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Shauna McAllister is the second of three daughters born to a former Catholic priest from Edinburgh and a surfer chick from Los Angeles. An itinerant childhood made her seek her roots as an adult in Scotland and California. She worked in publishing, social work, and now runs her own business. Shauna has settled in East London with her husband and their incredible son. She鈥檚 writing her first novel.
Contact: shauna.c.mcallister [at] gmail [dot] com

Tristan & Isolde

 

鈥淪he, whom Tristan鈥檚 ship of yore
From Ireland to Cornwall bore,
To Tyntagel, to the side
Of King Marc, to be his bride?
She who, as they voyaged, quaff鈥檇
With Tristan that spiced magic draught,
Which ever since then for ever rolls
Through their blood, and binds their souls,
Working love, but working teen?鈥�
- Tristam & Iseult, Matthew Arnold

I鈥檓 meeting Isolde in the Place Sainte Catherine this morning. Usually, she gets here first, but today I鈥檓 early. Isolde and I meet at the Grimbergen for coffee in the mornings after her yoga class. We talk shop and talk shit. I love listening to her, watching her form words. Mostly I love having Isolde all to myself. I think she is at her most beautiful during these mornings, unpainted, unguarded, not trying, when the fricative depth of her voice lulls me into a sense of timelessness and ease, recalling another鈥檚, my mother鈥檚, soft, grainy voice hushing me to sleep as a boy. 

I texted Isolde last night after I鈥檇 received an email from an ex. I was fuming. Isolde knows how to open these kind of things, these feelings, take them out of their subtle hiding places and revolve them around her soft pink mouth. 

I see her now across the Place Sainte Catherine, leaning into the icy wind with her wool coat flapping, and her scabbard-like yoga mat on her back. This vision of Isolde against an old grey wind makes me think of a time when this would have been the grain market, and when the original fifteenth-century church would have stood guard next to tall ships on the river Senne, now long-buried and canalled, its tributaries diverted, desiccated. 

鈥楽orry I鈥檓 late; Marcus Skyped, but we got disconnected,鈥� she bursts. 

She looks rattled, smells cold. Isolde and Marcus schedule Skypes that usually don鈥檛 work out; Marcus blames the Wi-Fi. I know that Isolde hasn鈥檛 been doing great. She has seemed preoccupied lately. But I guess you don't go out with someone like Marcus without feeling insecure. How can I say anything when it鈥檚 not my business, when he鈥檚 supposedly my friend. 

I put my finger in the air and catch the barista鈥檚 eye. She brings my second coffee and Isolde鈥檚 tea and hovers under the pretence of clearing up, till Isolde makes it clear that she should shove off.

鈥楽o when are you going to sleep with that poor girl and put her out of her misery?鈥� Isolde asks. 

鈥楳atilde? What are you talking about? She鈥檚 all of twelve!鈥� 

鈥楽he鈥檚 legal,鈥� Isolde toys, 鈥榓nyway, I know what you boys get up to.鈥� I see her lip stiffen and I think that maybe she does. 

I look at Matilde, who is perfect in the way that young girls are: blonde, pert and bouncy. Her wide-eyed, glossy-lipped vacancy repulses me. 

鈥楴ot for me,鈥� I say conclusively. And Isolde, now in her thirties, smiles quietly. Then she gets fidgety.

鈥楢re you okay?鈥� I ask. 

鈥榊es, it鈥檚 just Marcus鈥� before we got cut off鈥︹�� she shakes her head as if to get a thought out of her head. 

鈥榃丑补迟?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥榃ell, he said he wants some help moving this girl out of Syria. A bride of ISIS from Birmingham鈥� I mean, part of me is excited; it would be a great story. I鈥檇 love to interview her. But who knows, Tristan, sometimes I don鈥檛 know if can I trust him.鈥� 

So she can sense that things are wrong with him. Back in July, after I interviewed for this job in Brussels, I鈥檇 walked into a bar just off the Grand-Place. There was Marcus, of all people. He was drinking with a woman I mistook for a prostitute. Turns out, she was some Sudanese diplomat and was melting onto Marcus like warm caramel. I had a whiskey or three and loosened up. We got wasted on old monk鈥檚 brew. Then Khayriyya asked us both home. 

鈥楪o on, you take her,鈥� Marcus had said conspiratorially. 鈥楾rust me, she鈥檚 incredible.鈥� 

I鈥檇 thought he was being generous; we didn鈥檛 do threesomes. But, then he said he鈥檇 better get back to Isolde. Because of Khayriyya, I鈥檇 just assumed they鈥檇 split. He said Isolde was working in Brussels for the Financial Times and he used her flat as a base. 

鈥楤esides鈥︹�� he nodded at Caramel. 

I felt heat rising inside me and if I鈥檇 been less drunk, I鈥檇 have hit him. 

Then, I caught up with Marcus and Isolde when I first got here six months ago. I couldn鈥檛 bear seeing him. But Marcus has hardly left Syria since, and Isolde and I鈥�

鈥業t doesn鈥檛 feel right,鈥� Isolde says, 鈥楬e knows I鈥檇 fucking kill for a story like that, to talk to that girl, but he鈥檚 being a total prick, Tristan.鈥� She looks like she might cry. 鈥楾hey seem pretty familiar, if you know what I mean, and then he wants me to interview her? It鈥檚 almost as if he wants me to鈥︹��

This is vintage Marcus. It鈥檚 how he moves on. Another woman, one he can rescue. He was with a French journalist when he鈥檇 met Isolde. 

Marcus and I were best buddies for most of our twenties and early thirties 鈥� all the years we were freelance 鈥� I, a journalist; he, a photographer. We were both slaves to adrenaline and danger, and to the lifestyle of someone who doesn鈥檛 want to answer to anyone. We did what we wanted, when we wanted. It was an easy life. 

In matters of love, Marcus and I were both... well, let鈥檚 just say that we never struggled to get company if we wanted it. He鈥檇 always say he could never get attached. Women like a bad boy and Marcus never disappointed. I had more intellectual appeal, or so I flattered myself, which worked with some of the aid workers and the female journalists, and I suppose I never got attached either. How could you, when everything around you was in flux, when bullets hissed past your ear, and the smell of burnt blood and spilt guts was commonplace? That was the whole point of it all, anyway, the freedom. 

Marcus and I knew how to have a good time, and yet, we鈥檇 always kept our love interests separate. Early in our friendship, an old flame of his, a Jamaican doctor with M茅decins Sans Fronti猫res, with a lilt in her voice that always turned my thoughts to the curve of her behind, had hit on me. I鈥檇 inexplicably turned her down on the basis of our friendship. Marcus had found out 鈥� she鈥檇 told him 鈥� and it cemented something. It would have been all too easy to overlap with women, but we never did. 

鈥榊ou know, I鈥檓 not stupid, Tristan. I know what he鈥檚 like,鈥� Isolde smiles, 鈥榓lways have, and I know you know it too.鈥�

I start to feign ignorance. 

鈥楧on鈥檛 even鈥� I can鈥檛 bear you looking at me like that. Look, I鈥檝e known that Marcus and I weren鈥檛 going anywhere from the start.鈥�

鈥榃hat do you mean? You loved him,鈥� I say quietly.

鈥楲ove?鈥� she laughs, 鈥楴o, no I don鈥檛 think so, Tristan,鈥� she says bitterly, 鈥楲ove was never part of it with Marcus.鈥� She looks a little ashamed. 鈥楧on鈥檛 think less of me, Tristan, for staying with him, it was just easier, that鈥檚 all, having someone, in the field. But now I鈥檓 here and he鈥檚 there鈥︹��

I don鈥檛 know what she is saying anymore. What is she talking about? They were in love. She chose him; that was why I鈥檇 let her go. 

In the spring of 2011, Marcus and I were in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. Then he went off to D茅dougou for a week or so. That was when I met Isolde. She and I were both vying for the same story about the Burkinab茅 protests. It was love at first sight. I鈥檇 never been hit like that before, a shot deep in my veins. The spell she put on me enslaved my soul, and has never released it. 

I鈥檇 been working a source. His name was Issouf. Issouf was this stumpy student in his late teens who was helping to organise some of the protests. He had dark cat eyes, wore a bandana, and liked to shoot his mouth off, a quality which could be both useful and unreliable in a source. Then, twice in one week I wrote a story for the Associated Press based on Issouf鈥檚 intelligence and twice I was informed that my exact spin had already been filed hours earlier. I realised that the dude breaking these stories must be working Issouf as well. I confronted the kid but got nothing. All I could do was walk away. But somehow I couldn鈥檛 stop myself from staking out Issouf鈥檚 place to see whether the other journalist would show up. I wanted to know whom I was up against. That鈥檚 when Isolde appeared. 

So, it had turned out that my thief was a girl journalist.

鈥楾rying to steal some more of my stories?鈥� I called out and Isolde looked over. A fellow westerner was always approachable in these parts. As she walked towards me, I could see how young she was, couldn鈥檛 have been older than twenty-five. I already knew she could write. 

鈥楴ot stealing, my friend, just better and faster,鈥� she smiled coolly, tapping the side of her nose. 

I offered her a cigarette. I was charming and she flirted. Flirting seemed to be the way she got things done and she was good at it 鈥� just enough to inspire desire but not enough to offer hope. It worked. 

鈥榃hat I don鈥檛 understand,鈥� she鈥檇 laughed, 鈥榠s how it took you so long to find me!鈥� 

I asked Isolde if she wanted to have a drink at my hotel and she agreed, and hopped on the back of the moped I鈥檇 been renting. 

It鈥檚 strange to think that, today, five years later, we鈥檙e sitting here sipping tea and coffee in a Belgian caf茅, talking about Marcus. 

鈥楧o you remember when we met?鈥� 

鈥榃e鈥檒l always have Burkina Faso,鈥� she jokes but her eyes stay sad. 鈥楬ey, I almost forgot, what about this bitch of yours, what鈥檚 her name?鈥� She attempts levity. 

鈥楲ilyana? Yes, yes, Jesus, can you believe her?鈥� It鈥檚 a relief to indulge indignation at this relatively small betrayal. Last night I was furious with Lilyana, couldn鈥檛 think straight I was so mad. But now, well, Isolde has a way of dissipating, dismantling, and replacing things that makes me feel quite turned around.  

鈥榃ait, so, she鈥檚 a writer? When were you two together?鈥� She frowns. 

鈥業n LA. She was the one in LA, you know I told you, Bulgarian with an American accent, writes in English; we weren鈥檛 together for all that long but, well, I guess I made some impression.鈥� I was over-talking. 

鈥楬uh.鈥� Isolde looks through me. 鈥楽o what鈥檚 the story about?鈥� 

鈥業t鈥檚 about me not fucking her 鈥� she doesn鈥檛 paint a pretty picture; it鈥檚 being published in a collection of short stories called The Whole Nine Yards, each story is about some different dude she鈥檚 fucked, it just makes me feel so鈥�I dunno, cheap?鈥� I make a joke of this as if it isn鈥檛 true. Each story is headed by a man鈥檚 name. Mine, the last, is called Tristan.

鈥楿gh, gross, why doesn鈥檛 she just write a book called I鈥檓 a Slut and be done with it?鈥� Isolde giggles, obviously quite pleased.

I feel more uncomfortable than I鈥檇 imagined, speaking about Lilyana to Isolde. I鈥檇 admired Lilyana鈥檚 books. She had Eastern good looks and craved sex. Truth be told, I found this repellent. So I鈥檇 let the thing fizzle out. Now, Lilyana鈥檚 every word violates, humiliates. I hate so-called fiction, its liberties with truth and untruth, bullshit poetic licence and fuck-all fact-checking.

鈥榃hat does that mean anyway, The Whole Nine Yards?鈥� 

鈥楳eans the book ought be in Erotica rather than Literary Fiction,鈥� I suggest. 

I read Isolde some extracts from the other stories. The dirty bits, and we get the giggles. Isolde blushes and starts fanning herself comically and I notice her sitting closer, touching. Her lips and cheeks are flushed and her grey eyes are all black.  

鈥楴ow yours,鈥� Isolde says, her hand on my knee. 

鈥榃ell there鈥檚 no sex scene in my story. So I鈥檓 not sure what The Whole Nine Yards refers to in my case!鈥� I say, trying to make light of it. 

鈥極uch,鈥� she says, looking brighter. 

I start reading a passage, avoiding the first line: 

鈥淗is fingers on his keyboard instead of my body. The tap-a-tap-tap a heartless beat cuckolding me night after night. Words without poetry. Unless ftse, dow jones, eurostoxx 50 have cadence, tone and meter鈥︹��

鈥楧o you feel offended?鈥� Isolde interrupts. 

鈥榃hat? That my writing lacks poetry? That she thinks I report on finance,鈥�  I get the giggles now. 鈥業鈥檓 mortified that she hasn鈥檛 described me as the sex god that I am, if that鈥檚 what you mean!鈥�

鈥業鈥檓 glad you don鈥檛 have a sex scene with her,鈥� Isolde says quietly as she takes the manuscript from me and starts to read. 

I get up and walk over to Matilde, for more coffee, something to do. Matilde is relating some supposedly hilarious thing but is so long-winded that I miss the punch line. 

I鈥檓 thinking about Isolde again. I鈥檓 thinking about the night we met. The Elite Hotel in Burkina Faso had been pretty bare bones. The hotel bar had consisted of a waiter, a radio and a fridge, and there were plastic chairs and umbrellas outside in a courtyard. It was dark and hot and the air was getting thicker; the locals kept saying the rain was coming. Once it started, it wouldn鈥檛 stop for months. 

It was a night towards the end of May or beginning of June when it was still unclear whether the hostilities would resolve or deteriorate, and stray bullets flew through the night like staggered Morse. We got a bottle of rum and sat. 

I asked Isolde her name. 

鈥榊ou鈥檙e fucking with me, right?鈥� I said. 

Isolde looked nonplussed.

Isolde gave me her passport; I gave her mine. 

鈥楬oly fuck,鈥� she said. 

We both looked up at each other, smiling incredulously. A curious intimacy sprung up between us. It鈥檚 hard to explain. Maybe it was due to the myth our names recalled, the power of five centuries of retellings of the Tristan and Isolde story. Maybe it was the intoxicatingly romantic question that our fable inevitably put to us. I鈥檇 never met an Isolde and she鈥檇 never met a Tristan. Here we were together, a bottle of rum between us, under the dark Burkinab茅 skies. 

In the thirty-degree heat of the Ouagadougou night, Isolde had smoked slowly, talking of legends of yore. Filthy habit in a woman, I鈥檇 thought, as the smoke from her lungs wrapped itself around me like spiced magic. 

鈥楳y mother was into Arthurian myths,鈥� I鈥檇 said, 鈥楢n academic. Published books on Malory and Spenser, so she鈥檇 tell me the story in all its incarnations.鈥�  

As a child, my mother would slowly narrate old tales of chivalric love; her long, thick braid twisted across her shoulder as the hoarseness of her soothing, low voice rode me to sleep each night. To my child self, my mother had looked more the part of the Faerie Queene than the bookish, reserved woman that I was later told she had been. 

鈥業鈥檝e always wanted to read those, but all that Old English, ugh,鈥� Isolde said. Like my mother, this fair Isolde had long savage hair, wild grey eyes, and the poise of an enchantress. 

We were holding hands, and when we鈥檇 drained the rum, Isolde came to my bed, intoxicated by fables and destiny. Whatever tension had been hovering between us that evening exploded between our rum-laced fingers. 

鈥楧o you feel this,鈥� she鈥檇 said. There had been a charge between us but also something peaceful. We were in no hurry. What was between us was inevitable, unfathomable, eternal. 

One night, maybe a month or so later, when we鈥檇 really settled into each other鈥檚 veins, I鈥檇 had a dream. With Isolde鈥檚 limbs suckered around mine like a creeping garden, I鈥檇 dreamt of my mother as I hadn鈥檛 for two decades. The memory of my mother had faded throughout my childhood till all I had left was a memory of a memory. The dream had brought her back whole, real, hard; the fresh green smell, fierce small lungs, and arched pain. I tried to hold onto her long cold arms, her hands, her icy fingers, willing that I鈥檇 never wake up again, holding my breath and the smell of her in my lungs. But I woke. I was feverish, seeing the world too sharply. 

Isolde and I had been drunk on each other for days and weeks, and when I finally woke sober, after the dream, to Isolde鈥檚 soft brown limbs, I was startled by a deep sense of shame. Isolde felt too alive and too sacred. I noticed she had that same green smell in her smallest crevices. My lust for her, coming inside her, wanting to do it again and harder and more, it felt strangely ignoble, perhaps dangerous, in the real world. I felt an intense protectiveness, chivalry, that I couldn鈥檛 reconcile with my physical deep thirst. It doesn鈥檛 make sense but I needed to shield Isolde from everything in the world, even from me. 

I felt strange that day. She must have been confused by my sexual silence after our deafening symphony. I didn鈥檛 retreat from her but I鈥檇 become feverish and furtive, watchful, too afraid of losing her, terrified of her pain. I鈥檇 hold her hand, caress her hair, kiss her cheek, and stare, but I couldn鈥檛 pull her to me. 

鈥榃hat鈥檚 going on?鈥� she鈥檇 said desperately one evening. 鈥榃hy are you shutting me out?鈥�

鈥業鈥檓 not, Isolde, I just want to look after you,鈥� I said, drinking more, thinking too much, 鈥業 just want you to be happy,鈥� then, when she slept, I鈥檇 whispered, over and over in insomniac mania, and she鈥檇 woken and heard me. 

And, that was when the rains began. Marcus was back in town and we were all supposed to go out but my fever came back and so they went out without me. I have no idea what he told her that night, maybe he told her I wasn鈥檛 the settling kind, that what we鈥檇 had had obviously run dry. Maybe he鈥檇 simply told her he loved her and those dark brown eyes of his were enough. Maybe he鈥檇 believed what he鈥檇 told her. But the next morning, her clothes, her toothbrush, were all gone. And then, unsurprisingly, deriding my failure to mimic art, Isolde fell hook line and sinker for Marcus. 

I accepted a job offer in Los Angeles. It was a big shift for me and I said I needed a rest. But it was retaliation. If there was one thing that was certain, it was that he鈥檇 hurt her. 

I think, after I left, Isolde and Marcus made their way to South Sudan, maybe Somalia. I saw Marcus once in the intervening years but we鈥檇 drifted apart. I wondered whether he鈥檇 stayed with Isolde to justify the fact that he鈥檇 lost our friendship over her. 

But, now, I am pretending to listen to some stunning barista in Brussels, watching Isolde across the caf茅, knowing that she鈥檇 chosen Marcus over me, and that I鈥檇 let her. She鈥檚 on the last page now, finished reading, but hasn鈥檛 looked up. 

Isolde has her hands in her lap, the pages of the manuscript neatly piled in front of her. 

鈥楽o what do you make of me being in the story?鈥� she asks. 

Lilyana had never met Isolde. 

鈥楧unno. Our names?鈥� I said flippantly, 鈥榃hat do you make of it?鈥�

鈥業 think you鈥檙e in love with me,鈥� she says. 

I roll my eyes thinking she鈥檚 joking. She looks down. 

鈥楾his is brilliant,鈥� she continues too cheerily, embarrassed, 鈥樷�楬ow can a woman compete with an Isolde when she finds herself a bona fide Tristan?鈥欌�� Isolde reads the first line of the story, her brown skin on her delicate, white teeth and bones. 

鈥業鈥檓 sorry. And, I鈥檓 sorry that I love this story even though it makes you look terrible. Are you going to be okay?鈥� She takes my hand in hers, brings it to her mouth, kisses it, and rests my palm on her cheek. 

Then a familiar ring. She takes her hand back

鈥極h wait,鈥� she says, 鈥業t鈥檚 Marcus on Skype,鈥� and I lose her again. 

And there he is, Isolde鈥檚 boyfriend, irresistibly distant. 

鈥楳arcus!鈥� Isolde鈥檚 voice booms. 

鈥業solde, I鈥檝e not got long,鈥� Marcus barks.  

The picture is jolty; Marcus sits next to a girl in a tank top; she鈥檚 smoking. No bra. She鈥檚 young, even young by Marcus鈥� standards. Not classy, but quite beautiful. She has her hand on Marcus鈥檚 forearm; he shakes her off.  

鈥楲ook, Isolde, tell me you鈥檒l do this for me?鈥� 

The girl doesn鈥檛 look too desperate to get out of there. Neither of them do. 

鈥楩irst, I need you to be honest with me, Marcus. I need to know what鈥檚 going on. You鈥檝e been avoiding me for weeks and now you鈥檙e all cosy with some teenager? Why are you asking me to do this? You have dozens of people you could have called. Do you want to hurt me?鈥� Isolde鈥檚 voice is thin but calm. 

Marcus starts to deny the girl. 

鈥楯ust tell me, what do you want? You want me to get jealous and break it off for you?鈥�

鈥楻eally? Now, like this?鈥� Hatred in his eyes. 

鈥楯ust tell me,鈥� Isolde鈥檚 voice is quiet. 

鈥楲ook, we鈥檙e in danger over here, right, so if you gonna help us, like just do like he said,鈥� says the girl with the Brummy accent and hand gestures from the 鈥檋ood. 

鈥楾his isn鈥檛 about you,鈥� Isolde snaps, 鈥榮o shut the fuck up.鈥�

The girl seethes, Marcus holds her back. 

鈥業solde, look, you鈥檙e right,鈥� his voice is sulky, 鈥業鈥檓 no good at distance. I fucking hate Skype. And you鈥檙e not here anymore. This is my life, Isolde. It鈥檚 all I know, all I鈥檝e got 鈥� and you left it.鈥� Marcus actually sounds sincere. 

Maybe he loved her.  

鈥業 know that this is all wrong, and it鈥檚 wrong to ask you. Can we do this later?鈥� It鈥檚 not a question. 鈥業solde, if I could help myself, I wouldn鈥檛 have鈥︹�� 

Marcus loves Isolde. He鈥檚 a middle-aged man fucking some brat child and he loves Isolde. He鈥檚 giving up on Isolde because he can鈥檛 help being a dick. 

鈥楤ut I also know that you鈥檙e the only person I trust to do this, safely. And to do the story justice as a journalist. I need you. Please, Isolde. Do this for me. Call it a parting gift.鈥�

鈥楳arcus,鈥� Isolde鈥檚 voice is tender, she smiles, and I know she loves him, 鈥榶ou stupid fucking idiot!鈥�

鈥業 just need you to say you鈥檒l do it. Will you do it?鈥�

Isolde nods.

鈥業鈥檒l call you from a burner cell in a few hours,鈥� and he hangs up. Tears run down her cheek. 

鈥業鈥檓 okay, I鈥檓 fine, really! I know what he鈥檚 like鈥� it鈥檚 just, that was 鈥︹��

It was humiliating. I put my arm around her. I kiss her hair. She鈥檚 putting her arms around me. Her tears turn to sobs. 

She looks up at me and says, 鈥榊ou know what happened, between you and me鈥�?鈥� Her eyes implore but I don鈥檛 know; she left me, she never explained. 

鈥業t wasn鈥檛 just me then? You didn鈥檛 have sex with Lilyana either. So it wasn鈥檛 just me?鈥� she says. She鈥檚 begging me. 

鈥楲ilyana? What鈥檚 she got to do with鈥�?鈥� 

鈥楾ristan, I know you felt it too. In Ouagadougou. It was amazing between us, we were amazing. It was like we were meant to be together forever and I just didn鈥檛 get it. Why did you stop?鈥�

鈥業 didn鈥檛!鈥� 

鈥楤ut why did you step back, why did you tell Marcus he could have me? What happened?鈥�

She thought we were amazing? She thought I鈥檇 pimped her out to that creep? 

鈥業 don鈥檛 know,鈥� I say truthfully, confused, 鈥榶ou left.鈥�

鈥業 let Marcus seduce me that night because you wanted me to, and I thought it would jolt you into wanting me,鈥� she said, her hands on me. 

What was she saying? Why would I want her to go to him?

鈥榃hat are you talking about?鈥� I鈥檓 agitated.

鈥業 just knew that you loved me, even though we鈥檇 just met, I knew it; what I couldn鈥檛 figure out was how to make you want me again.鈥� She was whispering, pulling me towards her. 

鈥榃hat? No, it wasn鈥檛 like that, you left me; you fell in love with him鈥︹�� 

鈥業 didn鈥檛, I never, don鈥檛 you know, I loved you,鈥� she says, her lips open.

鈥業 don鈥檛 know what...鈥�

鈥楤ut I know,鈥� she regains her poise, looks at me straight. 

This is my cue, to pull her towards me. Isolde鈥檚 eyes welling up, I can see her, she sees me.  

I squeeze Isolde鈥檚 hand, feel the venom coursing through our veins, and nod to Matilde who makes us more drinks.