Veronica Tries to be Good, Again. Michael K Freundt
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in the booth in the far corner.
Valda sat patiently waiting for the cafe ritual to be completed: staff introductions, pleasant but tedious small-talk, coffee-ordering, snack-refusals, and promises of speedy service.
“What do you call Andrew? Andy?” asked Veronica.
“I call him Handy,” said Valda without a hint of humour.
“Oh!” said Veronica with a cheeky smile.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Valda in her usually dry, matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a joke. He isn’t. I change light-bulbs.”
“Right. So what do you want him to do sexually?”
Veronica knew that Valda had probably thought about this question, but she was certain that Valda had never articulated a possible answer.
“I want him to ...”
“Yes ...?
“I ...”
“Valda, I know how difficult this is. We don’t have to catch a train. Take your time.”
Valda was sitting stiffly upright and holding her breath.
“Valda. Valda, breathe out. Let it go.”
She did so and her shoulders and her whole body slumped like a punctured tire.
“A few deep breaths. Come on.” Veronica knew when a diversion was necessary. “Where have you travelled overseas?”
“What?” Valda looked a bit annoyed at the divergence from the task at hand and the apparent and slightly disappointing likelihood of more small talk.
“What countries have you been to?” Veronica was unwavering in her tack.
“Japan, Italy, the Netherlands, France.”
“How’s your French?”
“Not good. All I managed was the daily niceties and restaurant words.”
“And how did they go?”
“OK, but usually only after several repeats.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, I’d try to order in French but the waiter would look at me blankly until I was forced to point to what I wanted on the menu. He’d then repeat my order in that supercilious tone of theirs and what I heard was exactly, I thought, I had said. Uh! So frustrating.”
“It’s a universal story.”
“Yes, but what I heard him say was exactly what I said.”
“Obviously not.”
“But the French are so dismissive of tourists.”
“Well, in my experience, they are usually appreciative at the attempt. Look, your tongue hasn’t had the experience at French pronunciation. You can’t speak French with English pronunciation, which your tongue is an expert at. You have to speak French with French pronunciation; and to do that properly you have to teach your tongue to say those words correctly otherwise your French listener won’t know what you’re saying. It’s possible that your waiter’s ear didn’t recognise the sounds you were making.”
“And your point is?” asked Valda, now, a little annoyed.
Veronica chuckled. “My point is exactly that. I want you to say words that your tongue probably has never had to make before.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“So, it’s just you and me. This is a busy place; this booth is stuck in a corner, and despite the noise and the busy staff we’re as private as we can be. So, what do you want Handy to do?”
Valda was looking into the near distance, not looking at anything, really; looking inside herself; looking at herself. Then she said in a whispered voice as if telling a forbidden secret, “I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”
“Sorry? I didn’t hear you,” she lied.
Valda leaned forward and raised her voice to a slightly louder whisper,“ I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”
“Good. Great. Now look at me when you say that.”
Valda, with hesitation and obvious difficulty, re-focused her gaze on Veronica. “I want him to put his tongue in my vagina.”
“Good. So what actual words would you say to him?
“What?”
“How would you say that to him? In the privacy of your own bedroom; by the light of your bedside lamp.”
“Oh, we never have the light on.”
Veronica made a mental note but didn’t respond. “I want you to use the actual words you would use in such a situation.”
“You make it sound as if such a situation once existed.”
“Take your time.”
“I would ask him...”
“No no,” interrupted Veronica. “Think of me as Handy. I’m Handy. If you want me to put my tongue in your vagina, what words would you use to ask me to do that?”
Valda looked at her as if she had been asked to run for parliament.
Veronica smiled and as nonchalantly as she could she sipped her cafe latte and said, “Valda, it’s just us.”
“OK? Handy...”
“Yes, ...”
“Handy, please put your tongue in my vagina.”
“Don't say please. There’s no reason to be polite.”
“Right. Handy, put your tongue in my vagina.”
“Good. Good. But you have known this man for most of your life. You've heard him fart.” Valda gave no response. “Haven’t you?” Still nothing. Veronica registers the implication and ploughs on. “You are intimates. Would you use those words? Those exact words?”
“Are you trying to make me say…?”
“What?”
“Is it that word you want me to say?” asked Valda almost defiantly, with a little anger in her voice.
“Is that what you want to say?” challenged Veronica.
Valda looked into the near distance again; looked inside again. “I’ve never said that word before, and would never say that word.”
“Valda, I understand what you mean but I’m willing to bet that you have only ever heard that word said, shouted, in anger and to insult and to inflict as much personal damage as possible. It’s not the word; it’s how the word is used that is the problem. It’s only offensive when it’s used offensively. It’s an informal noun that describes a vagina, a personal and wondrous thing. It doesn’t have to be said like a bricklayer.”
“OK, but no. I don’t want to use that word.”
“Even in the privacy of the darkness of your own bed?”
“It's not the bottom of a pit.”
“OK. Let’s put one light on. What would you like to say to Handy in the privacy of your own bed with a little light spilling out from the en-suite?”
“Look; I understand what you are trying to do but, no, I would never use that word.”
“OK. I understand.” Veronica knew when to back off. “So, in the privacy of your own bed, with the light spilling in from the en-suite what would, what could you say to Handy?”
She could see Valda taking in this advice. She looked as if she was preparing herself to swallow a bitter pill. “Handy,…” and then she softened her tone, almost sighed it. “Handy,