Torus
by Philip J. Lees
The bull lay on the beach, half in and half out of the water. The swell of the waves rocked the body slightly, creating the illusion that it was breathing, but this bull had stopped breathing some time before. “How did it get there?” Thaddeus wondered, and bit into his koulouri. The beach was empty, the season over, the last tourists gone. Thaddeus sat on the sea wall, his feet dangling, and pondered the bull’s death, his own life. The beast had been in its prime, a mighty creature, afraid of no human, the sire of many calves, and now, through some unknown agency, it lay rotting on this deserted stretch of sand. Thaddeus swallowed the last of the bread ring and got to his feet, brushing off a few crumbs that had stuck to his jeans. Although it was late in the year, the weather was mild and the early evening sky almost cloudless. The north wind, blowing off the sea, rumpled his long dark hair and beard and tugged at his shirt, accentuating the lines of his tall spare figure. From a distance Thaddeus was unimpressive. It was not until one got closer that the strong brow and the intense blue eyes that lurked beneath conveyed some inkling of the strength of character that inhabited the fragile physique.
Thaddeus sauntered along the sea front with a deliberately slow pace, reluctant to return home. He had a painting almost completed in the studio and had promised himself that today was the day it would be finished. Many painters came to Greece attracted by the light, the light that made the landscape come alive and shimmer in shades of burnt umber and olive green, that made the flowers glow in the spring, as if pulsating with an inner vitality; but Thaddeus was an abstract artist, his compositions the expression of his inner fantasies, transmitted directly to the canvas without the mediation of the world outside. His current piece was simple: a ring floating against a backdrop of the sky, a torus, drawn with the consummate draughtsmanship of a Magritte or a Dali. On the surface of the torus swirling colours with suggestions of scenes enigmatic, dreamlike, barely perceived. The concept had come to Thaddeus from various sources: his koulouri, a punctured tyre, the small wreaths worn by the bride and groom at a Greek wedding; the vicious circle of life, birth, death, hopes and aspirations, realised or crushed, a symbol of recurrence, experience and completion. But Thaddeus’ torus was not complete; one section, one bite from the bread ring, remained open. Now he had to decide how to resolve the dilemma: to close the ring, to complete the circle, or to leave it open, the question unanswered.
§
As he entered the cool of the whitewashed building, Thaddeus immediately sensed that something was wrong. At this time of day Freda was usually busy in the kitchen and the clatter of pots and pans echoed through the house, occasionally punctuated by the rattle of computer keys from the bedroom of his eighteen-year old son, Paul, but now the place was silent. Thaddeus cursed under his breath. Had there been another row? Despite Thaddeus’ diplomatic efforts Paul and his young stepmother had never really got on and the tension between them often invaded the otherwise tranquil household. Was it his second marriage which had caused the ever widening distance between Thaddeus and his son, like a wedge driven into a log until the strain became too great and the wood split cleanly apart in two? Did Paul feel betrayed? Or was it just Paul’s age that was responsible, the desire of youth for independence? Thaddeus did not know. He only knew that something had been lost, in all likelihood forever. He loved Freda, certainly, but he also admitted to himself that he had married her partly with Paul in mind, thinking that his boy needed a mother. What had gone wrong?
Suddenly, Thaddeus heard a sound from the master bedroom. He listened. There it was again: a sob. Thaddeus strode to the bedroom and pushed open the door. In the dim light that penetrated the wooden shutters he discerned the figure of his wife, curled up against the wall at the far side of the bed, her shoulders heaving. At the sound of the door she started and shrank into the corner.
“Freddy? What is it? What’s the matter?”
She looked up, then bowed her head again. Another sob.
“Freda, please, tell me what’s wrong.” He moved towards her.
She shuddered. “Oh, Tad! I can’t. I really can’t.” She was curled up like a foetus, her hands shaking.
Thaddeus went to the bed, sat down and drew Freda to him. She was shivering, but gradually calmed in his embrace. Her glossy black hair was lank with perspiration.
“Now, tell me. What’s wrong.”
“It’s Paul. He ..” Freda broke down again, each sob seeming to require all her strength.
“What about Paul? Tell me.”
Suddenly it came in a rush. “He attacked me. He … he tried to rape me.”
“What!” It was then that Thaddeus noticed that Freda’s clothes were in disarray. Her blouse, which she clutched closed at her throat, had been ripped apart from neck to waist. Thaddeus felt light headed, as if in a dream. He struggled for coherence. “When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour ago. I hit him with the lamp and he ran out.”
The lamp was lying on the floor, beside the bed, its shade awry. “I can’t believe this,” Thaddeus said.
“Nor can I. I don’t understand it. Thank God you’re back.” Freda seemed to collapse into him and wept. The tears flowed freely now, cathartic, healing. Thaddeus felt a fury grow within him, a fire stoked by love, by hate, a primitive, atavistic rage beyond the comprehension or the control of the intellect. He clutched Freda to him in an attempt to stop himself from shaking with the power of it.
“I must go and find him.”
“No Tad. Not now. Stay with me, please.”
Freda clung to him as if she were drowning. Thaddeus stroked her hair. “Okay. I’ll stay.” They sat there together as the evening light faded, saying little, holding each other, until finally they both surrendered to an uneasy slumber.
§
The next morning the bull was still there. A bevy of seagulls perched on the corpse, pecking at it in a desultory fashion, but the skin was still tough enough to deter scavengers, though the eyes were gone. Thaddeus glared at it as he paced along the sea front, his hands thrust into his pockets. Although his rage had subsided somewhat, he was still consumed by a restless energy that demanded action. He could not stay at home. Freda had refused to leave the house, pleading exhaustion. Paul had not returned. Thaddeus felt lost, bewildered. How did one deal with something like this? He picked up a stone and hurled it at the gulls, which rose into the air, wings aflutter, hovered briefly, then settled again, indifferent to his concerns.
The air was still. Strange cloud formations crouched over the hills. The world felt alien, threatening, as if a monster were awakening and preparing to emerge from its lair. As Thaddeus strode on, in the distance he saw a speck, which gradually grew into the silhouette of a motorcyclist. Then came the sound, like an angry wasp. Thaddeus stopped. The bike came closer and drew up a few feet from him. It was Paul. They looked at each other until finally Thaddeus shook his head. “Why?” was all he could think of to say.
Paul’s face was red, his voice truculent. “You tell me why. You married her.”
“What do you mean?” Paul had not switched off the engine and Thaddeus almost had to shout to make himself heard.
“What do I mean? She came on to me, Dad. She tried to seduce me.” The word sounded odd, unnatural in Paul’s mouth. For a moment Thaddeus did not understand.
“Dad. Listen. She wanted me to go to bed with her. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do, so I just got out of the house. Didn’t she tell you?”
Thaddeus felt drugged, his thoughts came sluggishly. “But …”
“She tore her blouse open, Dad. She wanted me to touch her. She was crazy!” His voice had risen in pitch and he sounded like a little boy.
“She came on to you? But she told me that you attacked her, that you tried to …”
“Dad!” The plaintive cry of a child. “And you believed her?”
Thaddeus shook his head again. He had no idea what to say, no idea what to do in this situation. Paul glared at him for a second, then revved up the motorcycle, threw it around in a cloud of dust and sped off the way he had come.
Thaddeus stood paralysed. To go after Paul? to confront Freda? How was he to repair his life, which in a few short hours had come apart like a puzzle ring, the pieces still interlinked, but no longer fitting together to make the whole? There must be some trick, he thought desperately, some subtle manipulation, a little twist to make everything fall into place again, as if by magic. There must be something he could do.
Suddenly, he felt a pressure in his ears, as if a deafening noise, relentless as a road drill, had just ceased. His whole body tensed and a wave of vertigo swept over him so that he almost lost his balance. At that moment the earth shook. Thaddeus fell to his knees and clutched at the ground for support, his head pounding. In the distance he saw Paul’s motorcycle swerve out of control, veer to the left and pitch over the sea wall. From Thaddeus’ throat came an animal sound, a wail, a curse, a prayer; he wasn’t certain. He dragged himself to his feet and broke into a stumbling run.
§
Thaddeus sat at home alone. The earthquake had played havoc with the emergency services. The ambulance was slow coming and Paul was dead before it arrived, his neck broken. By the time he returned to the house Freda had gone. Thaddeus flattened out the paper crumpled in his left hand and read her note again. She had obviously realised that once he spoke to his son he would know the truth. Her confession was hysterical, almost incoherent in places. She wrote of punishing herself, she asked his forgiveness. Thaddeus felt numb, drained, incapable of any emotional response. He sat there, alone and silent, as the shadows lengthened. In the studio the torus was complete, the missing section filled in with dull shadow black, a mourning band. On the beach, the bull still lay in the shallows, its hide glossed golden in the brassy evening light.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 1999