“Because that means you use condoms.”

“Dad. So fucking what?”

“So- can I borrow some?”

“Condoms? What for?”

“To put on my-”

“I know what they’re for! I just- I thought prostitutes brought their own condoms.”

“You don’t think I can sleep with anyone who isn’t a prostitute?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You don’t think I can attract a regular citizen?”

“As I said, no.”

“What a son!”

“Dad,” I began, but I couldn’t think of an end to that sentence.

“Anyway,” he said, “have you got any?”

I went into my bedroom and grabbed a couple of condoms from the bedside table and took them back to him.

“Just two?”

“All right, take the whole pack. Have a party. I’m not a pharmacy, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait- this woman. It is a woman, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s a woman.”

“Is she in the house now?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she? Where did you meet?”

“I can’t see what business that could possibly be of yours,” he said, and walked off the veranda with a slight lilt in his step.

Strange things were afoot. Anouk was being pursued by a man dubbed by Guess Who magazine as Australia ’s most eligible bachelor, and Dad was sleeping with unprofessional person or persons unknown. New dramas were stirring in the labyrinth.

The morning birds, those little feathery alarm clocks, woke me around five. The Towering Inferno wasn’t in bed beside me. I could hear her crying on the veranda. I lay in bed, listening to those little deep gulping sobs. It was kind of rhythmic. Suddenly I knew what she was up to. I leapt out of bed and ran outside. I was right! She had her little mustard-sized jar pressed up against her cheek and she was depositing a new batch of tears. It was almost full now.

“This is no good,” I said.

Her eyes blinked innocently. That pushed me over the edge. I stepped forward and ripped the jar out of her hand.

“Give it back!”

“You’ll never get him to drink it. What are you going to tell him it is- lemonade?”

“Give it back, Jasper!”

I unscrewed the lid, gave her a defiant look, and poured the contents down my throat.

She screamed.

I swallowed.

It was awful-tasting. I tell you, those were some bitter tears.

She looked at me with such intense hatred that I realized I’d done an unforgivable thing. I thought it had the potential to curse me for life, like disturbing a mummy in his tomb. I had drunk tears that were not shed for me. What would happen to me now?

We sat in our respective corners watching the sunrise and the bursting of the day. The bush began to seethe with life. A wind picked up and the trees whispered to themselves. I could hear the Inferno thinking. I could hear her eyelids fluttering. I could hear her heart beating. I could hear the ropes and pulleys lifting the sun into the sky. At nine she rose wordlessly and dressed. She kissed me on the forehead as if I were a son she was duty-bound to forgive, and left without a word.

Not ten minutes later I sensed something, a disturbance. I strained my ears and heard distant voices. I threw on my bathrobe and left the hut and wove my way toward them.

Then I saw them together.

Dad had locked the Inferno in a conversation. Dad, a labyrinth within a labyrinth, was talking at her as if he were engaged in some vigorous activity like a tree-sawing competition. Should I do something? Should I stop him? Should I scare him away? How?

He’d better not be asking her about her allergy to the pill or about her preference for ribbed over flavored condoms, I thought. No, he wouldn’t dare. But whatever he was saying, I was certain he was doing me more harm than good. I watched them anxiously for a couple more minutes, then the Inferno walked away while he was still talking. Good for her.

That night we were in a pub. It was a busy night, and when I went to get the drinks, I kept getting elbowed. Everyone crowded the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention. Some pushy customers waved their money in the air as if to say, “Look! I have hard currency! Serve me first! The rest of them want to pay with eggs!”

When I returned to the Inferno, she said, “We need to talk.”

“I thought we were talking.”

She didn’t say anything to that. She didn’t even confirm or deny that we had just been talking.

“Anyway,” I said, “why do you need to preface talking by saying we need to talk? You want to talk? Talk!” I was getting worked up, because I knew more or less what was coming next. She was going to break up with me. Winter had entered my body all of a sudden.

“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Of course I’m not. What am I, a saint? Do you think of me as an especially unselfish person? Do I love my enemies? Do I volunteer in soup kitchens?”

“Shut up, Jasper, and let me think.”

“First you want to talk. Now you want to think. Haven’t you thought this out? Didn’t you at least compose a speech in your head prior to coming out tonight? Don’t tell me you’re improvising! Don’t tell me this is something you’re just winging on the spot!”

“Jesus Christ! Just be silent for one minute!”

When I sense someone is about to hurt me emotionally, it’s very difficult to resist the temptation to act like a five-year-old. Right then, for example, it was everything I could do to stop myself counting down the sixty seconds out loud.

“I think we need a break,” she said.

“A break meaning a lengthy pause, or a break meaning a severing?”

“I think we need to stop seeing each other.”

“Has this got something to do with my father?”

“Your father?”

“I saw you talking to him this morning after you left the hut. What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t say nothing. The man has never said nothing in his life. Besides, you were talking to him for, like, ten minutes. Did he say something against me?”

“No- nothing. Honest.”

“Then what’s this about? Is it because I drank your tears?”

“Jasper- I’m still in love with Brian.”

I didn’t say anything. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to work that out. Or a rocket scientist. Or an Einstein. Then I thought: I don’t think brain surgeons, rocket scientists, or even Einstein are that brilliant when it comes to charting the map of human emotions. And why always brain surgeons, rocket scientists, and Einstein anyway? Why not architects or criminal lawyers? And why not, instead of Einstein, Darwin or Heinrich Böll?

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“You’re in love with your ex-boyfriend. I don’t have to be Heinrich Böll to work that out.”

“Who?”

I shook my head, stood up, and walked out of the pub. I heard her calling my name, but I didn’t turn around.

Outside, I broke into tears. What a hassle! Now I’d have to become rich and successful just so she could regret dumping me. That’s another thing to do in this short, busy life. Christ. They’re adding up.

I couldn’t believe the relationship was over. And the sex! That fortuitous conjunction of our bodies, finished! I supposed it was better this way. I really never wanted anyone to shout at me, “I gave you the best years of my life!” This way, the best years of her life were still ahead of her.

And why? Maybe she was pissed off that I had drunk her tears and was in love with her ex-boyfriend, but I knew Dad had said something that had pushed her over the edge. What had he said? What the fuck had he said? That’s it, I thought. I don’t care what he does- he can write a handbook of crime, put in a suggestion box, set a town on fire, smash up a nightclub, be interned in a mental hospital, build a labyrinth, but he absolutely cannot touch one hair on the head of my love life.