marriage

1968. At 17 I express grave doubts about marriage while in deep and meaningful adolescent conversation with my mate Will. Strange, because I haven’t so much as kissed a girl, don’t have a girlfriend, and have no amorous prospects whatsoever.

My problem at 17 is the vow to love someone and stick by them through thick and thin. People change, I reason, and it’s unreasonable to promise to love someone forever who might turn into a different person five or ten years hence. Such prescience.

1980. I stand with the pregnant-again mother of my son in the vegetable garden at the now Doctor Will’s place at Eldorado. A celebrant marries me to Marilyn in the presence of a couple of friends and we retire to the lounge room to watch Doctor Who. We’ve been together two and half years. Our marriage lasts six months less.

Marriage is against my principles and to this day I’m pissed off that I succumb to Marilyn’s request.

2002. Ruth, a former lover, rings out of the blue. Would I consider marrying, she asks. Not her, but a friend who can only stay in the country by marrying an Australian citizen. My bank account demands that I consider the proposition. I have my price, though I’m not sure how much it is when the meeting is arranged.

Ruth and Anna arrive on my doorstep. Anna’s of Russian Jewish heritage, here to conduct workshops in someone’s self-development ‘method’. Her hand in mine when I shake it feels silkily perfect. She is about my age and strikingly, unusually, darkly beautiful.

Ruth sits quietly while Anna and I discuss the possible ‘transaction’ over a cup of tea. I ask direct questions about money ($10k), who sleeps where and for how long, how much cupboard space she’ll need. Despite the utterly pragmatic nature of the discourse, genuine warmth grows between us. I will consider the ‘offer’.

Ruth rings next day and tells me the conversation she witnessed astounded her in its raw honesty.

Over a few days I discreetly ask around about arranged marriages for the purpose of migration. I’m amazed how common it is, how many people are asked, and ascertain that the going rate for risking one’s neck—it is illegal, after all—is about $27k.

A few days later I ring Ruth, the intermediary, and reject the offer: the recompense versus risk is insufficient. The price is not right. I’m relieved: marriage is against my principles.   

Rock on.