Eight Pieces on Prostitution Read Free Page B

slightest variations. Each had a price attached and, added to the next, refused to develop into an occasion.
    He dressed quickly, without speaking, his mind already on the next thing.
    The following week, he turned up again. This time he paid for extras while, in the background, overshadowed by a passing train, they heard that a minister in the Labor government had been dismissed.
    Pleased, he said, ‘I thought you were Labor from the way you poked and prodded me. I could tell you were angry. I’m Labor myself.’
    She thought how best to reply to this. Finally she said, ‘He doesn’t seem to have done anything so terrible. Apart from lying and talking to the wrong people.’
    â€˜Absolutely the wrong people. Especially at midnight, alone in his office.’
    â€˜It’s the cover-up that gets you every time,’ she said, and they shared a laugh.
    After this, she did not see him for several weeks. She kept the radio on all day, imagining for some reason that she’d hear his voice and find out his name. She became familiar with the voices of the different newsreaders, and deaf to the complaints of her other clients.
    â€˜The music will be back in a minute. I can’t help the news,’ she said.
    Each hour was separate, distinct, measured by her alarm clock and escalating accusations against the government. Her attachment to the items, and to the radio that broadcast them, gave her at times a kind of cleansing relief.
    When the man who liked to come with the news appeared again, the first thing he asked her was, ‘Didn’t I see you at the Melbourne Cup?’
    â€˜You might have,’ she told him. ‘I went with one of the other girls. It was a bit if a victory for us, to get the day off. We never get clients on public holidays, and the boss knows that, but he’s usually too mean.’
    She was aware of running on, and massaged him in silence. At the end of the news there was the weather report. She realized that she could concentrate on the movements of her hands in such a way that the announcer’s voice receded to a whisper; at the same time she felt that it was inside her head.
    â€˜Will you vote Labor if there’s another election?’ he asked as they drank their tea.
    â€˜Sure,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they’ll win though.’
    â€˜Don’t say that.’
    He turned to the mirror. She stayed where she was, half sitting on the table, swinging one leg.
    â€˜There’ll be a big drama,’ she said, ‘but in a few months everything will be back to normal.’
    â€˜What’s normal?’ he asked, smiling at his reflection.
    â€˜This,’ she said, with a wave of her hand.
    â€˜You think this is normal?’
    â€˜As normal as breathing in and out.’
    The man who liked to come with the news looked thoughtful as he combed his hair.
    She never saw him again. She became skilled at completing a massage while absorbing each news bulletin so thoroughly she did not miss a thing. That was how she followed the political crisis to its climax, in sharp, speedy bursts that paused over a single phrase only long enough for shock to reach her skin. When the announcement came that the government had fallen, she felt a bond with other listeners who were preparing tea meanwhile, or driving home through the suburbs. If any drivers swerved, coming back to themselves with that shudder from the groin which said, another centimetre and I would have hit something; if any housewife cut a finger instead of the beans, and was brought back with a start to suck blood and search for a bandaid; if these things happened because the newsreader’s voice broke long enough to allow ordinary concentration to shift, then it was quickly over and everything continued again as if perfectly normal.

Mrs B
    When Mrs B’s husband was alive, she used to spend Sunday mornings at the Scheherazade in Acland Street. She recalled winter