The Fat Man in History and Other Stories by Peter Carey Read Free Book Online Page A

not sure.
    She says, I made up George and my son … they were daydreams.
    I say, you could have kept that for next year. You could have told me at Christmas, it would have been something to look forward to.
    She says, how can you look forward to something you don’t know is coming?
    I say, I know, I knew, that everything was coming, sooner or later, in its own time. I was in no hurry. I have perhaps five years left, it would have filled up the years.
    She says, you are talking strangely today.
    I say, it has been forced on me.
    There is another garment, a blue cardigan, slightly grubby, but still a very pretty blue.
    I say, what a beautiful blue.
    She says, it is a powder blue.
    I say, it is very beautiful, it suits you.
    She says, oh, it is not really for me, it belonged to my sister … my younger sister.
    I say, you never mentioned your younger sister.
    She says, you never asked me.
    I say, it was intentional.
    Now I have all but lost control. The conversation goes on above or below me, somewhere else. I have removed the powder blue cardigan and the red, white, and blue embroidered sweater beneath it. Likewise a blouse which I unfortunately ripped in my haste. I apologized but she only bowed her head meekly.
    She says, you have never told me anything about yourself … where you work …
    I am busy with the second blouse, a white silk garment that looks almost new. I say, distractedly, it is as I said, I am unemployed.
    She says, but before …
    I say, I worked for the government for a number of years, a clerk …
    She says, and before that?
    I say, I was at school. It has not been very interesting. There have been few interesting things. Very boring, in fact. What I have had Ihave eked out, I have made it last, if you understand me, made my few pleasures last. On one occasion I made love to a lady of my acquaintance for thirty-two hours, she was often asleep.
    She smiles at me. She says, that sounds …
    I say, the pity was it was only thirty-two hours, because after that I had to go home, and I had nothing left to do. There was nothing for years after that. It should be possible to do better than thirty-two hours.
    She smiles again. I feel I may drown in a million gallons of milk. She says, we can do better than that.
    I say, I know, but I had wished it for later. I had wished to save it up for several Christmases from now.
    She says, it seems silly … to wait.
    As I guessed her breasts are large and heavy. I remove the last blouse to reveal them, large and soft with small taut nipples. I transfer my attentions to her skirt, then to a second skirt, and thence to a rather tattered petticoat. Her stockings, I see, are attached to a girdle. I begin to unroll the stocking, unrolling it slowly down the length of her leg. Then the second stocking. And the girdle.
    Now she sits, warm and naked, beside me, smiling.
    There is only one thing left, an earring on the left ear.
    I extend my hand to take it, but she grasps my hand.
    She says, leave it.
    I say, no.
    She says, yes.
    I am compelled to use force. I grasp the earring and pull it away. It is not, it would appear, an earring at all, but a zip or catch of some sort. As I pull, her face, then her breasts, peel away. Horrified, I continue to pull, unable to stop until I have stripped her of this unexpected layer.
    Standing before me is a male of some twenty odd years. His face is the same as her face, his hair the same. But the breasts have gone, and the hips; they lie in a soft spongy heap on the floor beside the discarded pendant.
    She (for I must, from habit, continue to refer to her as “she”) seems as surprised as I am. She takes her penis in her hand, curious, kneading it, watching it grow. I watch fascinated. Then I see, on the right ear, a second earring.
    I say, excuse me.
    She is too preoccupied with the penis to see me reach for thesecond earring and give it a sharp pull. She sheds another skin, losing, this time, the new-found penis and revealing, once more,