tattoooed tales for travellers

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TATTOOED TALESFOR

TRAVELLERS

written by Gordon Waters

illustrated by Graham Byrne

© Gordon Waters and Graham Byrne 2010

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Plant Food For Thought ...................................................3Homicide ..........................................................................7Hooked .............................................................................8Weight And See .............................................................17Linen ..............................................................................20Sunshower ......................................................................21Picture This .....................................................................23In My League .................................................................35The Sweetest Thing .........................................................39Phone Plans ...................................................................42In All This Excitement ...................................................45A Numbers Game ..........................................................47The Saviour .....................................................................48Pelican’t...........................................................................55Winning The Lottery .....................................................57The Birthday Party .........................................................63The Wisdom Of The Aged .............................................77

CONTENTS

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PLANT FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Gerry: (Looking through a railing to the adjacent balcony) They said it was going to rain today.

Lex: Yeah?

Gerry: They could be wrong of course. They’re often wrong.

Lex: You think so…I thought they were correct most of the time, you know with all that new technology, the southern oscillation index shit and all. Usually I just wait and see. Much better option.

Gerry: Not me. I’m a worrier, and my owner goes away so often she forgets to water me for days, weeks sometimes. She went to Hong Kong for a month and she waited until the night before she left to organize a girlfriend to come look after me. The girl was supposed to come twice a week; I only saw her once the entire time.

Lex: ‘Struth you must have been dry.

Gerry: I was, I was. Dry as a desert.

Lex: I’m lucky, I don’t need much water.

Gerry: Really?

Lex: Yeah mate, we succulents, or suckitups as a friend of mine says, store the stuff inside then use it as we need. So, if there’s no rain, or no one comes to water us for weeks we just say, “hey, here’s my reserve, guess I’ll have a drink.”

Gerry: That is fabulous. You’ve got no problems at all then…

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Lex: (Snappy) ‘Course I got bloody problems. Look at me. I’m a fucking pin cushion for God’s sake. The echidna of the plant world. No one ever touches me, and if they do decide to have a go they scream their tits off and I’m to blame. Grandkids of my owner tried it just last week. Five he was. Reached out and touched me and BANG! little bastard couldn’t stop crying. My owner was making noises about getting rid of me because I was too dangerous to have around…

Gerry: Geez, I never thought of it that way. That’s tough.

Lex: Yeah mate, you gotta be tough in this world.

Gerry: I wish I was tougher. I’m just a decorative plant that pro-vides colour. (pause) So, you never get thirsty?

Lex: All the time.

Gerry: But you just told me-

Len: Just because you can go a while without a drink doesn’t mean you don’t need a drink. In fact I’ve got a drinking problem

Gerry: I’m sorry to hear that. I had a nephew with a drinking problem.

Lex: What happened to him?

Gerry: It was tragic. He browned off, lost his flowers, then his leaves. Stalk of his former self. His owner thought it was a nutri-tion problem and gave him some plant food but that only made it worse. Luckily there was an intervention by his mates and he’s in recovery.

Lex: Mate, I’m tellin’ ya it’s hard.

Gerry: Yeah, his owner took him inside and put him near the sink in the kitchen. He’s gradually coming back. His mother called me the other day and said he’s just showing signs of life- a few new buds and such. She says he works the first step every day.

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Lex: First step?

Gerry: Admitted we were powerless over our owners, the weather, and photosynthesis.

Lex: It’s a terrible thing. I’m an obsessive compulsive rebutia per-plexa. I never got into the program. Couldn’t hack the God thing, and I kept busting anyway so I didn’t see the point.

Gerry: I’ve got the opposite problem. She’ll come home after being out all night at a party, and after not having watered me for days, she’ll drench me with a litre so that it’s running all over the place. I’m so nervous that every time she walks into the room I start to seize up, lose petals. I can’t soak the water up properly anymore. Saturation anxiety; that’s what I’ve got.

Lex: Hell. It’s all hell. Life is just one big thorn in your side.

Gerry: Too right mate. (pause) But occasionally there’s some nice moments don’t you think?

Lex: When?

Gerry: I don’t know. When someone notices you because you’re looking beautiful and they say, “gee, your geranium is looking lovely this year.”

Lex: Naw. It’s all fruitless as far as I’m concerned. That’s why I drink when I can. I figure that life’s too short to stay sober.

Gerry: I saw you flower last spring. You looked great from what I could see. Wasn’t that a good experience?

Lex: Come on! A tough, prickly guy like me with lilac flowers all over his body. Ridiculous!

Gerry: Not necessarily, I heard somewhere that only real men wear lilac.

Lex: Bullshit. Who told you that? A poofter?

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Thundercanbeheardinthedistance

Gerry: Oh well, here comes the rain. Looks like they were right after all. Better a natural wet than a dousing from Rainwoman.

Len: Yeah, maybe a downpour will make me forget.

Gerry: Talk to you tomorrow Lex.

Lex: Not if I talk to you first. (Guffaw)

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HOMICIDE

The murder of crows

Flying from those naked, black branches

Like black apstrophes

Engage the silence of late afternoon.

Inside my great aunt’s house,

The nurses who stave off her impending death

Cringe when they hear the word murder.

But for me, the birds are a continual reminder

Of my earthly,

Flightless footstep.

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HOOKED

Life is mostly being willing to accept the stuff you weren’t plan-ning on happening. Still, at one point I thought I would have given anything to turn the clock back, to get back what I lost. If I had been given the opportunity there would have been a price. There always is. Maybe things would have turned out better, maybe worse. I might not have had those days sitting by the sea watching the waves, counting the container ships, smelling the salt air. More importantly I might not have met Max.

I did though, one day on the rocks near the blow hole. He could barely walk for all the crap he had: he carried two rods in one hand, a tackle box and a bucket of bait in the other. He was gangly any-way; tall, with long arms and a narrow face. In his rubber boots he cut an even more irregular figure. He did not say hello to me right away. He walked to edge of the rocks, set his bucket and tackle box down, and commenced to fish. I was the only one there the first day- the blow hole was not a popular spot for the locals. I watched him intently; I don’t know why because he did not do anything out of the ordinary. Roughly an hour or so after he got there he packed up, but before he left he raised his eyes towards me and said hello.

The most information I could find out about Max was that his mother had died when he was young and he lived behind the caravan park with his father. His old man was known a bit around town. He’d gotten into a fight or two at the pub, and he could be seen at the RSL club drinking most days. He wore his vet status on his sleeve like he was better than everyone else. Because his

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father did not work Max had dropped out of school and gotten a job at the post office so that the two of them could survive. Max took up fishing to get away from his father whenever he could. Curly McIntosh at Curly’s bait shop said Max was one of his best customers. He also said that Max caught as many fish as anyone else in Twofold Bay.

I went to the blow hole quite a bit just to sit and look out at the sea, watch the gulls swoop by, and, if there were any, time the freighters from one end of the horizon to the other. I came to feel after a while that the spot was mine. So, when Max showed up the second time I had mixed emotions. There was a part of me that was anxious to talk to him, to establish a relationship; there was another part that felt invaded. But there was not a single thing invasive about Max. He cast, I watched the horizon, and we talked.

“Yeh, my father’s hopeless. He used to hit me but I decked him a while back so he gives me a wide berth now. What about your parents?”

“They’re good. My mum works at the old folk’s home and my dad lives in Melbourne.”

“Right.”

Sometimes that would be the extent of the conversation for the day. And sometimes not.

“I reckon you’re one of the prettiest girls around,” he said to me one day as he cast a line way out into the swell.

“How do you define pretty?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Go on…”

He kept casting for a while and I think he was relieved when he

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got a strike. With methodical skill he reeled in a healthy sized silvery white fish with a green and bronze back. He did not show pride-he wasn’t out to impress me. He just took the hook out of its mouth then dropped it into the bucket.

“A pretty girl is one who doesn’t know she is, but who carries herself with dignity so when you do notice her hair and her face and her neck it’s not separate from who she is, it’s just another part of her.”

I don’t remember if I blushed. He’d caught me off guard and I did not know quite what to do so I sat there silently for a while. It seemed odd that such a quirky person who spent most his time fishing could say something so clever. When I got home I looked in the mirror and wondered if what Max had said was true. How do you know if you carry yourself with dignity? All I did each day was wake up, go to school, occasionally go out with my friends, and go to the blowhole. Was just being in the world dignified? I looked at my face and it was oval with blue eyes and brown, shoulder length hair. My neck was long, kind of thin, olive coloured. My body: trim, round in the normal areas. Nothing exotic. Maybe Max was making it up?

But each day we spent together I became more convinced he was not. Not of the fact that I was pretty, but that Max was clever and his odd looks and silent demeanor were hiding something special.

“Do you really think killing animals is cruel?” he asked me one day after I’d finally expressed my opinion about fishing.

“Absolutely.”

“Then how come you come down here and watch me catch these fish?”

“I love fishing. It’s a great spectator sport”

“Kate, you crack me up.”

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I did not have the courage to tell him the whole truth.

“I like it here.”

We started seeing each other away from the blowhole. It was wonderful, not because we had great sex or anything: we were both pretty inexperienced, especially Max. He was good with a fishing rod, but he had a lot to learn about handling his own. We just liked being in the presence of one another; he made me feel good, and I made him feel good. Being together at the blowhole while Max fished made us both feel good.

The rocks jutted out perfectly into the inlet so as to provide a view down the coast south. There was any number of spots to sit-plat-forms or small boulders-although we always seemed to pick the same position. If it was cool or the wind was blowing the headland would shelter us. If it was hot, we could change our position and move closer to the hole and let the spray that came up through the opening cool us down. The noise of the blowhole was always there like a heartbeat or drum, so much so that eventually we both came to realize that talking was useless. There was nothing we had to say that the rhythm of the sea could not say for us.

That day I was in my usual spot about to go when I saw Max climbing over the rocks. We had not seen or spoken to one another for a couple of days. That morning I’d looked in the mirror and not felt particularly dignified. Sitting by the sea had reassured me, as if the motion of the waves had removed the need for me to be any being of particular significance. The weather was odd; the clouds were low, almost brushed onto the sky; there was a swell that signaled an approaching storm. The one freighter visible the hour or so I had been sitting on the rocks had made no progress whatsoever.

Max said hello but he did not come and kiss me or hold me, he went straight out to the edge of the rocks, set his bucket and tackle

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box down and began to fish. I rarely if ever went out to be with Max when he was casting or catching or gutting the fish. What I had told him when we first met was the truth: I thought the whole thing was disgusting. The one time I had gone down to be with him, to attempt to overcome my aversion, Max had not offered me a rod or shown me how to cast or made any effort to include me at all. At first I was upset. Then I understood: the act of fishing was his ritual, one not even I could infiltrate.

But right then I needed him. I was not getting any satisfaction from the sound of the blowhole or the colour of the sea, or the play of the light on the cliffs of the headland. I thought being a bit closer would help fill my emptiness. Certainly he would turn and smile at me; maybe if the fish were not biting he would pack up and we could walk back up the beach arm and arm? Make love even?

I had read the stories so many times and every time I had I swal-lowed hard and immediately thought of something else; something mundane like the washing up, or the last book I had read. A freak wave comes out of nowhere and drags some fisherman off the rocks and into the ocean. Usually it happened during rough seas when the fishermen should not have been out there in the first place. So, when it happened to us it was an aberration. I don’t think either one of us saw it coming. If Max did, he never had a chance to tell me so. I didn’t see a thing because I was too busy watching my step on the slippery rocks as I moved towards Max. The wave was one of those freak occurrences that in an instant carries away everything-expectations, hopes, desires -and leaves you with noth-ing.

I had learned to swim when I was young. Living near the ocean most everyone knew how to swim before they could walk. What I never knew, and I had never even thought to ask, was whether Max could do the same. When the force of the water knocked us over it

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was as if someone had pushed me down and all I had to do was get up. I was being dragged down the rocks as the water receded but I still thought I would be able to swim my way out of trouble. I had learned not to panic in the water.

Because he was in front of me Max was taken out by the swell first. He kept firm hold of his fishing rod right till the very last minute when he managed, God knows how, to scramble up the rocks to safety. He’d been slammed against a protruding rock when he’d first been taken under and received a cut to his lower back but was otherwise alright.

Just when I thought things might be ok it all went pear shaped. No amount of swimming prowess was going to save me from the bad luck of hitting my head and being knocked unconscious. I remember the last second before my lungs filled with water I saw a fish swim by and I thought to myself how lucky he was not to have ended up on the hook at the end of Max’s rod.

I didn’t float around for long, although that might not have been so bad. Max, desperate, soaked, traumatized, was standing on the rocks with a look on his face of finality. He yelled my name and it had the tone of humpbacks when they are talking to one another. Not moments after the initial swell had swept us off the rocks- true tragedy is over in an instant- he spotted me floating twenty metres out. Max’s rod had, amazingly, remained intact. Without a second thought he cast the line out, fastened his line onto me for dear life, and dragged me in.

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Big Fat Naked Man, in the land of Willy Wag, Blue Wren, Kooka-burra, Red Belly Black. Big Fat Man bushwalking without any clothes. Dangling gonads and penis bouncing from thigh to thigh like a sausage on a trampoline. Heat! So hot: 40 degrees, maybe hotter. Big Fat Naked Man should not be outside but instead inside lying on his Long Soft Couch.

Two swimmers: Tall Man in trunks, Short Woman in swimmers. Tall Man and Short Woman have enough sense to be in the water; they are cooled by the water of the billabong in which they swim, each droplet on their bodies providing an oasis of relief. They are surprised by Big Fat Man’s nude, white, big, fat body bouncing through the bush.

Big Fat Naked man stops for a quick chat.

“Good day for a walk, “he says.

“Warm,” Short Woman says smiling.

“ Quite. I walk this track every day. It’s about ten kilometers start to finish”

“What about sunburn or snakes?” says Tall Man thinking about, without meaning to, his dangling appendage.

“Sunscreen and movement does the trick. I’m pretty quick for a Big Fat Naked Man.”

“Care for a dip?” says Short Woman worrying that if the Big Fat

WEIGHT and SEE

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Naked Man accepts whether his size will cause the water to flow over the sides of the small swimming hole.

“Thank you but no. I better keep going before it gets too hot.”

“Who is he kidding?” thinks the Tall Man.

“I’ll never forget this as long as I live,” says the Short Woman under her breath .

“Oooooo-oooooo-aaaaaaaaaaaa,” laughs Kookaburra who, in all his years has never seen anything funnier.

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Sheets of rain, billowy sheets of rain, slate grey sheets

Blanket the horizon, fold the slim grey cloud.

Sheets of rain cover the mattress of

The unmade sea, reverie of men, creature’s quarter.

Sheets of rain, couched, desultory, make misty the headland,

Descend as a sheer textile of precipitation.

LINEN

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Rain drops as wide as light

Scatter across a suggestive landscape

Except where they fall

Upon an umbrella of trees

There flows instead the

Spectral shadow of a dripping sun

SUNSHOWER

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PICTURE THIS

While it was all going on no one knew. Jason kept up the façade beautifully: I was his best friend and I never suspected anything. It just goes to show how you can spend time with someone and think they are one person, then find out they are someone completely different.

We saw one another at least once a week, sometimes twice. We never talked about much of any consequence: he always went on about sports and the market. Baseball and money.

When Jason’s behaviour changed around the time his new boss ar-rived, I still didn’t catch on. Jason was really taken with him, a Rus-sian guy, Sasha someone. Jason couldn’t stop saying how impressive this guy was, how he had come from a big firm in Europe, how he had real balls and how all the other guys seemed to dislike him. Jason thought it was because Sasha was so good at his job that he intimidated the rest of the brokers.

The thing that really caught my ear was when Jason started talking about Sasha’s art collection. I mean art for god’s sake! The only art I’d ever heard Jason talk about was his son Jake’s drawings from school. He told me Sasha had taken him to his house one night, this big place on Central Park South with great views. Inside was this amazing art collection by all these famous artists. Jason reeled off a bunch of names: Cezanne, Renoir, Degas. I’d never met any those guys; it was all gibberish to me.

Shortly after his first encounter with Sasha, Jason met me at our

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favourite drinking spot, The Slaughtered Lamb down in the Vil-lage. I was surprised when he said, “do you mind if we go sit in the lounge?” Normally we sat facing the television screen at the bar so he could see the ballgame, but he wanted to be away from the noise and distractions. “Doesn’t bother me man,” I replied, “what-ever turns you on.” At first he just talked about painting in general: how he’d been to the Met for the first time and how much he was learning from the pictures.

“You should come with me someday John.”

“I don’t know Jason, I don’t really get art.”

“That’s the way I was too, until I met Sasha. All you need is some-one to show you. It’s like this whole other world”

“How are Claire and Jake?” I asked.

“Fine. They’re good.”

Each successive meeting was in the Werewolf Lounge. The second time Jason came along with a glossy book full of all these paint-ings. He said it was an auction catalogue from Christies. Sasha had asked him to go; the auction was in two weeks.

“Wow, an auction,” I said.

“Yeah. It should be exciting. Sasha goes all the time. I just hope I get all my work done. ”

“Snowed under?”

“There’s a big account I’m managing and they’re giving me hell. How’s work with you?”

I started to tell him, but he wasn’t listening, he was looking at the catalogue, flipping through the pages some of which had been marked with small scraps of paper for easy reference.

“Look at this! Look at this picture, isn’t it amazing?”

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The painting looked pretty fucked up to me. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, although it seemed to be a picture of a person with a disfigured face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A woman, John. Look harder!” he said.

I did, but my eyes were still imprisoned by aesthetic ignorance.

“Sorry, no go.”

“It’s a portrait by Pablo Picasso. There’s her head, and her neck and torso. That thing there is her hat.”

“I see now,” I said totally unimpressed. Then I noticed the text on the facing page and below the artist’s name and the details about the picture was written, “estimate 4.000.000-6.000.000”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the reserve and the expected price.”

“Get out.”

“It is.”

“You’re telling me that someone is going to pay between four to six mil for a painting?”

“They certainly are, “said Jason, leaning back with his hands behind his head, a smile across his face the Cheshire Cat would have been proud of.

The next week I found him at The Lamb in our usual spot. He had a grin on his face; it seemed to me to be a mix of contentment and madness. He greeted me warmly, bought us a round of drinks.

“Claire’s gone with Jake to her mother’s for a few weeks,” Jason said.

I thought it odd way to start the conversation.

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“Everything alright?”

“Great. Really good. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, I spoke to her on the phone last week and she had the, I’m not happy with him and you’re one of his friends, so get lost tone.”

“Must have been your imagination. All good at the homestead.”

It was odd: I got the feeling he was more trying to convince himself that things were ok between he and Claire than he was me.

“Work?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I think I’m going to move on.”

“Oh, “I said quizzically,” I thought you liked the place, and that Rus-sian boss of yours, what’s his name?”

“Sasha.”

“Yeah, him.”

“He’s been giving me a hard time lately. I think I misjudged him. It’s funny how people are rarely what they seem.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I guess at least he turned you onto art,” I said.

His eyes lit up and a sudden glow emanated from him.

“Have I told you we’re selling our apartment?”

“No. When did you decide to do that?”

“Oh, just before Claire left for her mother’s.”

“I thought she loved that place?”

“Ah you know, things change.”

“When are you going to start looking?”

“Already started.”

He glanced at his watch but as if he did not read the time.

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“Oh! John I better go. It’s been great to see you. Next week then?”

“I’ll be here, the Werewolf lounge is my second home,” I said.

Then we shook hands and he walked away.

A couple of weeks later he called me and asked me to come over to the apartment. He said it was really important, that he wanted to show me something. I tried to get out of it; I was in a foul mood and he always seemed so happy, so content. Maybe the real reason I did not want to go was because I was, like most people, trapped in a haze of mediocrity, always trying to find a way to connect with some inner passion but never quite able to. Jason had, and I was jealous.

The place was pretty much empty when I arrived: all that remained was his bed, the kitchen table, a hallway mirror, and some clothes strewn on the floor.

“Packed everything away I see,” I said as I entered.

“No I sold most of it.”

“You sold it? Why?”

“Ah, most of it I never liked anyway and we’re planning on down-sizing.”

“Any idea where you guys are going to go?”

“Come over here, I want to show you something amazing.”

I wanted to ask about his wife, when she was coming back, was she happy about the move, how was she doing? But there was some-thing in Jason’s manner that seemed to separate him from everyone and everything around him. It was like an aura or a halo that you see in one of those fantasy movies. So I said nothing and followed him into the living room.

“Look at that would you. Isn’t that beautiful?”

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There upon the wall was the painting he had showed me in the bar, the one from the catalogue. It was roughly 18 inches square, and seeing it in person enabled me to more clearly delineate the so called woman, or what looked more or less like a woman with the mound of lines on her head like pixie sticks thrown from a ten story building. Had I not seen the painting in the auction cata-logue I would have had no clue as to what I was looking at.

“It’s nice.”

“Come on John. Is that the best you can do? It’s a Picasso for God’s sake.”

“It’s really interesting Jason. I like the colours. Does she have two noses?”

“You’re a Neanderthal John. Of course she has two noses. It’s a cubist painting from 1922. That’s what Picasso did then, you know, broke down the picture plane.”

“Looks more like he broke her nose.”

At one point Jason had a sense of humor, but when you talked to him about the art thing it lay buried, so he scowled and gave up on me. I realized afterwards as I was walking home that I had been insensitive. His enthusiasm about the picture was palpable and the least I could have done was show interest and ask questions and be a proper friend. I did ask one question before I left.

“How much did you pay for that?”

His eyes moved around the room: I could tell he was weighing up whether he wanted to tell me or not, whether it was a risk, or it did not matter.

“5.6”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No lie.”

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I could not ask how he was going to pay for it. I really did not want to know, or maybe I did but I knew I would not get a straight an-swer. The first person to get a straight answer was his wife. It wasn’t in any direct way though, it was one of those straight answers that become inevitable after all the curves have been pushed so hard by reality they have nowhere else to bend.

She returned from her mothers with Jake. Jason picked them up at the airport as if nothing was wrong-he was happy to see them, asked them how their trip was, said it was good they’d had a break. As soon as Claire entered the terminal and saw Jason she tensed up like a cat on a fence.

Jason put them in the car and took them back to the apartment. Hard to imagine the scenario really. Nothing in the place but a few boxes, the kitchen table, some cutlery in the drawers, and one bed in each bedroom. The painting wasn’t there; he’d taken it to the office.

They walked in and Jake started to run around because he thought the space was great. “Yahoo!” he cried. Claire flipped. “What the hell have you done?” Shit like that. When Jason told her he’d sold the apartment she went totally bonkers. Jake’s crying by then ‘cause he knows something is seriously wrong. Claire, a strong woman for her size, hauled off and hit Jason in the face and broke his nose. There was blood everywhere, Jason was laid out on the floor while Jake was screaming and Claire was standing there not knowing quite what to do. How could she? Your husband has sold your apartment out from under your nose, and you’ve just broken his.

Jason tried to get up and explain how things were going to be alright.

“I’ve got it all worked out Claire,” he said. Claire told Jason to stay where he was or she’d break something else. Finally she had to get out, for her sake and for Jake’s. On her way out she slammed the

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door and Jason could feel the rush of air across his blood covered face. He put his hands firmly to the bridge of his nose but no mat-ter how hard he tried, for the next twenty minutes he could not stop the flow of blood.

My questions were plentiful, the most pivotal being how had Ja-son, a complete novice in the world of art, managed to purchase an expensive painting and divest himself of his entire life in the span of a few short weeks?

“John, it was great,” he said, the most excitement I’ve ever had. With my pants on of course.”

He and Sasha had spent most of their free time together going to galleries and museums. Sasha’s reputation as a collector had preceded him, so all the dealers bent over backwards to show him their best work. It was a unique indoctrination into the workings of the art world. Jason neglected his work to the extent that even Sa-sha had to reprimand him. He spent little time at home, and when he did, he fought with Claire and felt so guilty about not seeing Jake that he overcompensated with excessive affection. Amidst all this however, a new man emerged, a man who was answerable to no one.

When Jason went to the auction at Christies with Sasha it was like nothing he had ever experienced. Most of the people were way outside Jason’s social circle; he could smell money everywhere except on himself. Jason was of reasonable stock and made a decent living, but this was another thing altogether. Sasha was there for a particular painting, one he was outbid for by one of the members of the board of Jason’s firm. He was ungracious in defeat, storming out of the auction house to the surprise of the gathered crowd. It was an important moment not for Sasha, but for Jason.

As Sasha’s guest, Jason felt he had to stay in the background. He was Sasha’s subordinate in the workplace, and even more so with

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regards to art. It was if Jason was a tea kettle forced to boil with the lid on. With the unexpected departure of Sasha, the hiss from the release of steam was almost audible. Jason could get what he had previously only fantasized about.

The Picasso was placed upon the rostrum. The bidding was brisk-it was a picture eagerly anticipated. A novice by any standards, Jason went out early, and then realized he before he started bidding again it would be better to hold back until the field narrowed. Near the end it was a phone bidder and Jason, mano a mano. He was not go-ing to lose, and he assured me he would have paid whatever it took to get the painting; he was that committed.

Not until the auctioneer brought the gavel down did the mag-nitude of his actions dawn on him. If it was elation he felt he disguised it well. He did smile, his perfect white teeth a fitting visual for the robust applause at the nearly five million dollars he’d committed to the purchase. No one would have thought it odd that he would need to go to the men’s room after such a tense bidding process. What they might have been surprised at was how quickly he rushed through the doors to vomit violently into the cistern.

After he moved out Jason put the painting in this box he had made. It looked like a briefcase but it was sturdier. He carried it around everywhere; instead of carrying a briefcase full of papers, he carried the Picasso. He stayed in a hotel for a while: it was one of those seedy places way downtown where the beds sag and there are velvet Elvis’ on the wall. Every night when he got back he took the picture out and hung it on the wall facing his bed. He had almost nothing in the room but the painting. He’d sold most of his stocks and all of his belongings of any value and put any furniture that his wife hadn’t taken back into storage.

I thought he would be lonely-a single guy whose given up every-thing, isn’t seeing his kid, and is eating take away food in a hotel room paints a solitary picture. I wanted to know, so I dropped in on

35

him one evening on the way somewhere else. He opened the door. He was naked, so he put a towel around himself and welcomed me in. We chatted; he seemed content. Where before there was ecstasy now there was something else: he was in a state of elated grace.

“Jason are you sure you’re alright?”

“Never been better. Really.”

“I thought I’d stop by and say hello. I figured you would be lonely down here after all you’ve been through.”

“It’s all good man. I have that,” and he pointed to the Picasso hanging on the grimy wall.

I felt inadequate; he was making me nervous.

“How about a drink at The Lamb?” I asked.

“No, thanks. I’m going to stay in tonight. I really appreciate you coming by though. I’ll give you a call and we’ll do it some other time.”

He was urging me to go without saying it, so I acquiesced.

He knew in short order everything would come tumbling down: he had embezzled millions of dollars from the firm. Of course it was to help pay for the painting. Somehow it didn’t matter too much to him though. He said he would do it all over again, that the six months he’d had the picture were the best, and the simplest, of his life.

“Selling the apartment covered about 4 million. I had to get the rest somewhere. Sasha showed me how to do it. Didn’t take much effort; their accounting practices are beyond negligent.”

I still needed a more substantial answer as to what motivated him.

“Why’d you do it man?” I asked.

We were both drinking beer. He sipped his like he was on a beach

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enjoying a holiday, not about to be taken arrested and potentially taken to jail. He leaned back in the crappy hotel chair and looked at the picture. There she was: two noses, an askew eyeball, a bright red mouth. The hat with blue and green stripes leaning precipitous-ly on her head. He smiled that wide smile of his and looked me so deeply in my eyes it felt like they might crack.

“Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

I looked at the painting, then looked back at Jason and nodded.

“Yeah,” I said, “maybe I would have.”

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38

39

IN MY LEAGUE

He has a bald head. He wears a robe. Even though it is called a saf-fron robe it is more the colour of a bleached blood orange than the stringy spice so highly valued by chefs. It is a unique orange due to the improperly died bolt of fabric from which it has come and the hundreds of washings it has suffered.

All he wears underneath his robe is boxer shorts but just before he grabs his keys off the dresser he remembers his iPod, which he puts in his bag. Van Morrison taking the train out, John Coltrane on the way back.

Central Station is crowded with schoolkids. Their uniforms barely contain them for their hormones and shouting. The girls giggle; the boys push, punch, swear at each other. The curious ones stare at him; he is used to it. He returns their gaze and smiles. The train is six minutes late so he sits down. There is graffiti over the seat where the monk sits which says, “Time is what keeps everything from happening all at once.”The monk puts his iPod in his ears and becomes very mindful of the music.

He wonders whether the imam will be grumpy when he gets there. The old man is so unpredictable. One week his face like an open book, the verbs and nouns easy to read, joyful. The next week the sentences gruff, taciturn, full of too many adverbs. It does not matter: either way he is good company. And it is a ritual of his Thursdays with the imam, Al-Kufi, at the mosque that the monk enjoys. There they share tea, talk about philosophy and God. And

40

football. The imam thinks he knows a lot about football but the monk knows more.

When the monk was doing his training in Tibet there was a televi-sion down the road which belonged to one of the local villagers that had cable. There the monk could watch the English Premier League, so on his days off he would sneak down to watch which-ever games were on. He and the villagers would sit crammed in a small room, the television at the far wall like a postage stamp on a billboard. It did not matter. The monk fell in love with the spirit of the game, its poetry and ability to bring men and women together.

The walk from the station to the mosque takes five minutes. The monk stops to get some baklava. He loves baklava: the way the honey soaks through the pastry then covers the inside of his mouth, the texture of the ground pistachio nuts. The imam greets him and they embrace. Some of the other members of the mosque have probed the imam about the monk. “How often does he come?” they ask, “why do you see him if he is not a Muslim?” Of course the monk does not actually enter the mosque; this is not al-lowed. He goes around the back, but the other members are nerv-ous nevertheless. They are not interested in football so they do not understand. The imam placates the mosque members and explains to them that the two men are only friends.

“You have brought sweets again,” says Al-Kufi.

“I cannot resist the baklava. Will you have some?”

The imam rubs his belly. It is a substantial belly upon a substantial man wearing a substantial beard, so it does not look out of place.

“You know I will. Come, let us have some tea. By the way, did you know that Tottenham is in third place?”

“I thought they sat in sixth.”

“No my friend. Allah is watching over them. Last weekend they

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defeated Aston Villa.”

“But certainly Kufi, Allah has nothing to do with the outcome?”

“You Buddhists, you are so naïve.”

The monk is quiet for a while contemplating the imam’s statement. If he did not know him better he would think he was kidding. But he is not.

“There are many Muslims now playing in the EPL. Ghaly and Taraabt play for the Spurs and many more elsewhere. Soon there will be hundreds. How many Buddhists are there?” says the imam.

The monk knows every being is an embodiment of the Buddha, but he wishes at this moment that the entire Tottenham squad become devils and fall to the bottom of the table. The monk has been a Villa supporter from that first broadcast in Tibet.

“I fear we tread on a pitch that shall take us nowhere,” says the monk.

“Nonsense. Allah is great and he shall let us win. If not this year, next. This I know. You should accept the inevitable.”

The monk is unsure of the inevitable but he hopes he will be re-incarnated as a seat on midfield at Wembley. This he has not told the rinpoche. For today however he must go, for his patience with the imam is wearing thin. Al-Kufi’s choice of verbs and nouns is extremely annoying. Even concentrating on the breath is not enough to avoid deep frustration.

During the journey back on the afternoon train the monk wonders why there are no Buddhists playing in the EPL. Perhaps there should be some? It is something he must meditate on.

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43

Dimar leaves Bexley late in the afternoon for the city. He catches the airport shuttle to Kingsford Smith where he will wait patiently for Snezana, who is arriving from Belgrade via Hong Kong. He has not seen Snezana for five years but he remembers her kind eyes and pounding heart, the same heart upon which he placed his hands every day when they met after work. His parents and many of the villagers were appalled that he, a Croat, would even think of going near a Serb. If they knew he was so close to her heart, theirs would have stopped.

The trip to the airport gives him time to think. What will hap-pen? Does Snezana still love him or does she just want to come to Australia because she is tired of a country ravaged by war? Can they make a life together? He admits to himself that he has piles of expectations in his mind stacked like bricks but without any mortar to give them stability. He longs for her, to smell her, to kiss her, to lay her down and take her. Will she regognise him? Not his face or the way he stands or his smell. Will she recognize the inside of him?

He has changed since they last saw one another. The sadness and remorse he felt at leaving his country solidified initially into anger. His eyes for years were dark, furtive, black; not the brown they were when he was born. He had one motto only: take everything you can get because everyone else does. He’d lost his country and the girl he loved and landed in a foreign place with many of his fellow countrymen who felt the same way. Gradually he has

THE SWEETEST THING

44

softened; he has hope in the future and Snezana’s decision to come and see him is another sign that life will get better.

Dimar enters Terminal One and sees waves of organized chaos. There are mothers with children running wild, expectant wives or husbands, lovers, mothers and fathers, businessmen. At the back of the throng, like guardians at the gates of purgatory with the names of the condemned written on white pieces of cardboard, are the limousine drivers.

He waits. Others appear and embrace their loved ones; there are tears; in one instance there is wailing. Dimar looks at his watch then looks at the clock, then looks at his watch again. Maybe the discrepancy in time between the two is where Snezana is? The crowd thins. Dimar feels sick. He has not eaten since lunch the previous day. He ignores the feeling for it is a sign of weakness. In his pocket are some sugar cubes. He wants to place one on Sn-ezana’s tongue when she arrives, then kiss her and steal the melting cube off her tongue.

Dimar waits with his hands in his pockets. He paces back and forth and watches until there is one limo driver left with the name, “ Koto” on his card. Eventually the chauffeur turns and goes. With-out meaning to, almost out of instinct, Dimar takes the lint covered sugar cube and places it in his mouth to assuage the sharpest point of his hunger.

Inside it is late. Outside it is dark. Dimar is sitting slouched in an uncomfortable chair, his eyes barely open. Each woman that goes by looks like Snezana. Wait, it is Snezana! There she is there; she must have gone outside for a cigarette and not seen him waiting.

In the morning Dimar is awakened by the cleaner who bumps his feet with the mop as he cleans the floor for all the passengers who will trickle through the gate bleary eyed and confused.

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46

PHONE PLANS

jude has a text coming in: jude,it’[email protected]’tmakedinner-actually,ican’tmaketherestofourrelationshipeither.sorrytotellyouthisway.itwasfun,really…ciao

jude is non-chuffed. however, she does not cry. instead, she sends a text to her best friend lynne: l,hedumpedme.whatshouldIdo?

lynne is in the shower when the phone buzzes. she is still dripping when she replies: j,not2worry.hewasatosser.uwillfindbetter.cutomm.

jude is more upset now. greg may have been a tosser but he was a good speller, and he kissed her neck a lot. jude is contemplating going to a movie at hoyts, then she thinks about all the adolescents kissing like suckerfish and changes her mind.

she tries lynne again: whatabout2nite?maybapizza?

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lynne gets the message while she is putting on a new pair of stock-ings she bought at david jones. when she realises it’s jude again she says “shit” and proceeds to put a run in her stockings.

lynne replies curtly: sorry.goingout.lol-lynne

now jude is upset. the tears come; clear, salty drops filled with long-ing for a man she can settle down with, have babies, and eventually escort to prince alfred for a prostate procedure. she needs consola-tion, so she sends a text to brad, her gay confidant:brad,whereru?

brad is at his gay a.a. meeting so his phone is off. the last time he left it on, it rang while he was sharing on the twelfth step. this oversight lost brad several points on the spiritual ladder.

lynne is ready; she is off to dinner in leichhardt. she looks like miss wagga wagga, which is fine if you live in wagga wagga. she is excited and anxious, so she sends a quick text to her date: uraspunk-bcnusoon-

jude has decided to go for a walk down norton street. it’s a nice night; maybe she’ll have a drink somewhere.

lynne walks into the bar baba and sees her date groomed and shin-ing like a mallard duck. greg looks at lynne and smiles. lynne sits down and they kiss on the lips; despite savage sexual longing, this is only their second date, so they are tentative.

lynne’s phone rings. it is a text from jude that reads: l,iamatbarbaba.ifurclosemeetme4adrinkok?lolj

she suggests to greg that they leave, and then they see jude. lynne’s pulse climbs three beats. the look on jude’s face is fantastic: it is a cross between a child balling and a kamikaze pilot. jude throws her phone towards the couple and it hits greg in the forehead knocking him out.

she walks away realising that, after 24 months with the same com-pany, she needs a new plan anyway.

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49

Out the window just the other day

My passion

Replaced by equanimity

What a loss!

I can’t take this stability

This smooth pulse

The slow steady breathing

The big mind

It’s like riding a hurricane

One minute and the next second

Falling into a sea

Of infinite calm

IN ALL THIS EXCITEMENT

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51

Remember when

A trillion used to be

A sum

You bet with friends when you were a kid,

So certain of something

That a million or a billion just wasn’t enough?

It’s not like that anymore.

No more child’s play!

Now the figure is seriously real,

Each zero bounding out from

Under mud houses,

Or exploding at crowded markets

Or deployed on desert battlefields,

After being dreamt up in a five sided building,

Signed in an oval office

And counted over and over and over

By thousands of shaken children

Who will never get to wager.

A NUMBERS GAME

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They were way behind schedule. The frame was there but the planks had been slow to arrive so only half of the hull was covered. Heinrich wanted the vessel to be seaworthy and to last so he had decided on carvel planking, only he didn’t count on the timber run-ning out half way through the job.

The completion date had been set for August in order to miss the worst of the weather in the mid Atlantic. Now it looked like they might not be finished till October. Heinrich got anxious and ornery, but Noah stayed calm. He came down every day to the shipyard with his coffee in one hand and Heinrich’s in the other, and he would smile and look up at the boat up on its stanchions and say, “she’s a beauty Heinrich.” Noah’s praise would mollify Heinrich for about as long as it took him to drink his coffee, then Heinrich would get anxious again and go into the office and call the supplier to see about the wood.

Noah was right: the boat was beautiful, with strong lines, and a formidable presence, even with its ribs sticking out like a dinosaur skeleton. Heinrich was not just any boat builder; he’d come from a long line of Norwegian boat builders. Heinrich refused to build with anything other than wood; he prided himself on the fact that he had never even set foot in a fiberglass boat. When Noah decid-ed on the nature and extent of his voyage he knew there was only one man to give him what he needed, and that man was Heinrich.

Heinrich may have been the builder, but the design was all Noah’s. He wanted a bent frame, specific scantlings, and a particular bot-

THE SAVIOUR

53

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tom shape. The top deck was open, the fourteen masts were to made of pine, the passage below decks was wide and easy but not so much so that water would run down into the hull and sink her. Ventilation was a big consideration so Noah had designed small windows below deck that worked on a special heat sensor sys-tem. When it got too hot they opened up to let the cool air in so everyone could breathe properly. Sanitation was a huge issue: Noah designed troughs running like furrows underneath the slatted floors.-all the scat could be washed down and eventually out into the sea.

It drove Heinrich a bit mad all of Noah’s fancy ideas and his opti-mistic attitude. Norwegians are not by nature upbeat; they prefer to toil along and perhaps if the circumstances call for it, smile a little in when a task is complete. When Heinrich first saw the drawings for The Saviour he could not believe his eyes. No one had ever dreamt up, much less attempted to build a wooden boat one kilometer long.

Finally the day came. The planks arrived at the shipyard and were stacked ready to be placed onto the frame of the boat. Noah was so excited when he got the call from Heinrich that he forgot to pick up the coffees. Heinrich and his team worked around the clock-the sounds of hammers and nail guns echoed through the air like gunfire-until six days later the last piece of wood was put into place on the hull. The two men stood at the base of the stern of the boat and leaned over to try to see the bow. Without binoculars it was not possible. The Saviour redefined the word extraordinary.

“She’s a beauty,” said Noah. “when do you think I can load her up?” “Well,” said Heinrich, “assuming I can get some sleep and there are no more problems with materials, she should be ready in a month.”

He was correct to within a day. And the only reason he missed is because Heinrich’s wife, Merete, fell and broke her leg while trying to get their pet goose off the woodshed and had to be taken to the

55

hospital. Noah was so happy walking on the deck, admiring the bright work, pulling the halyards, looking through the portholes below decks. It took him forty-five minutes to walk from the stern to bow and he wore a grin the entire way. Heinrich accompanied him. He was satisfied with his handy work but his face betrayed only fatigue and worry. He would not be satisfied until he knew the vessel was seaworthy.

“Don’t worry Heinrich,” Noah said enthusiastically, “she’ll be fine, she’s a beauty!”

The day the cargo was all loaded on board, the noise was cacopho-nous. You could not hear yourself think. It seemed an impossible job: there was just so much to fit in. But finally, just before dusk, Noah managed to get everyone into their respective spot, all the rations stowed away, and make everything ship shape for departure.

The next morning Heinrich came down to the shipyard to say fare-well. The Saviour had settled about five feet lower in the water due to the weight of her cargo, but she still looked solid. The eighteen tugs were dispersed along the hull ready to tow the boat out to sea. The sun cast a gentle orange glow on the surface of the harbour.

Noah walked up to Heinrich.

“Aren’t you going to come with me?”

“No, I couldn’t convince my wife. She likes her lounge chair and her leg is still mighty sore.”

Noah’s face dropped a bit, but only for a second. He had tried to convey to Heinrich the gravity of the situation but he did not want to belabor the point. Instead he hugged his friend, and climbed up the gangway.

As The Saviour sailed out of the harbor Heinrich felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He did not know if it was because he knew he would never see Noah again or because of something much

56

deeper he could not name. At that very moment Noah waved to him from the deck.

Heinrich waved back and without thinking yelled, “you’re right Noah, she’s a beauty.”

Noah just kept waving until the horizon swallowed him up.

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58

59

PELICAN’T

I’ve heard the rhyme so many times

That tells about my bill,

And how it holds so much more

Than my eyes or stomach will.

There was an age when this was true

Because there was aplenty,

Swimming, slithering, schooling through,

Our azure oceans many.

Thus I could dip my beak below

The slowly shifting tide

From just above the undertow,

My spandex jaw filled wide

With fish that will my body nourish

Links along the chain

Allowing me to slowly flourish

And let me here remain.

Now, Oh Dear! In such vast groups

Amidst vexatious change

What I see as my neck stoops

Looks ugly, quite deranged.

Chip cartons by the dozens,

Wrappers from blinged bipeds,

Toxic fish, their deformed cousins

Pink, NO- grey prawn heads.

The way it was is what I wish

The sea a bounteous treasure,

Of many healthy tasty fish

For sustenance and pleasure

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61

WINNING THE LOTTERY

Zinc sat, elbows on his knees, hands on his face. There was dirt under his fingernails, jammed up there. Had been so for weeks. The back of his knuckles were wrinkled but not nearly so much as the skin around his neck. If you followed those crevices up past his ears and around to the lines that framed his eyes and into the black of his pupils it was possible to see years of desperation. Not bad looking desperation: he had a fine nose a bit like a film star and a gentle mouth. People said he had a good smile too. When he bothered to use it.

“What should we do with it?” said Zinc.

“Bugger if I know,” replied Ironman “I’ll come up with something.”

Ironman stood next to Zinc, towering over him not just because he was erect but because he was a big man. His shoulders had their own postcode; they alone were enough to intimidate any-one. He knew it too. So much so that every other part of his body was intimidating even if it was not. His small head with its beady little eyes was intimidating. His arms, rippling with muscle but disproportionately long for his torso was intimidating. His voice, squeaky, high, staccato. That too somehow managed to instill fear in those who heard it.

These two men were both looking at a bag which, moments before Ironman had discovered in the bush while taking a leak. Inside the bag was cash, lots of cash; more cash than either man’s imagination might have hoped for.

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The bag sat in front of them: silent, dangerous.

“We should turn it in don’t you think?” said Zinc.

“What do you reckon?”

‘Maybe the blokes who owned it are dead.” Zinc looked around the campsite as if searching for the blokes he spoke of to appear.

“I don’t think so mate. You don’t die if you have that much money.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You want some coffee?” Zinc said.

“Good,” replied Ironman, “it will help me think.”

Zinc walked over to the small, unstable camping table. Upon it was a rusty gas stove, two aluminium pots, four empty beer bottles. Near the table, a white Ute sat parked, the front facing downhill towards a small gully. In the back was the detritus of their short camping trip into the bush: clothing, camping gear, provisions, an Eskie, two fishing poles.

Zinc boiled the water in the billy, put the grounds in, strained the black liquid into two cups. The acrid aroma from the coffee was almost enough to mask the scent of greed forming upon the skin of each man.

They drank in silence and stared at the bag.

Then Ironman said, “Good coffee Zinc.” He got up from his fold-up chair and walked over to the bag, looking down on it long and hard. A sulphur crested cockatoo burst out of a nearby gum screeching, his white wings carving up the blue sky. Ironman’s eyes followed the bird until it was out of sight.

“I reckon we better count it,” said Ironman.

He picked up the bag and took it over to the table. With one movement of his arm he swept everything off the table onto the ground. The remaining coffee in the billy stained the ground like black blood. Ironman placed the bundles of bills in piles on the

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table.

“Heh, how much you think is here?” said Zinc, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar.

“Let’s just say the poor bastard that lost it is spewin’.”

It took the men three hours to count the money. They did not say anything to one another during that time. They both thought about how long they had known one another, how as kids they’d played together, how Ironman had moved in and taken Zinc’s girl and married her. How one of them had taken the fall for a small job and the other one had gotten away with it and they’d never discussed it again. Not even when they’d met five years later. How they came camping every year to the same spot for a week and nei-ther one of them really enjoyed it that much but they came anyway. How their lives were determined by forces outside their control; or so they thought.

“2 mill,” said Zinc finally, “that’s a shitload”.

Ironman said nothing. He walked away and looked off into the distance.

“I think we should keep it.”

“What?”

“Not all of it. I think we should turn it in, but just keep a bit, say half.” “What if we get caught?” said Zinc.

“We won’t get caught. We’ll hand it in and when they ask, we just say that was all we found. If we stick to the same story, Bob’s your uncle. Even you can do that can’t ya Zinc ?”

During the 25 years of their friendship Zinc had always deferred to Ironman. As a result of this pattern Ironman could be conde-scending, patronizing. Zinc let it go; sometimes he hated himself for it. But in certain circumstances it was in his best interest to do

64

so. Old habits die hard. “Think about what we could do with the money!” said Ironman.

“If you think it will work I’ll give it a go.”

“Things always work with the Ironman.”

The two men put the money back into the bag.

Driving to the city police station they went over the details of their story. Zinc wasn’t feeling confident. It was all Ironman could do to encourage him so he would sound convincing. The two men may have possessed dubious moral resumes but they were not criminals.

They entered the building and met a Constable Piecemeal.

Constable Piecemeal was small-about the size of a jockey, maybe slightly bigger. But he was not slight the way a jockey is in order to keep his weight down. The constable was bulky and wide; he was all muscle, right up to the top of his skull. Constable Piecemeal somewhat resembled a Shetland pony sitting on its hind legs. He was about as personable as well.

“A bag of money you found in the bush that you want to hand in?” said Constable Piecemeal skeptically.

“Right,” said the Ironman.

“I think I’ll get the Detective,” said Piecemeal.

Piecemeal returned with a man of average size with coal black hair, a hooded brow, sporting bushy eyebrows and an unkempt mous-tache. The detective stood for a minute picking his teeth. Then the detective looked at Constable Piecemeal as if he had never, in all the years they had worked together, gotten a decent days work out of him . The detective then looked at Ironman.

“Piecemeal says you fellas want to give us some money?” said De-tective Giusto.

“Not exactly give it to you, we want to return it. We think it be-

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longs to someone,” Zinc said.

“That’s good thinking,” said Gusto. “This must be the lottery money stolen from the armoured car the other day. Where’d you find it?”

They told the detective their story and left the bag with him. Detective Giusto got Zinc and Ironman to sign a statement; he said he was grateful for their honesty and he’d contact them if he needed any further information.

On the way back to the campsite Zinc had a momentary ethical epiphany. He felt good about handing back the money; there was something cleansing about not taking something that was not yours. A smile arrived on his face to verify his contentment.

Zinc and Ironman awoke early the next morning to a clear, cool day. The air was crisp, sharp, honed like the edge of a knife Iron-man walked around the campsite while Zinc made coffee. The noise of an approaching car caused both men to look up, their heads moving as if struck by a foreign object. The vehicle was a police car.

“Wonder what they want?” said Zinc.

Detective Giusto got out of the car and said, “Iron, looks like you pulled this one off right proper.”

Zinc looked at Ironman with confusion, then contempt.

Ironman said, “Sorry mate, I couldn’t say no to that kind of money.”

“Are you going to do it or am I?” said Detective Giusto to Ironman.

“I can’t,” said Ironman, “you do it.”

“You’re pathetic!” said Zinc.

“Ok,”chimed in Giusto, “I’ll do it. Although I don’t know why I should have pop him when you’re the crook and I’m the cop.”

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“What does that have to do with it?” said Ironman.

“Reputation to uphold, mate.” Giusto was picking his teeth again. In his other hand was the gun.

‘What bullshit.”

Giusto pointed his gun at Zinc.

Zinc, who had gotten over his Boy Scout, Good Samaritan attitude regarding handing in the money looked down the barrel of Giusto’s gun and wondered what it would feel like to take a bullet.

Then a shot rang out causing Detective Giusto to drop to the ground. Blood poured from his head. He twitched a bit, shivered, stopped moving. If he looked like a pony on its hind legs when he was standing up Detective Giusto resembled a lifeless horse when he was dead.

Out of the bush came Constable Piecemeal holding a rifle and brushing wattle off his hat. He nodded at Zinc as he passed him the gun.

“Sorry mate,” said Zinc, smiling at Ironman with immense satisfac-tion, “I couldn’t say no to that kind of money either.”

At the crime scene was a dead detective, a portion of the missing lottery money, one traumatized, tied up, blindfolded camper who had no idea what had gone on, and one dead Ironman.

Constable Piecemeal was commended for his bravery, and his ex-cellent work in resolving the case. The rest of the money was never recovered.

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The Mother Teresa retirement village is a blonde brick building with bits falling off; a wooden bench near the entrance is worn and feeble; a plaster Virgin Mary hangs over the doorway with water stains streaming down her gown; the garden out the back has a smattering of plants: geraniums in pots, jasmine growing up the lattice that borders the adjacent property, a spindly, tired look-ing date palm;the hallways have carpet which should have been replaced long ago;there are thin worn down tracks the width of wheel chair tires running the length of some of the hallways. Only in the foyer does the light come in unencumbered. Everywhere else it is distracted by dirty or frosted windows.

Sister Gertrude has been working at Mother Teresa’s for fifteen years. Every day she wakes in her small room with the one window looking onto the street at the back of the home. She takes a mo-ment to watch the activity outside, the pedestrians, the traffic, the first indications of the day’s weather. Then she advances her lean, fit frame to perform her ablutions, get dressed, have her breakfast-never more than a piece of toast and some fruit with tea- before arriving at the front desk to survey what there is to do.

It is a routine, the mundane nature of which, she has cherished every day of the twelve years she has been undertaking it. The first three years were her training period under the watchful eye of Sister Madeline, a tyrannical but efficient mentor. When Sister Madeline went to God, Sister Gertrude was grateful for His mercy. It was not her desire to take over as head of the home as much as

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

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relief that Sister Madeline’s suffering from a prolonged illness be alleviated. When the job did become hers, she felt it was her mis-sion to help those in need until she too could no longer fulfil her duties. Such was the commitment to the weak and destitute made by Sister Gertrude’s hero, Mother Teresa, such did Sister Gertrude feel should be her commitment as well.

The job is not difficult. Mostly it involves managing the staff, liais-ing with the owners, making sure the home remains financially viable (money is always an issue). The there is interacting with the clientele. It is the latter task that she enjoys the most, and the one she tries to put the most time into. Senile dementia, Parkinson’s, infirmity, abandonment; whatever the reason for their domicile at Mother Theresa’s, they are children of God and in need of love. Everyone: except perhaps Lilly.

Sister Gertrude attends confession at St. Ecclesiastes once a week. For approximately one hundred fifty-six weeks the priest, Father Andrew, has been listening to her say that she has sinned because she cannot find affection for Lilly. Father Andrew is not that wor-ried. It is hard for him to be terribly concerned about a nun who is having troubles with a taciturn octogenarian when he is getting, al-most daily, confessions relating to graft, arson, and adultery. Father Andrew has only so many Hail Mary’s in his arsenal. Nevertheless, he listens patiently, makes recommendations, gives instructions.

It is useless: Sister Gertrude exhibits compassion for everyone else, including Mr. Weisman, who always seems to find a way to pinch her ass no matter how she positions herself when talking to him. What is it about Lilly? Is it true what they say? That the faults we find in others are faults we cannot abide with in ourselves? If that is true, Sister Gertrude is going to have to ask the Lord for a total make over because everything about Lilly drives her nuts.

Clara

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When she looks in the mirror Clara sees a wide face with a flattish nose. There is a stud in her left nostril, gold, given to her by her last boyfriend, Aaron. She sees dreadlocks hanging down the side of her head and over her ears. There are some coloured beads in the dreadlocks: purple and red, one yellow one on a strand that touches her nose. She tilts her head down a bit and looks at her narrow, elegant throat, and tapered shoulders. She turns her head in profile, slides her eyes over but can barely see herself, turns her gaze front on again and looks into her earth brown eyes. She stares for a moment and her mind wanders. Who is she really? Will she ever know? What would it be like if her skin was not ink black but white, like everyone else’s? It is a foolish question (albeit one she wishes she had the answer to), so she puts her top on and gets her things ready to go see Lilly.

Every Thursday Clara goes to Mother Theresa’s retirement village and spends the afternoon with Lilly Vale. She has been going for roughly two years. What started out in her last year of high school as fulfilling her community service requirement grew into a fast friendship between Clara and the indomitable Lilly. The initial chore of showing up at a place that smelled like stale bread and took Clara away from her friends, eventually became something she looked forward to each week.

Clara does not have to be anyone other than who she is when she is with Lilly. And, where the colour of her skin seems to matter so much in the outside world, Lilly has never even blinked an eye. Clara is not any colour at all when she sits with Lilly, she is just a young woman looking for her way in the world, a world sharp and unforgiving. The visits also provide her with someone who listens to her talk about her life as a foster child in a country she has not lived in very long, working a job she finds unsatisfying. And Lilly is funny as well. Clara loves to watch the way Lilly talks as if she owns the place, especially when Sister Gertrude is around. When

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Lilly starts in with the language the look on Sister Gertrude’s face alone is worth the visit.

Today Clara is taking a photo album full of pictures of her family back in Africa. Lilly has been asking to see her relatives for ages. Clara does not bring the album out often-it lives under her bed in a box like a troll who grants special wishes. She feels strong enough to look at the images and share the stories with Lilly; she feels Lilly will understand how difficult it is for Clara to talk about something so close to her heart but so far from her grasp.

The rain is coming down so hard Clara is barely able to see the jacaranda out her bedroom window. She will have to wrap the album up in a plastic bag, take an umbrella, wear her coat. It is not a raincoat; there was not a proper one on the rack at the second hand shop. It is moments like these when she wishes she had a car, or the money to catch a taxi. By the time she takes the two buses required to get to Mother Teresa’s she will more closely resemble a wet cotton doll than a dignified young African woman.

Lilly

There’s absolutely no equivocation: the place drives her out of her mind. First of all she hates old people. They can’t remember anything from one moment to the next, they complain about everything (except for Oscar Weisman who is a devil), and not a single one knows how to play Scrabble worth shit. Secondly, it’s like being trapped. Unless you’ve been stuck in an elevator or are forced to sit through an Andrew Lloyd Webber play, you have no idea what it’s like to be inside Mother Teresa’s. And last of all, but certainly not least, is the quality of the cuisine.

Lilly was a top chef for most of her working career. When she stopped cooking she wrote cookbooks. She travelled the world gathering recipe ideas, mixing with the locals. After her husband died she had a fling with a French sommelier, then a Turkish

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pastry cook. The sommelier had a nice finish, the pastry cook was good with his hands. Her whole life was food; not just food but the best of food. Now, many years after her last great dining experi-ence, with what they feed her at Mother Theresa’s it is all she can do to stay healthy.

Vegetables that are overcooked to buggery, meat the colour of con-crete, desserts more fitting a matinee sweets bar than an old folk’s home. Lilly has tried to make inroads with the chef, even offering her services in the kitchen. When that was rejected outright she drafted some recipes, passed them on to William, and awaited his reply. She asked him one day-after pushing aside another ghastly dinner-what he thought of her ideas. William, himself soft and mushy and the colour of something not found in nature, grunted, then mumbled, “ it’s not easy making things at this place Mrs. Vale.”

If the home will not provide proper nourishment Lilly has to find other ways to get her daily allowances. The residents are allowed some food items but only as a supplement to the meals they are expected to attend in the dining hall. She cajoles her visitors, of whom there are fewer and fewer, to bring in contraband which she stockpiles in the cupboard and the small fridge she has in her kitchenette. Lilly does go to the meals but only as subterfuge. Af-terwards she returns to her room where she may eat, on any given night, a selection of the following: prosciutto with melon, goat’s cheese flan with rocket, cous cous and seasoned lamb shank, crab cakes with aioli dressing, chocolate mud cake, or key lime pie.

When her son insisted she come live at Mother Teresa’s, Lilly caused a scene. It did no good in the end: he was moving out of town, there was no one else to look after her, and it was the only place they could afford. It just so happened she got Sister Gertrude in the bargain as well. They did not seem to get on from their first encounter when Sister Gertrude used the collective “we” when

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referring to Lilly. “I don’t know how we are feeling ,”replied Lilly, “but I’m feeling fucking pissed off.”

Maybe the vindictiveness was a result of that encounter, maybe Sister Gertrude’s knickers are too tight or God has divorced her. She is always going on about Him. God this, and God that. Every time Sister Gertrude comes around to talk to her about her culinary habits or her language Lilly thinks to herself, “good god, clever god, get her out of my life!”

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Without Clara in her life she would be lost. Although the visits are only weekly, the woman’s vitality and innocence provide a window to a world that Lilly has lost track of. Clara listens and laughs; she does not judge or shiver at Lilly’s recalcitrance or irreverence. Clara brings her what Lilly asks her to. Today, after much cajoling Clara is going to bring the album of photos of her family. Lilly is excited: the young woman is shy; after so much time together Lilly still knows so little about her so she hopes the album will peel away another layer. Clara: her little onion.

HappyBirthday

The date is important because it is August 26th, Mother Theresa’s birthday. Sister Gertrude awoke believing it would be a special day. How could it not be? The home’s eponymous birthday? Reason for celebration surely. She always goes to special effort on the 25th to put up some form of decoration: blue and white streamers, an extra cross here and there, a few balloons in the foyer. If no one else notices at least it made Sister Gertrude feel good. The embellish-ments are a fitting tribute as well.

Lilly hates birthdays of any kind. She thinks everything about the Catholic faith is a fraud, including Mother Teresa. Why leave anyone out? Born an Episcopalian, she’d given up any belief in any god whatsoever after discovering sex. Not exactly an atheist-some higher power had to be responsible for olive oil- she tried hard to ignore the religious overtones of Mother Theresa’s retire-ment home. The only time she found it difficult was around Sister Gertrude. The woman was like a tick: always crawling around in crevices looking for someone to latch onto.

Clara is later than she wanted to be that Saturday morning. Buses slow because of flash flooding. When she arrives with her album under her arm in the plastic bag Sister Gertrude greets her in her usual manner (kind smile, eyes wanting to know more about who she really is), then calls Lilly to let her know Clara has arrived.

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Clara is so wet she leaves a pool of water at her feet the size of a billabong. This morning there was an exchange between the two women, one Clara could not make out, although Sister Gertrude was slightly red in the face when she hung up. Sister Gertrude sends her through, but unlike the other mornings she attaches a caveat. “I don’t think she’s feeling very well dear. You may want to keep your visit short.”

“Bullshit,” says Lilly, “I’m fine. That nun has her head so far up her proverbial. I don’t know why she doesn’t mind her own business.”

Lilly is sitting in her favourite chair, a recliner.

“I’m sorry I’m late. The bus-”

“Never mind that, did you bring the album?”

Clara takes the album out of the bag and places it on the table next to the recliner. Droplets of water spill onto the table, rug, Lilly’s arm.

“For Christ’s sake child, watch what you are doing!”

Clara gets a towel from the bathroom to dry herself off. Lilly seems more agitated than usual. Maybe she is tired?

“Get me a drink dear will you?”

“What would you like?”

“Cognac, thanks. You know where it is don’t you?”

“In the sideboard.”

“Good. Then come over here quickly. I want you to tell me all about the photos in the album.”

Clara has a tight feeling in her stomach. She was prepared to look at the pictures and talk about them but Lilly is acting strangely and it is only 11 and she never has a drink before 5pm. There is nothing

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Clara can do: if she changes her mind now there will be hell to pay.

Once the album is laid onto Lilly’s lap she calms down. A generous energy moves between the two women. Clara is able to point to the picture of her elder brother near the well. She can discuss the photo of her playing with friends under the acacia trees; she points to a photo of her mother holding Clara in her arms when she was a baby. Her father, a handsome man dressed in a suti stands in front of what looks like a government building.

There is a knock at the door.

‘Who the bloody hell is it?” gripes Lilly.

“Sister Gertrude”

“I don’t want what you’re selling!”

“Lilly!” says Clara under her breath as she gets up to answer the door.

“Don’t let that witch in here,” Lilly says as she gets up from her chair and goes into the kitchen.

Clara opens the door and Sister Gertrude is standing there, a smile on her face that is as sincere as a mule. She could have just as easily called, Clara thinks. Sister Gertrude walks into the small hallway moving her head back and forth around Clara’s as if searching for prey.

“Lilly, are you there, Lilly? I thought I heard you before.”

Big pause.

“Is she here?” Sister Gertrude says to Clara.

“She’s-”

Lilly comes out of the kitchen where Sister Gertrude can see her.

“What can I do for you, Sister? Clara and I are extremely busy and don’t, under any circumstances-”

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“Now Lilly,” says Sister Gertrude in a little girl’s voice.

“Don’t patronise me Sister. What do you want?”

“There is a special afternoon tea to celebrate Mother Teresa’s birth-day. I just wanted to let you know.”

“I know,” says Lilly shaking her arm like it is too heavy, “every year the same thing and every year I tell you that I’m not interested and that I think Mother Teresa was a phoney. Just piss off and leave this darling girl and me to talk about her family in Africa.”

Clara is blushing from the attention, from the confrontational nature of the encounter. Lucky it is impossible to tell. Black skin hides the flush. She looks at Sister Gertrude who is staring at her with a sprinkling of enmity and displaced frustration. It is not a stalemate: Sister Gertrude will have to withdraw a vanquished participant. Lilly catches her looking up at the ceiling.

“When are you going to realise that God does not give a stuff, Sister? Everything happens regardless.”

Sister Gertrude makes a noise much like the popping of a deflated balloon, turns on her heels and leaves.

“That woman,” says Lilly, “would be much better off if she’d go find a bloke and get laid!”

Clara laughs; Lilly laughs. They sit down and rediscover the album. Over the course of the next hour Clara brings to life that part of herself that is neglected. She sheds her outer skin to connect with her core; she feels more alive than she has felt at any time since she has left Africa. Lilly feels the vibrancy too and the two women laugh and joke. Lilly shares intimate details she has never before revealed.

“He was the most handsome man. Senegalese I think. I was in Paris for some culinary fair and there he was. It was perhaps the closest I ever came to falling in love.”

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“What happened?”

“I took him back to my hotel of course, where I promptly took his clothes off and lay him down so I could-”

“Lilly, that is about all I need to know.” says Clara.

When they finish with the album there is a pause. Clara looks at Lilly and sees it for the first time. How could she have been so unobservant? It is in every pore and line of Lilly’s face: loneliness. Only loneliness could manifest itself in such strident behaviour.

“I’m tired dear. I might have a rest. Could you get me my blanket from the bedroom?”

When she returns from the bedroom with the blanket Lilly is already asleep. Her head is at an awkward angle as if it has fallen from a great height and landed randomly on her shoulders. Clara gently tilts Lilly’s head upright to a more comfortable position but when she releases it it falls back again.

“Lilly?”

There is no response. Clara feels Lilly’s arms. They are warm enough for an old lady aren’t they? Lilly’s rag doll appearance is so disconcerting for Clara that she does not think to check her pulse but instead decides to go get someone else who can help.

Clara finds Sister Gertrude in the lounge area with most of the other residents drinking tea and eating cakes. Sister Gertrude smiles when she sees Clara walking towards her.

“Decided to join us after all?”

“No Sister. It’s Lilly; I think she may be unwell. She said she wanted to have a sleep but she isn’t moving and-”

“Lilly’s fine, she’s always fine. Have a cup of tea and a slice of cake Clara. It’s Mother Teresa’s birthday today. It’s a wonderful day to be alive.”

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I asked you if you had seen The stars and you said, yes.

I asked you how many? And you said you did not know.

So I asked you to count them And you did, one by one

Your head tilted back For so long I grew old and impatient waiting.

But it is a big job you said, And I want to make sure I get them all.

Finally, when I was too blind to see anymore You came to me and in my one good ear

You said, I’ve lost track And I’m going to have to start again.

Well, I laughed out loud and said The same thing happened to me once.

THE WISDOM OF THE AGED

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