Tamarin And Kookaburra
A love story by Robert Cormack
“Love is the ultimate expression of the will to live.” Tom Wolfe
They shared a small office, him facing one way, her another. Nobody knew why they were put together, other than nobody else at the agency wanted to work with them. Ivan was a South African mercenary turned art director. He still wore Wellco boots and called natives “darkies.” June was a copywriter and hated any form of racism. She’d say, “They’re African, Ivan, please don’t call them darkies,” and he’d point to the scars on his shaved head and say, “Not where I come from, June.”
It was like watching Midnight Cowboy in a weird sort of way, June in her old knit sweater covered in cat hair, Ivan with a knife hidden under his leather vest. I guess someone in management figured if they put them in the same office space, she’d quit—or he would.
“C’mon, June,” he’d say. “Toss a few over here.” She’d give in, then they’d go off to the washroom for nasal flushes.
June wasn’t a very good copywriter. She might’ve been when she was younger, but now all she did was take one pill or another. She had every sort of anti-depressant and pain reliever available, and Ivan loved pills. She kept telling him he needed to get pills of his own. Ivan hated doctors. “C’mon, June,” he’d say. “Toss a few over here.” She’d give in, then they’d go off to the washroom for nasal flushes.
Ivan told her stories of places he’d been, the dusty villages, wildebeests and impalas. Hearing about these places thrilled June. All the years of fear and anxiety seemed to leave her body. It was like watching a movie with Ivan, the way he described things. She could picture it all, the heat, the insects, the sun dribbling down behind the Acacia trees.
It inspired her so much, one night she went home and dyed the grey streaks out of her hair. She also came in the next day wearing a new brown knit dress. Ivan figured she must be seeing someone. He’d say, “You dating anybody?”and she’d reach for her pills, then decide she wouldn’t take any that day.
Nobody remembered June being with anybody. Maybe she was gay.
Ivan still thought she was seeing somebody. It wasn’t like June to wear new clothes. He even asked around the agency. Nobody remembered June being with anybody. Maybe she was gay. “Definitely not,” one woman said. She’d been to all the gay clubs and coffee bars. “Maybe she had a bad experience and doesn’t want to talk about it, Ivan,” she said. “Ever think of that?”
She had a point. Besides, if he was going to worry about relationships, he should start with his own. He hadn’t dated in months. He’d met a woman at a bar a few weeks back. She asked why he was wearing fatigues. He told her he used to be a mercenary. She moved to the other end of the bar.
Another asked what planet he was from. He said South Africa. “It’s sort of a planet,” he said. They went home together, but she sobered up along the way. She wouldn’t let him inside. He told June about it the next day.
“Maybe if you stopped calling people darkies,” she replied. She was wearing a light blue turtleneck with black slacks. “It also wouldn’t hurt if you bought some new clothes, Ivan. And take that knife off your belt.”
He went out the next day and bought a pair of khakis and a couple of polo shirts. “Now we have to work on your language,” she told him, which wasn’t easy. Ivan had been a mercenary for too long. He still got “the rumbling clouds,” the flashbacks. Not as often as before, but he still got them.
He took four, washing them down with June’s branch water, then checked the label on the pill bottle. The dispensing date showed April ninth.
One evening, he was working late on some layouts. He decided to grab a couple of June’s anti-depressants. They were at the back of her desk drawer. He took four, washing them down with June’s branch water, then checked the label on the pill bottle. The dispensing date showed April ninth. It was now May sixth. Forty pills in less than a month. June wasn’t even taking them anymore. He figured he’d better say something before she noticed.
“Your anti-depressants are almost gone,” he said the following morning when June came in the office. “I took a few last night. I don’t think they work.”
The phone rang, Ivan reached over, his leather vest rode up showing the knife still its sheath. On the wall over his desk was a photo of a dusty village, with Ivan holding a rifle. Villagers stood behind him looking amused. When he showed it to June the first time, he kept calling the villagers swamp dodgers.
“For heaven’s sake, Ivan,” she said, putting her fingers to her ears. He slid his chair over to her desk, slipped his tongue into his lower lip, then started imitating a tamarin monkey. People could hear him down the hall. June laughed and did a kookaburra back.
That same day, Ivan went to a bar after work. He stared at group of women over in the corner. One of them looked his way. He smiled, she smiled back. Her friend gave her a slight push. “Her name’s Samantha,” she called over.
Samantha asked about the scar on his head. He said he used to be in the tree-cutting business.
Ivan came around and introduced himself. He liked the way Samantha smiled. She wasn’t pretty, but she was nice. They talked. Samantha asked about the scar on his head. He said he used to be in the tree-cutting business.
When Samantha’s friends left, she stayed. Ivan asked if he could take her home. She agreed. He went to the washroom first, washing his face, brushing his teeth with his finger, then stashing his knife behind the toilet.
At Samantha’s apartment building, Ivan walked her to the front entrance. They kissed and Ivan waited until she got inside. Then he went home and burned his Kisangani pictures in the kitchen sink. They’d killed twenty villagers that day.
That same night, June was in bed reading The Eleven Secrets of Imagination. It talked about how you could bring realism to your fantasies through surroundings and smells. Earlier, she’d sprayed perfume on the pillows. Scents are a powerful motivator of our subconscious, the book said.
As he reached up to take a layout off the wall over his desk, June noticed the knife was gone.
The next morning, Ivan told her about Samantha. “She likes to be called Sam,” he said. “I watched my language, too.” He told her they’d agreed to meet Friday at the same bar. As he reached to take a layout off the wall over his desk, June noticed the knife was gone.
They worked the rest of the week. Then Friday came and Ivan was clearing his art table. June was putting on her coat. It was a new coat, a camelhair. He still thought she was seeing someone. “Doing anything tonight?” he asked.
“Just a relaxing evening at home,” she replied.
Her apartment was on the second floor of a brownstone. She kept a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, candles on the fireplace. Most of her nights now were spent with The Eleven Secrets of Imagination. She didn’t tell Ivan about the book. He was too busy thinking about Samantha. He’d doodle little sketches of them on merry-go-rounds, a parasol over Samantha’s head.
He was taking Samantha to dinner. He went to the washroom for one last nasal flush.
“Don’t overdo it, Ivan,” June told him. “She’ll think you’re clingy.” She was gathering up her stuff while Ivan cleaned his nails. He was taking Samantha to dinner. He went to the washroom for one last nasal flush. June left before he came back.
Later in bed, June was thinking of the villages near Kisangani. Ivan told her one time, “Go to Africa, June. Nothing makes sense until you see where it all started.” How beautiful, she thought. Where it all started. Imagine standing on the open Serengeti plain. Be where you want to be, the book said. She could see them together, maybe in piths or tolis or whatever they called those hats. He was doing the tamarin monkey, she was doing the kookaburra back.
She thought about Kisangani again, the villages, the horrible things Ivan called those people.
It was warm and she opened the window. There was a moon and the streetlights shone across car roofs. She thought about Kisangani again, the villages, the horrible things Ivan called those people. “My God, if Samantha hears that,” she said to herself. She almost wished Samantha would. Then it would be over, and she and Ivan could go back to those villages, the dust and the insects. They’d hear the rustle of animals on the plain beyond the Acacia trees, and the occasional roars of the lions and cheetahs.
That’s what she wanted to hear. That’s where everything started. She went to sleep thinking about that. She dreamed of Ivan with his gun over his shoulder, and the villagers all being amused. It was dusty in her dream. The dust rose above their heads. Imagination is a powerful thing, the book said. She believed that. She was convinced that’s all that mattered.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist, and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check Robert’s other stories and articles by at robertcormack.net
