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23. Several Possibilities

Thursday afternoon. The men and women in the waiting room of the John Hunter Clinic, each frozen in single stillness, sat with eyes averted from one another. Although every one of us was in living colour we were like black-and-white portraits by one of those photographers who make everything look worse.

‘IT’S YOUR CHOICE,’ said the sign over a display of condoms on a bulletin board in the corridor outside the counselling room. The unrolled sheaths dangled like the ghosts of passion under labels that identified them as SUPER STRONG, FETHERLITE, LOVE-FRAGRANCED, ALLERGY/HYPO-ALLERGENIC, EXTRA-SAFE and so on. There was a diagram showing how to use them.

‘Both of you with the same man,’ said Mrs Mavis Briggs with an air of scientific interest. Behind her was a colourful array of condom packets and a Van Gogh print of a sidewalk café in Aries at night. All of the tables in the foreground were empty. ‘I haven’t come across that before.’

‘It never happened before,’ I said, ‘with us, I mean.’

Mrs Briggs was a good-looking woman in her thirties in tight jeans and a black sweatshirt that said SHIT HAPPENS in white letters. She had black hair cut short, a husky voice, and the sort of face favoured by rock stars who sing of loves that end badly. Serafina was elsewhere in the clinic talking to another health adviser.

The room was bright and warm; I’d have liked to stay there for a long time. I thought fleetingly of Hendryk, the reality/illusion dog in Van Hoogstraten’s peepshow. ‘There are several possibilities here,’ said Mrs Briggs: ‘maybe you’ll both test negative when the time comes; on the other hand we can’t rule out a result with both of you HIV-positive; or one of you positive and the other not. Have you thought of how you’d deal with either of those last two scenarios?’

‘This is a strange time for us — we’re not actually together right now.’

SHIT HAPPENS said her T-shirt.

‘I see,’ said Mrs Briggs. ‘That doesn’t make things any easier, does it. The three months’ wait before the test can be a pretty tough time to get through, and if there’s any possibility of the two of you sorting out your problems this would be a good time to do it.’

‘What about it?’ I asked Serafina later. We were over the road at The Stargazey drinking gin-and-tonics. Dusk outside. Dusk — the word has in it the sound of night impending, descending, owl-light in the city. The place seemed full of darkness. ‘Are we going to get through this together?’ I said.

‘In sickness and in health, eh? You and me together, right, Jonno?’

‘Don’t take cheap shots, Fina — it’s too easy.’

‘I’m not strong enough for quality shots right now, OK? You want clever remarks, try somebody else in your wide circle of acquaintance.’

Where was the Serafina with whom I’d made it through the night? ‘I can’t believe that everything we had is gone,’ I said, recalling Piazzolla’s Tango: Zero Hour that tried to move forward while pulling itself back.

‘I don’t understand you, Jonathan. First you piss all over what we had, then you get yourself buggered and bring this weirdo into both our lives, and now for all we know we’re both HIV-positive; and you reckon this should bring us together?’

‘Tell me what to do, Fina.’

‘Give me some time to get my head around this (pause), Jonno.’