Story for performance #972
webcast from Sydney at 07:46PM, 17 Feb 08

A reception. His back, tall and slim, in the crowded darkened room. The reception marked the opening of stage one of the East-West road link. I arrived late, and stood at the back of the room, half listening to the speeches. My eyes wandered over the backs of the assembled people. Then I saw him, standing quite close to me. I felt it even then: always the same type, always the same form, it was incredible. Wasn’t quite sure who he was but thought he worked in communications like me, perhaps a senior position with the Department of Transportation. He caught my eye and smiled, a little.

When was it? When did I start to burn?

The road. The power-point presentation began: images of smooth, untouched, uncluttered sections of road. No cars, no people, not even many buildings, just the clear, formal beauty of the road, a pathway through space. I felt like I already knew him but didn’t know how I knew him. I knew some things about him. I thought he had a wife. I thought I knew who she was.

Walter was born and everything became so much harder. It was not the beginning of my rage, no, but somehow after he was born it became much harder to control. And he was such a sweet thing too. It was not Walter’s fault, no, no, never.

The photograph. It was not long before I knew he was at the party. I was embarrassed and even a bit frightened by my feelings, my noticing of him. So much time had gone by. I avoided him, but we met in the hallway. There was a very beautiful photograph of New York on the wall. We talked of how you enter that city and it sweeps you up and away inside it. Then he went home, to the family.

I knew it would be hard, I knew I would struggle. I knew Andrew and I would struggle, but what I didn’t expect was how we would be challenged about everything: about the way we lived, what we each believed in, what we wanted.

At work. We were placed on the same steering committee for stage two of the road. There were many meetings. I watched the way he placed his pencil on the table, a clean red line against the wood. His right hand caught the sun. After the meetings I went home, to my husband.

Every morning, Andrew got out of the house. Every morning he would get up, get dressed, and go to work. Sometimes, he would not be home until very late at night. Sometimes he had to be away from home.

In a bar. It was after a meeting, other people were there. Somehow I ended up next to him. I wanted to touch him. It was threatening to engulf me, so I was quiet. I didn’t touch him, I didn’t play any games. I knew those games very well, but I kept my hands to myself. I held back, I held onto myself very, very hard.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. Andrew told me it was not for long, that this was what we had agreed to, but I did not think that this was what I had agreed to. We argued. My life had already disappeared. I no longer got up, put on my suit, went to the office, researched, took briefs, juggled court appearances and meetings. We argued again. He said he didn’t know what I wanted from him. He said it was hard for him too. He said it would still all be there when I got back. He asked me to hold on. But each day my career was palpably becoming more laughable and theoretical. What was I supposed to hold on to?

The lights. We were at the same conference, stage three of the road, staying in the same hotel. Five days away from home. In a town square, there was a winter celebration of fire. All around the square were lines of light, pots filled with fire. Other people were there. I watched him, tall against the flames. I had a cigarette with some others, had been trying to give up. He grabbed me and scolded me. I thought he was going to kiss me. It was the first time I saw the same light in his eyes.

I couldn’t stop the rage. It was so unfair. Mostly I stopped myself screaming at him, but still it built up inside. If I lose what I do, I lose who I am. And then I was screaming. If I lose what I am, nothing else is worthwhile.

In the lift. We were going up. There was no-one else there. It was the end of the conference. The next day we would all go home. He was standing by the wall, slightly hunched, slightly on the defensive. He was holding on to the railing. I thought about his skin, the skin on his face and neck above his blue jumper. I wanted to kiss him so badly. We did not speak. I was so overwhelmed that I had forgotten to push the button to my floor. We arrived at his floor. I stretched across the space, it was like I was flying. I kissed him on the cheek, gently. I said goodnight. He got out, and went to his room. I pressed the button for my floor. I went to my room, I locked my door, I washed my face and I went to bed.

When I was weeping, Andrew held me. He told me to hold onto him, that he was holding on too. By then there was nothing else to do. There was nothing else left. Nothing more. We had reached the end of the asking, and there was nothing more. It was quiet. Nothing was happening. But I held on, and gradually, bit by bit, I felt it, it filtered through, I felt him holding on too.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Caroline Lee.