Transference
Danielle de Valera
Copyright Danielle de Valera 2015
Transference
Cover and glyphs by by C S McClellan
All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced in any form by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at
[email protected] ISBN 978-0-9923311-8-4
Published in the United States by Old Tiger Books.
First published in Australia in Australasian Penthouse, December 1990.
Table of Contents
Story start
Halfway
Last scene
About the author
More Star, O’Neill and Lawson (aka God) stories
Other works by this author
My sincere thanks to ejimac of Deviant Art for permission to use his beautiful fractal art image Stupa as the cover of this sotry. There are more stunning images of his art at:
https://www.deviantart.com/browse/all/digitalart/fractals/?q=ejimac
Thank you, ej
Transference
It’s late when I get there, and any fool could tell you I don’t like the idea. I stand in the parking lot and look up at the building. It’s tall and glossy and glamorous in the inner city dusk. The sun is setting, and the windows on the west glitter like mirrors. Very pretty, if you like that kind of thing.
I push through the glass revolving doors into the foyer, tramp through the vestibule in my old motorbike gear, punch the button and wait for the elevator. My muscles ache and my split lip hurts. If it wasn’t for my lip I wouldn’t be here; but when you’re so bone tired from lack of sleep that a student can spit your lip ... Did I hear the word sleep? I used to sleep like a log.
But that was before Azure left me. Sure, I left her once when we were n the country, but we got back together when she moved to Brisbane.
The elevator climbs to the twentieth floor and stops. I step out into the corridor. There’s a brass plaque on the opposite door. It reads: DR A. WEST M.D.
I run one fingertip warily over the brass. Very shiny, very nice. If you like that kind of thing.
The waiting room is the jungle scene from somebody’s movie. I beat a path through the palms and accost the secretary. She checks me out in her appointment book and waves me back to the jungle.
‘Snakes?” I demand, waving at the undergrowth.
She smiles at me, all haute couture and silver jewellery, as if I’ve just asked her the time.
“No. No snakes.”
“If I see one, I’m leaving.”
“I assure you, Mr Morrison, we have no snakes.”
I wrench a chair from a giant tree fern and sit down grimly. Some intrepid person has been here before me and left behind some magazines. I flip through them aimlesssly, keeping one eye on the jungle.
What the hell am I doing here anyway? I feel ridiculous. Six months have gone by and I still can’t look at another woman, still can’t sleep properly at night, still fantasise about smashing Hugh’s head in—I would’ve too, if he hadn’t shot through to Perth the moment he made off with Azure. The bastard.
Azure, Azure, I am obsessed with Azure. But she’s gone. That’s my problem. I come back from my reverie. The door to Dr West’s office is open, and Dr West is standing in the doorway.
The time to take off is now. And yet, I need to talk to someone. If I don’t sleep properly soon, my rising career in the martial arts will be up the creek, down the drain, finito. Besides, it’s too late now, she’s seen me. There she is, gesturing to me through a gap in the foliage. I push aside my misgivings and wade through the carpet to her door, and this is where my troubles really begin.
Dr West motions me into her office which, I’m relieved to see, is clear of undergrowth. We sit down in comfortable chairs on either side of her desk.
“Mr O’Neill?” she asks, checking the card that Silver Jewellery has passed through the ferns to her on our way in.
I finger my split lip and stare at her. She’s the first woman I’ve actually seen in six months—it must be the shock or something.
“Mr O’Neill?” she says again.
I’d been expecting some old git who looked like Sigmund Freud. Dr West is tall and slender, with dark hair and dark eyes and skin so clear she looks like a schoolgirl.
She doesn’t look like Sigmund Freud at all.
We shake hands. Her fingers are long and slim, and pleasant to the touch.
“I’m Dr West, Mr O’Neill. Adrianne West.”
“Michael O’Neill,” I say. I wonder where we’re supposed to go from here.
There is silence. Dr West runs one hand through her short straight hair and plays with the biro she holds in those long slim fingers.
“Heavy day?” I ask. I don’t wish to appear troubled or in need of help in any way.
“You could say that,” Dr West says. Her voice is long and soft and flowing as her dress, and lazy hazy like those days of summer. I think she’s very beautiful, although it’s hard to say exactly why. She isn’t glamorous. The effect she creates seems to come from within.
“And what can I do for you, Mr O’Neill?”
“Ever have a problem with snakes?” I ask her.
Dr West leans back in her black leather chair and eyes me speculatively. She seems to be waiting for something.
“Your waiting room,” I say. “All that jungle.” I’m enjoying myself, teasing her, making her think I’m some kind of nut; but I don’t want to push it too far.
Dr West relaxes visibly. She throws the biro down on the desk, tosses her thick hair forward and laughs. Her laugh is rich and warm, and suddenly I don’t feel so bad anymore. Suddenly I feel as if everything’s going to be all right somehow.
And she hasn’t said a single word you might describe as therapeutic.
Four months go by. I see Dr West every Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. After the first six weeks she adds me to her Friday evening encounter group. (I’ll smash the first person who laughs at this bit: Yoo hoo! It’s Mike O’Neill at an encounter group. Don’t try it.) Strange thing is, I get to like it after a while. It gives me a chance to study Dr West’s technique.
I’ve never met a woman who could produce such an effect, such a blending of warmth and distance—so diferent from the flame and fire of Azure with her spinifex blonde hair and her model’s figure.
West is subtle. She’s got what we call in karate “power in reserve”, a kind of meekness-mildness that you know is anything but. I don’t even know where she lives. No one does. Dr West is a very private person.
It occurs to me that I might recover more quickly if I read some books on psychology, understand the process, so to speak. Besides, I like the way Dr West smiles when I say something “relevant and meaningful”. If I study the books a bit on the side, I can be relevant and meaningful more often. So I get these books on psychology out of the library—nothing too heavy, you understand—and I begin to read them in the evenings.
I chop a load of firewood as the winter approaches, and every night after dinner I sit before the fire with my books, swotting up on points that might hold Adrianne’s West’s interest. Once, we get so meaningful that I run on into Freddie the Manic’s hour fifteen minutes, which is a kind of minor triumph for me. Dr West prides herself on her punctuality with the clients.
Reputations are funny things. These days, even though I’m in my forties, I’ve got the reputation of being a spunk—I guess with all that training now I look like a spunk even if I’m not. So on this particular Friday evening, when Dr West locks eyes with me across the group (I always mak
e sure I sit dead opposite her), I could almost swear she was coming on to me.
I lie in bed that night and think about it. Nah, it’s not possible. And yet ... is West married? And if she is, why does she wear her wedding ring on the wrong finger? And why does she give off such a solitary air?
Even before this I’ve developed the habit, after group sessions, of sitting on my bike under an overhanging tree, waiting for her to come out of the building. She’s always last. I tell myself I’m only there to make sure she gets safely to her car, but I don’t know. My feelings, sitting there in the dark, are confused; I can’t sort them out.
I care for her in some strange way I don’t understand.
The night after all the heavy eye contact, I take off my wedding ring when I come home and drop it into the top drawer of the bureau where I keep my shirts. It leaves a white mark on my finger, for I am tanned from the hours of work I do on the road, and it’s a long time before the mark fades away.
Of course I’m still in love with Azure, but lately I’ve begun to think less about her and more about Adrianne West. I even begin sleeping properly again at night.
No doubt about it: Dr West is one hell of a good therapist.
One Saturday morning the doorbell rings as I’m showering after my workout. I knot a towel around my waist and go to answer it.
Red fingernails. Tight jeans. Long, spinifex-blonde hair.
It’s Azure, suitcase and all, on the top step. For an instant I’m confused. Has she always worn her jeans that tight? Has she always been so ... unsubtle?
“What happened to Hugh?” I ask.
Azure tosses her hair. Hell, has it always been that blonde?
“It’s over. He’s gone to Europe,” she says.
Wasn’t it just like Hugh to go to Europe? Hugh, of the nouveau riche accent, the yacht—and the flab. I have a beautiful flash fantasy of him sinking slowly; perhaps somewhere in the Carribean.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Azure’s saying, running her nails along my shoulder and down my bare arm.
Unsubtle.
I let her in and, even before I do, I know what she’s intending.
“Miss me?” she says huskily, fumbling at the knot in my towel. For some reason, I’m hanging on to it.
“Yes,” I mutter. But a picture of Dr West laughing at one of my clever psychological points distracts me, and Azure has to work a little harder to get what she wants.
By now she’s got me backed up against the fireplace. The knot finally gives way, the towel slips to the floor and Azure flings herself upon me. I gather nothing much had been going down before Hugh went to Europe.
For one wild crazy moment as I cling to the mantelpiece, I think of holding out. But bugger it, I can’t do it. I let her drag me down onto the sofa. She begins to make love to me in earnest, and it’s so good after all that pain to let go and feel nothing but pleasure. The pleasure seems to flow like a chemical in my blood, mounting higher with every move we make.
“I missed you,” Azure keeps saying all though it. “Missed you ... missed you ...” In rhythm to my strokes.
“I—missed—you—too!” I gasp. But even as I come, I’m thinking of Dr West.
It’s hours later when Azure drives away, blonde hair flying in the wind. I come back inside and sit down thoughtfully on the remains of the sofa. It’s then I realise: I am as good as hung.
Bit by bit, I’ve fallen in love with Dr West.
The following Friday night when her car pulls out of the parking lot, I follow her. It’s not far—ridiculously close, in fact, when I think of all the ways I tried to get the number and address. Turns out it’s a little Edwardian cottage in Spring Hill, perfectly restored, with a wrought iron veranda on the front, brick fireplace, the lot.
I park at the bottom of the hill and walk by after she’s gone inside. I’m jubilant. I know where she lives.
And what good does that do me? I think as I’m riding home and the cold air hits me. Knowing where she lives doesn’t really tell me what I want to know.
I stop at a red light on the corner of Leichhardt and Albert. On my right there’s a chemist shop. Next door is a hardware store with a sign flashing:
KEYS CUT HERE
KEYS CUT HERE
Of course! If I had a key to her cottage I could go there one Friday night while she was at group. Just once, so I would know if there was somebody else. I wrestle with my conscience all the way home. In the end I do exactly what I had intended to do all along.
I’m not going to tell you how I got that key to copy, though I kind of enjoyed all the cloak-and-dagger stuff; it was just like being back in the bureau. No one should ever steal the key to somebody else’s place, not like that. Of course it was okay for me, I’m not a dangerous person—but some people? Well, it’s hard to tell.
After I go through the house the first time, I never intend to go back. Why should I? I’ve found out what I need to know: she lives alone. And I don’t take a single thing. Not a hairpin, not a scarf. Nothing.
I keep the key. But that’s just sentimentality, I guess.
At this stage, things are not yet out of hand. Azure keeps coming around; she wants to move back in but I won’t let her in case Adrianne West rings and Azure answers the phone. Not that Adrianne ever does ring. She makes a point of not mixing with the clients after hours. She calls it “keeping a therapeutic distance”. But all things considered, it’s not a bad time. I’ve still got everything under control, even though I’m fantasising non-stop about Dr West and making love to Azure ‘til I’m exhausted.
While we make love I fantasise I’m taking the good doctor to dinner. She’s wearing cream silk—everything she has on is cream silk, right down to her underwear, all edged with lace. Azure is amazed at my stamina; but all I’ve got to do is think of Dr West in cream underwear.
The rest is a cinch.
Every Friday night the group meets for drinks afterwards in a little restaurant and bar called The Windmill. I’ve never been a big drinker, the price when you’re training next day is too high, but I like the company. It makes a nice change from my torrid nights with Azure, and I look forward to it, even though Adrianne doesn’t go.
On this particular occasion Freddie is late, which isn’t unusual. He’s always late for everything except his appointments with Adrianne West. When he finally does arrive, he’s wildly excited. He rushes up to us at the bar and begins in his manic way.
“Anyone want to see Dr West’s husband? This is it, people, the chance of a lifetime! See your therapist’s private life! I was just driving by, pure accident, and I saw them having dinner in this place on Coronation Drive. Isn’t astrology grand? My stars told me something amazing would happen today!”
“How do you know it’s her husband?” I ask sourly. I feel like knocking him down, giving him enough stars to amaze him for the rest of his life.
“Well, maybe it’s not her husband,” says Freddie, master of the Hiroshima effect, “but whoever it is, it’s pretty clear what’s going down. And you should see this guy! He’s blond. Like you,” he turns to me, “only better looking. He’s about six-foot-two, and he’s—”
There’s a theory in psychology that manics don’t live very long; I can see why. I signal to the barman for a double Scotch—make it a triple, better still, an octagonal—and I leave after fifteen minutes, pleading a tournament in the morning.
Out on the street the rain is falling as I pad the six ks to the restaurant Freddie has named, and all the while there’s this strange sick feeling in my stomach.
It’s a good restaurant: soft lights, lace curtains, shine of polished wood, glow of silver. Adrianne is sitting at a table near the window, and the man Freddie described is with her.
She’s wearing cream silk.
I stand across the street with my back to the river and watch them until I can’t bear the feeling anymore; then I walk the six ks back to my bike in the rain. I take the worst possible route, hoping a gang of punk
s or some skinheads might pick me, but my anger goes before me like a cloud that people sense, and everyone I see on that walk avoids me. Some even cross the street.
The next few weeks are indescribable. I catch the flu and lie in bed groaning while Azure makes vats and vats of soup. When anyone from the group rings up, I croak into the phone pleading illness and insanity, God knows it’s the truth. When I’m well, Freddie comes round and tries to reason with me.
“Think of your personal growth!” he cries. But I won’t go back.
Dr West maintains her therapeutic distance; she doesn’t even telephone. I could be dead for all she cares, I think angrily. But I know, deep down, I’m not angry with her: I’m angry with me.
I go back to her house one more time and go through it in a cold fury. The guy’s moved in all right, good and proper, and if I don’t change the subject soon, I think I’ll throw up.
There’s a tournament on in Melbourne in six weeks time, a tough one for which I am not prepared. Grimly, I fill out the entry form and send it off with the entry fee. Then I put away the books on psychology, and take my workouts up to four hours a day, six days out of seven.
Twice a week I ride to the home of my old master, Mr Chun Tie, and train with him in his garden, which is resplendent with bougainvillaa and bamboo. And afterwards, over fragile cups of China tea we plan our strategy and refine my technique.
Only once do I mention Adrianne West and, when I do, Mr Tie remarks in his strange high voice:
“She is wise?”
I nod with veiled eyes, pushing away fantasies of cream underwear.
“But,” Mr Tie says, glancing hard at me for the instant, and I hope he can’t read my mind, “she is married.”
That’s all he says. I wonder if I’ll ever be even half the master he is. I try; but maybe I’m still too young or something. Wisdom always seems to elude me.
I’ve never liked tournaments. I guess that must sound funny coming from someone with a 6th dan, but I don’t like to fight. Still, I’m accustomed to these misgivings and I have learnt to handle them. To have a reputation is necessary for my new livelihood.