Mortaumal - 13. Marshal Meets Angelo & Mort Meets Perdita

‘I’m all sticky, scratched and dusty, so I’m not putting my school uniform on.’

‘You can’t go home naked!’

‘If course I can, and so should you, you’ll ruin your good clothes if you put them over that filthy body. There’s a towel in the back, hang on.’ Mort clambered into the back of the Land Rover and retrieved a towel. ‘Here, wrap this around your loins if you’re shy. If anyone sees you they’ll think you’ve just come back from the beach.’

‘Fair enough. But if we have an accident, I don’t know you.’

‘Fair-weather friend, I see.’

Thirty minutes later the Land Rover pulled into the empty parking lot behind the office.

Mort got out and had just turned towards the door leading up to the flat, when he heard the crunch of Angelo putting the vehicle into reverse. He raced back and opened the passenger door. ‘You can’t leave! Marshall’s expecting you.’

‘No way! I’ll come and see him tomorrow. It’s late and I have things to do at home.’

‘Huh! So much for your newfound self confidence!’ Leaving the door wide open, Mort shrugged and stared accusingly.

‘I’m sorry, Mort,’ Angelo said, undoing his safety belt so he could lean across to close the passenger door.

While he fumbled, Mort raced round to the driver’s side, reached in and grabbed the ignition key. ‘I’m sorry, Angelo, Marshall made me promise I’d introduce you to him tonight. That was a condition of letting me go with you. You don’t want him to think you’re a child-molesting pervert ashamed to show your face to the in-loco parent of your innocent young charge, do you?’

With a laugh, the naked faun skipped around the vehicle, ran to the door where Marshall was now standing, threw the keys inside, then waited just outside, patting his knees as if cajoling a reluctant dog.

Nervously, Angelo wrapped his towel tighter, got out and slammed the doors, then scurried across to join Mort in the entrance hall.

With the exaggerated severity of a stern father, Marshall checked his watch. ‘Two minutes to six, good. I don’t trust my ward with people who are careless with the time.’

Mort laughed at Angelo’s expression of nervous bewilderment. ‘Marshall, this is my physics and cross-country teacher, Angelo. Angelo, allow me to introduce you to my best friend and official protector, Marshall.’

With cautious smiles, both men shook hands and assured each other they were pleased to meet.

‘Haven’t we met before? I feel as if I know you,’ Marshall remarked.

‘I’ve seen you both at the theatre, and recently at the Art Gallery.’

‘You should have introduced yourself.’

‘That would have been impertinent, I wasn’t friends with Mort then.’

Marshall nodded sagely.

‘We’re filthy from the best run I’ve ever had,’ Mort interrupted, ‘so we’ll take a shower while you finish the meal, OK?’

‘Yes your lordship. Will there be anything else?’

‘Mort! You can’t just invite me like that. I…’

‘Of course he can,’ Marshall interrupted pleasantly. This is his home, and I also want you to stay so I can check out the man who apparently thinks its OK to bring my innocent young ward home naked after a date. Highly irregular, what?’

‘But…’

‘Go on the pair of you, shower off all that dust and muck, then meet me on the roof for a soak in the spa. Dinner won’t be ready for at least half an hour.’

‘But my clothes are out in the Land Rover and Mort has the keys.’

‘Clothes would spoil the symmetry of your masculine physique, Angelo.’ With a sly smile Marshall retreated to the kitchen, and the others to Mort’s bathroom. Ten minutes later they were shaking off the drips when Angelo had a crisis of confidence.

‘Surely I should at least wrap a towel around me, and what’ll I wear in the spa?’

The same as Marshall and me. Come on, don’t make me force you.’

‘You’re a pushy young bugger, Mort. You win… for now.’ Angelo gave a theatrical sigh, tugged his foreskin down to ensure it covered his knob, checked himself in the mirror and shrugged in mock resignation. ‘Lead on Wunderkind.’

Marshall was already in the pool sipping a drink. A jug of fruit juice and two glasses were on a table within reach of the bathers.

Angelo was suitably impressed with everything, but kept worrying about later... at dinner. It was all very well for Mort to wander naked into his own dining room and eat, but he was a stranger, and it was the first time he and Marshall had met, so it’d be rude to…

Marshall allowed the protests to peter out, then, as if seriously concerned, said, ‘Angelo, please try not to panic, it interferes with rational thinking.’

‘But…’

‘I wasn’t joking when I admired your symmetry. The saying, clothes maketh the man, should be, clothes turneth beautiful men into dull conformists. So cut the crap and relax.’

Angelo grinned and obeyed.

Half an hour later, small towels protected the tapestry seats of antique chairs from the bare bums of three men who declared the meal edible, the wine light and liberating, the company delightful, and the conversation witty, varied, and stimulating.

After clearing away and doing the dishes, the two older men drank coffee in the lounge. Mort smiled at the memory of Marshall and Leo’s performance, downed his fruit juice then pleaded a load of homework, leaving the other two laughing, swapping stories, comparing impressions of theatre shows and, once certain he was out of the way, discussing the remarkable young man who had so brilliantly and, they realised, deliberately engineered their meeting.

The following morning Mort carried a tray of tea and biscuits into Marshall’s bedroom where, as he had hoped, two naked bodies were barely concealed by sheets on the antique double bed in which, according to Marshall, he had been conceived.

Over breakfast, Mort was asked if he had any objections to Angelo visiting more frequently—perhaps even moving in eventually when the lease on his apartment ran out.

For the first time anyone could remember, Mort found no words to express his pleasure.

Both Marshall and Angelo had enough experience, and sufficient intelligence, to know a good thing when they met it, and neither saw any point in waiting longer than absolutely necessary. To Mort’s delight, two weeks after their first meeting Angelo was securely installed in Marshall’s bed, with his clothes and everything else he owned jammed into the third bedroom until they worked out what to keep.

After school on a Friday afternoon a few weeks later, Mort watched from the lounge room window as a green convertible pulled up in front of the building. A woman in high heels and tight skirt got out and strode into the offices of Trimm, Kutt & Payste, Lawyers. The sight was unsettling. He felt as if he’d seen something of importance but failed to understand what it was.

He was changing from school uniform into a pair of old shorts when the realisation hit. She reminded him of his grandmother; mainly in the way she walked. As if she expected to get what she wanted. Head thrust forward, arms rigidly at her side. Feelings of fear and curiosity vied for attention.

Half an hour later Marshall came up, face wrapped in a deep frown. ‘I’ve been talking with Mrs. Perdita Stygian, nee Aywun. She wants to see you. Do you want to see her?’

‘So that’s who she is,’ Mort said thoughtfully. ‘Must have got married. I wonder if Stygian’s my father.’ He looked at Marshall seriously. ‘I’ve thought a lot about this day and although I want nothing to do with her, I’m curious to hear her reasons for dumping me. What’s she like?’

‘Your grandmother without the manners.’

‘Yes, I got that impression when I saw her walk to the office. What do you think I should do?’

‘It’s your decision. She has papers to prove she gave birth to you, and if we turn her away, says she will come back with a court order demanding access to you. I’ve a fair idea what she wants, as we discussed when we first met. But she refused to tell me anything, insisting she speak with you.’

‘Well, she’s not getting any money. OK, Lets get it over with... but stay close.’

Perdita’s sole visible legacy to her son was satiny olive skin and glossy straight black hair. But whereas Mort stood straight and faced the world openly, not attempting to conceal either his character or intentions, his mother appeared sly. Face slightly averted, she turned her body sideways when passing through the doorway, like a combatant offering the smallest target, able to retreat quickly if necessary. Lightly painted lips quivered in a patently fake shy smile as her head tilted slightly forward so she could gaze up from under finely plucked eyebrows in apparently wide-eyed innocence.

Her son and his guardian stood still; faces impassive.

Perdita held out her arms as if to embrace her long lost son. ‘Mortaumal,’ she said in a breathy whisper.

Mort stepped back slightly as if repelled. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in a voice devoid of emotion.

‘I’m your mother, darling. I want a hug.’

‘I don’t.’

Silence for several seconds.

‘Why have you come?’

This was clearly not the reception she had imagined. ‘I want to apologise to you for... not being there for you, I…’

‘There’s no need to apologise. I’ve had an excellent life. But just out of curiosity, why did you take off the day I was born, and stay away for fourteen years?’

‘Oh! Let’s not talk about that now?’ She flicked at imaginary tears with a lacquered fingernail, sniffed, and then fiddled with the contents her handbag as if searching for a handkerchief. Finding nothing suitable she raised little-girl-lost eyes to the men in supplication.

‘If you haven’t got a handkerchief, use your sleeve,’ Mort said with callous indifference.

Her mouth drew into a hard line. ‘You have not been brought up to be pleasant to women, I see,’ she said coldly. Fixing her son with a dry eye she snapped her handbag closed. ‘Not having benefitted from the selfless love of a mother, I suppose I can’t expect more from you. But I accept I am partly to blame and at last I have the chance to repair the damage done to my innocent boy.’ She inserted a dramatic pause as if waiting for him to excitedly ask her to explain. When no such interest appeared, and Marshall looked pointedly at his watch, she continued breathlessly, ‘I want you to come and live with me so we can get to know each other and be a real family.’

‘Mrs. Stygian, I…’

‘Oh please! Can’t you call me mother?’

‘You have never been my mother, and as I have never felt the loss and have no desire to change my life, you can never be my mother.’

‘You talk queerly, like a professor.’ Her lip curled in a slight sneer as if it was an insult. ‘You’re only fourteen, you…’ She lost her train of thought, stopped, shook her head and plaintively pleaded, ‘At least call me Perdita.’

‘Very well, Perdita. Let me make myself clear. I like living here with Marshall, and I do not want to go and live with you. The sole question I have for you is, why did you skip town on my birthday and stay away for fourteen years?’

Perdita turned to Marshall for support. He offered none, so she changed tack. ‘Tomorrow, Mortaumal, you and I will go for a picnic and I will tell you all about me.’ Her voice had become softer, yet still slightly menacing. ‘After that, you can decide what you will do. I will be in my car directly opposite here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Be there wearing something a little more appropriate than those old shorts. She turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving the two men feeling apprehensive.

Marshall immediately telephoned the nursing home and learned that Nasturtium Aywun had died nearly a month ago. They had sent a letter to Mrs. Stygian informing her of the death and that her mother’s legal advisers were Trimm, Kutt and Payste, but had failed to inform the lawyers. Marshall didn’t hold back when expressing his displeasure at not being told of Mrs. Aywun’s demise. On checking the Aywun file he found an entry from three weeks earlier about an enquiry made by Mrs. Perdita Stygian regarding her father’s Will. Unfortunately, the enquiry had been handled by a junior clerk who simply told her there was no Will or other testament, filed the reference and forgot about it.

*****

Perdita was late.

Mort, irritated at being told what to wear as if he was an ignorant hick, proved he was by wearing the same shorts she’d told him not to, merely adding dusty trainers and a tight, abbreviated tank top that left his navel and most of the rest of his abdomen exposed. While waiting he mulled over Marshall’s parting warning.

‘Clearly, your mother suspects you are the beneficiary of her father’s estate. She is a cunning woman,’ Marshall had warned, ‘so be on your guard.’

‘Twenty minutes late,’ Mort snapped as he fastened his seat belt.

‘It is ungentlemanly to nag a woman, Mortaumal. We ladies are on this planet to make life bearable for men, who if left to their own devices would wallow in filth, die of starvation and return to the wild beasts from which they came. Don’t look for faults in the fairer sex; look for the virtues behind them and your life will be easier.’

The arrogant stupidity of this counsel left Mort gaping.

‘Close your mouth, boy! You look demented.’

Mort snapped it shut and stared at the Saturday shoppers, determined not to waste words on this woman. Without warning the car shot down a ramp into a basement car park. Perdita parked, then led her silent son to a door, inserted her security key-card, and a lift whisked them up to the top floor of the hotel. The room was large, bland and filled with light, with a view over the city to the distant sea. A queen size bed and side tables occupied one wall, windows another, a desk and door leading to the bathroom on the third, and a couple of easy chairs on the wall containing the door to the corridor. She marched across to the desk, pressed two buttons on the telephone, and waited.

‘Kitchen? Perdita Stygian, Room 906. I need a luncheon hamper for two, one adult, one child, in five minutes... good... put it in the boot of my car, a green convertible, number plate 041-OEE. Repeat those instructions… that’s correct.’ she replaced the receiver and turned to her son.

‘Thanks for dressing up.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘We’re going to a beach north of the city for a picnic.’

‘I didn’t bring my togs and I’m not swimming in these shorts.’

‘Then swim naked—if the tide’s in.’ She went into the bathroom and Mort heard taps running, water splashing, toilet flushing. When she returned to the bedroom with two towels she looked no different—still shrewd and devious. Irritably, she grabbed her handbag and tossed the towels to Mort. ‘If you need the toilet, go now.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Good. Come on.’

‘Must I wrap myself in this towel to hide the offending shorts?’

‘Do what you like!’

‘I intend to,’ Mort whispered to himself.

There were two cars and a large mobile caravan in the parking area, but no visible humans. Perdita parked in the shade of a large Benjamina fig as far from the others as possible.

‘The shade’s welcome, but these trees drop bugs, leaves and bird shit,’ she muttered, closing the roof.

They sat in silence for a long minute, gazing out at a flat expanse of sand that stretched for a hundred metres until it met the placid waters of the Coral Sea. To their right, a ridge of yellowy, scrub-covered rock jutted into the water, creating a shallow bay. Trees blocked the view of the beach to their left.

‘Tide’s out,’ Mort observed.

‘Do you always state the obvious? Get the rug and hamper out of the boot and let’s have lunch.’

The hamper was little more than a small basket. The picnic was half a dozen sandwiches and two pieces of chocolate cake wrapped in plastic. A half bottle of white wine, a can of orange juice and a bottle of water completed the food. Plastic cups and utensils filled the rest of the space. They ate in silence. Perdita drank the wine, Mort the orange juice.

‘While I’m getting comfortable, you can put everything away.’

‘Yes Ma’am. Three bags full, Ma’am.’

When Mort returned, Perdita had discarded her clothes and was rubbing lotion onto arms, legs, belly and breasts.

Mort watched impassively.

When satisfied she was sufficiently lubricated, she lay back and told him to get her handbag from the car.’

Mort remained standing. Silent.

Perdita shrugged, prised herself to her feet and fetched it, then lay down again with the bag beside her.

‘Do you shave your pubes or are you naturally hairless?’ Mort asked.

‘I wax.’ She patted the rug beside her. ‘Get your gear off and come and sit down; unless you’re a prude.’

Mort dropped his shorts, peeled off the tank top and lay down. ‘I’d never have survived if I was a prude, living with grandparents who were more often than not naked. You look very like Grandma without your clothes. You’ve got the same narrow waist and huge bum.’

‘Cheeky bugger! It’s not huge, it’s sexy.’

‘To some people, perhaps. Not to me.’

‘You don’t wear underpants.’

‘No, they’re uncomfortable.’

‘Do you shave your pubes? Is that why you asked?’

‘No. I don’t have hair anywhere except on my head. That’s why I asked if you did. I wondered if it was a family characteristic. Grandad was almost hairless and Grandma didn’t have much, so if you were hairless too and if I knew who my father was, I’d have an idea if I should be worried.’

‘You’re fourteen. Sleek and attractive. Between your legs you’re obviously a man, but without your cock and balls it’d be hard to tell if you were a boy or a girl. Even your voice is indeterminate; low pitched, soft and sexy. Be grateful you’re hairless! It’s a nuisance; falls out in the shower, stops you finding ticks easily, uses up deodorant.’

‘So, who is my father, and why did you dump me on your parents?

‘I’ve no idea who your father is. Between the ages of ten and fifteen I was fucked by about thirty-eight different boys and men—I lost count. There are at least ten different boys who could be him. I don’t even remember their names.’

‘Didn’t they wear condoms?’

‘No. I was on the pill, and allergic to latex. Also, I’d read that you can’t trust condoms, they break and lots of guys use them several times on different girls so they’re unhygienic.’

‘What about disease?’

‘I inspected every penis thoroughly before it entered my tunnel of love.’ She glanced across at Mort. ‘I hope you’re as careful with whoever you have sex with!’

‘What I can’t get my head around, is you being fucked when you were ten! And with so many guys! Are you a nymphomaniac?’

‘When did you first wank?’

‘Nine.’

‘A year before me. How often do you masturbate?’

‘Two or three times a day, never more than six.’ He smiled. ‘But it’s not the same as doing it with someone else.’

‘Mum and Dad were always running around naked, as you know having lived with them for ten years, and it wasn’t unusual for Mum to be on her knees weeding and Dad would come up behind and they’d fuck like rabbits. They were always at it so it didn’t seem any stranger than showering, eating, or cutting toenails... except it looked and sounded much more fun. Mum squealed a lot.’

‘Yeah, I remember... until the cops hit her and she went gaga. Then she didn’t want it any more. I used to feel sorry for Grandad, but he said he’d been sick of her for years and only did it to keep her happy. He said wanking was less stressful for his heart.’

Perdita laughed pleasantly. ‘It’s so relaxing to talk about this with someone who understands that it wasn’t perverted, it was just the way we lived and sex was a natural part of the fun of living. If it’s not fun then don’t do it, I say.’

‘Yeah. Grandad reckoned humans should only have sex in nature, in daytime, and without shame. Insisting on privacy and dark rooms makes sex a perversion instead of a natural pleasure.’

‘That’s fine for people like us. But when you think about what most people look like, then dark rooms and secrecy seems preferable.

Mort giggled. ‘Too true. But Grandad and Grandma only did it with each other, so it doesn’t explain why you became so promiscuous.’

‘Why do you use big words? You’re just like Dad! Don’t you know it annoys people? If you mean slut, say slut.’

‘I didn’t mean you were a slut. I meant you were easy… indiscriminating when it came to sex.’

‘Doesn’t sound any better. Anyway, I started menstruating when I was nine, and started masturbating soon after. Mum loved being fucked, so I wanted to do it too. I asked Dad to do it to me, but he said I should stick to people my own age, so I used boys from school. It was usually fun and didn’t feel different from playing tennis with them. Of course the girls hated me and spread rumours that I was a whore, and then the boys started to tell everyone I was a cheap slut, the town bike…’

‘Bike?’

‘Everyone could go for a ride.’ Perdita’s voice faded and her eyes filled with what appeared to be genuine tears. She sniffed and flicked them away. ‘Sorry about that. I thought I was over it. Anyway, schoolwork suffered, I failed everything, skipped class, got caught shoplifting, hauled before the cops for prostitution... it was your friend Marshall who managed to get me off that. And then I got pregnant and stayed home. Mum was a bitch; Dad was a saint and never once criticised me.’

‘That’s one reason I loved him.

‘I didn’t want you. I tried to abort you several times but you refused to die. I knew I’d be a terrible mother and I’d probably bash you to death within a week if you cried. I had hardly any tits. Wasn't developing any milk and probably wouldn’t get any because I’d been starving myself, so the best thing for both of us was for me to leave you with Mum and Dad. And it wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘They reckon giving birth’s really painful. Was it?’

‘No. Piece of cake. We had a hippie working with Dad in the gardens; one of those skinny, longhaired types with a ponytail. He said if I massaged my vulva every day and stretched it so I could learn to deliberately relax all the muscles, then it wouldn’t tighten up during birth and I’d be fine. The worst part was the weight dragging down on my belly; gave me terrible backaches. He taught me to crawl around on hands and knees, so Mum made me leather kneepads and gloves. He used to fuck me and then massage until I was so relaxed he could put his fist in. It was so successful you started to fall out while I was walking up the steps to the hospital. It’s because there was no pain or trauma that I could just get up and take off a couple of hours after you were born, feeling as good as if I’d just had a huge shit.’

Mort was silent for a long time, gazing at his feet and wondering how much to believe. If she was making it up she was a very good actress, if she wasn’t, then he should feel sorry for her. But there was something that grated. Probably the truth was somewhere in between. ‘Grandma’s tits hung like flaps and her nipples were like fingers. She said it was because of you sucking on them for three years. Your tits look like lemons and your nipples aren’t very big. Does that mean you haven’t had any more kids? That I haven’t any siblings?’

‘Siblings! There you go again. No, you don’t have any brothers or sisters because about a year later I got an infection that left me sterile, which has been good and bad. I’ve been able to fuck with no fear of pregnancy, but because most men won’t marry a girl who can’t have kids, I had to wait till Elbert came along a year ago.’

‘I’ve always wished I hadn’t been born. Do you think it could be because you tried to abort me?’

‘Of course not. But if you feel like that why don’t you throw yourself under a bus?’ The comment was tossed off as thoughtlessly as if Mort had said he liked ice cream and she’d asked what flavour.

He tried not to smile. Perdita wasn’t interested in him—or anyone else, he suspected. ‘I won’t do that because it would be messy and not pleasant for onlookers. I saw a kid crushed like that a few years ago. When I go I’ll leave quietly with no fuss.’

‘How old do you think I look?’ she asked, apropos of nothing.

‘I know you’re twenty-nine, yet you look younger than lots of the senior girls at school. I noticed at the swimming sports that most have fat tits and bellies. And they wear too much makeup, even at school. You don’t wear any except a bit of lipstick. You don’t need to because you’ve a beautiful skin and are very attractive.’ Mort had to turn away in case she saw his smile. Leo had once said it was impossible to flatter a woman too much; they’d believe anything no matter how outrageous as long as it was positive. When he had his face under control he turned back. ‘Trust me, Perdita, you could pass for my sister any day.’

‘You don’t think my breasts are too small?’ she asked, lifting them as if presenting sacred objects for worship, casually brushing the nipples with her thumbs.

Watching them swell triggered memories of Zoltan’s tongue doing the same thing to him, and he gazed down at his rapidly engorging penis with pleasure. ‘No, I think your breasts are exactly the right size.’

‘Is that why you’ve got a hard on?’

‘No, I was thinking of someone else.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Mrs. Stygian, my body is available for viewing to anyone who cares to look, but the contents of my head are private.

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Are you queer?’

‘No more than anyone else. Are you?’

‘Do you like me?’

‘To paraphrase your reprimand when I mentioned you were twenty minutes late; it is impolite to question a gentleman. We men are on this planet to admire, serve and make life pleasurable for women, who if left to their own devices would still be living in caves, eating raw food and bearing dozens of kids because they’d be prey to every passing male. Don’t look for faults in the stronger sex; look for the virtues behind them and your life will be easier.’

‘You are so like your grandfather! He was also prone to erections—and proud of it. You even talk and sound like him. It’s weird!’

‘He was my model of the perfect man until I was ten. Still is in fact. I often ask myself what Grandad would do.’ Mort sat up and looked over Perdita’s shoulder towards the other cars. ‘Don’t look now, but a few minutes ago a van pulled in and two blokes went over to that caravan thing, spoke to someone, and now they’re headed this way. They don’t look friendly.’

Perdita quickly turned and looked.