’ve seen since beginning
teaching is that prick at the uni. You must be married to your vibrator
by now.”

I’m not mentally prepared for the uncalled for tirade and don’t know
where to begin my defense. After a brief pause she opens her mouth,
but before she can start ranting again I cut in, blowing off some of the
steam that has been building up between us over the past couple of
years.

“And what about you, huh? Everything has to be about your office and
your career. I used to find your office anecdotes about how many balls
you’d busted that day highly amusing, but I haven’t for a long while.
When is your life going to change, I mean besides just making more and
more money, and drinking more and more booze, huh? And when was it
you last got laid? You must need all that extra money you earn to pay
for male escorts!”

It isn’t until after I’ve finished I realise how cruel I’d been. Debra, looking
more worn out and defeated than I’ve ever seen her before, doesn’t say
another word. She lumbers off down the hall to her bedroom, leaving me
to call out “Sorry,” after her.

I feel suddenly deserted and all alone in the entire world, and realise that
my own little life full of its petty problems, little inconveniences, along
with its few small successes, are only magnified to me as they are my
own. They don’t matter to others, including to those closest to me,
not because they don’t care, but because they have so many magnified
problems of their own to deal with.

Besides the feeling of isolation, I feel the absence of love in my life in a
way I’ve rarely had space to ponder or have ignored for a long time.
Debra’s right, though she suffers from the same problem and won’t admit
it to herself, despite pointing it out to me. I haven’t had a serious
relationship for a good five or six years. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever
find one that doesn’t end. The emptiness is at least partially filled with
the arrival home of Joan and her irrepressible attitude that overcomes
the pressures of her own career and everything else. “Hi darls,” she says
in high spirits, setting down a plastic bag of fruit and veggies. “How did
your meeting go?”

“I got it,” I reply in a depressed tone.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound too glad about it. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Debra. When I told her the news she went off at me about how I’ve
changed, as an artist, and about me and men. Then I couldn’t help myself
from firing off a salvo right back at her. I was rather malicious, though I
didn’t mean to be. What is it with her anyway, Joan? Is she jealous of me
because my success somehow draws attention away from hers? I mean,
you know what she’s like, always talking about how successful she is in
her career, how much money she’s making, and what a great time she’s
always having every weekend; I’m hardly what you’d call competition.”

Joan sits to make contact at eye level. Her big blue eyes exude
understanding and warmth. “She’s not jealous, darls. You know she puts
on all that super-successful career woman stuff as a cover, to
compensate for inadequacies in other parts of her life. I shouldn’t be the
one to tell you this, only I don’t think Debra is willing to tell anyone
besides me about it, not even you.”

“What then?”

“It’s not you at all, Anna. As usual, she’s shifting the problem away from
herself, but her problem is not with you, it’s with herself.”

“What can be so bad? Crickey, they’re only men, not having one is not
the end of the world.”

“Sure, but think about it, she’s forty-five this year. What do you think
can happen to a woman at about that age that can change her life?”

I strongly suspect what she means, but don’t want to be the one to say
it in case I’m wrong. “You mean—”

“Yeah,” continues Joan, “menopause.”

“God, I thought you meant breast cancer. Menopause. I didn’t know.”

“Haven’t you noticed the hot flashes she’s been getting?”

“No, but I’ve noticed the amount of makeup she’s been putting on.”

“Hmm, her camouflage. It’s okay, it’s just that Debra isn’t dealing with it
well. You know, as a hard-nosed business woman in what’s still mostly a
man’s world, she doesn’t show it much but she’s always loved children
and regrets never finding a man of her own to have any with. It’s a cat
eat dog world and she’s always viewed men as either predator or prey,
never as a partner. She’ll deny it to the grave, but she’s held onto the
hope these last couple of years that maybe she’d be able to conceive,
even from a one-night stand, if that’s the only thing she could get. Now
she can’t even hold onto the hope of that.”

“Shit.”

“Go and tell that to your starry-eyed students. I think she’s been acting
this way with you because we know you want a kid, at least that’s what
you say when you’re drunk. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re thirty-three. You don’t need me to tell you what happens to a
woman’s chances of conceiving after thirty-five. If you’re serious about
finding that partner and making that baby, then I suggest after you’ve
finished your PhD, which is just about done, you start thinking about your
personal life as much as your professional one.”

I stand. “I’ll go and speak to her.”

Joan drags me back to the chair. “No, don’t. I’ll speak to her later. She’ll
be all right, she’s a tough nut that’s for sure. She’ll deal with it. How
about making me one of those drinks you’ve got there so we can toast
to your good fortune?”

Joan and I drink more than we should for a weeknight trying to be happy
for me and to compensate for the disagreement. After a couple of hours,
we’re joined by a recomposed Debra, and the two of us kiss and make up.
I realise now her problem is not with me, it’s not even with men or lack of
the right ones, it’s her estrangement from herself, because she’ll never be
fulfilled in what must be the most important aspect of being a woman of
all: motherhood. The three of us sit around the table drinking and laughing
into the night as we’d done in the past on more occasions than I’d care to
try counting and it’s as if nothing has ever changed between us. Indeed,
nothing has.

The next two weeks are among the busiest of my life. When the end of
semester papers come in I have to stay up into the early hours for several
nights marking, as well as get the student grades done and submitted to
the school, fulfill my other university responsibilities, and get ready for the
journey ahead by researching on the Internet about the Thai sex industry
and Thai art. The most hits I get for an artist is by the name of
Phathompong Suwannachot, who incorporates ancient Buddhist principles
into highly conceptual pieces of modern art. I’ve come across that name
before. Over the last few years he’s become the foremost Thai installation
artist, mostly due to international recognition, including solo exhibitions at
some of the most prestigious museums in the United States and Europe.

It isn’t until the night before I fly that the three of us get the chance to
reunite and go out to one of the local bars to celebrate, when we wish
each other well and enjoy each other’s company more than we did even
in the old days.