The Fat Man in History and Other Stories by Peter Carey Page A

hover above the water in the evening light.
    The hand on my knee was soft and caressing. Once, many Chances ago, I had my hair cut by a strange old man. He combed so slowly, cut so delicately, my head and my neck were suffused with pleasure. It was in a classroom. Outside someone hit a tennis ball against a brick wall. There were cicadas, I remember, and a water sprinkler threw beads of light on to glistening grass, freshly mown. He cut my hair shorter and shorter till my fingers tingled.
    It has been said that the penis has no sense of right or wrong, that it acts with the brainless instinct of a venus fly-trap, but that is not true. It’s too easy a reason for the stiffening cock that rose, stretching blindly towards the bony fingers.
    “I could show,” said the voice, “that it is something quite extraordinary … not worse … better … better … better by far, you have nothing to fear.”
    I knew, I knew exactly in the depth of my clouded mind, what was happening. I didn’t resist it. I didn’t want to resist it. My purpose was as hers. My reasons probably identical.
    Softly, sonorously she recited:
    “Which trees are beautiful?
    All trees that grow.
    Which bird is fairest?”
    A zipper undone, my balls held gently, a finger stroked the length of my cock. My eyes shut, questions and queries banished to dusty places.
    “The bird that flies.
    Which face is fairest?
    The faces of the friends of the people of the earth.”
    A hand, flat-palmed on my rough face, the muscles in my shoulders gently massaged, a finger circling the lips of my anal sphincter.
    “Which forms are foul?
    The forms of the owners.
    The forms of the exploiters.
    The forms of the friends of the Fastas.”
    Legs across my lap, she straddled me. “I will give you a taste … just a taste … you won’t stop Carla … you can’t stop her.”
    She moved too fast, her legs gripped mine too hard, the hand on my cock was tugging towards her cunt too hard.
    My open eyes stared into her face. The face so foul, so misshapen, broken, the skin marked with ruptured capillaries, the green eyes wide, askance, alight with premature triumph.
    Drunk on wine I have fucked monstrously ugly whores. Deranged on drugs, blind, insensible, I have grunted like a dog above those whom I would as soon have slaughtered.
    But this, no. No, no, no. For whatever reason, no. Even as I stood, shaking and trembling, she clung to me, smiling, not understanding. “Carla will be beautiful. You will do things you never did.”
    Her grip was strong. I fought through mosquito nets of mushroom haze, layer upon layer that ripped like dusty lace curtains, my arms flailing, my panic mounting. I had woken underwater, drowning.
    I wrenched her hand from my shoulder and she shrieked with pain. I pulled her leg from my waist and she fell back on to the floor, grunting as the wind was knocked from her.
    I stood above her, shaking, my heart beating wildly, the head of my cock protruding foolishly from my unzipped trousers, looking as pale and silly as a toadstool.
    She struggled to her feet, rearranging her elegant rags and cursing. “You are an ignorant fool. You are a stupid, ignorant, reactionary fool. You have breathed the Fastas’ lies for so long that your rottenbody is soaked with them. You stink of lies … do you … know who I am?”
    I stared at her, panting.
    “I am Jane Larange.”
    For a second I couldn’t remember who Jane Larange was, then it came to me: “The actress?” The once beautiful and famous.
    I shook my head. “You silly bugger: What in God’s name have you done to yourself?”
    She went to her handbag, looking for a cigarette. “We will kill the Fastas,” she said, smiling at me, “and we will kill their puppets and their leeches.”
    She stalked to the kitchen and lifted the mince meat from the sink. “Your mince is thawed.”
    The mince was pale and wet. It took more flour than usual to get it to the right consistency. She watched me, leaning against