by Ellie Marney
I sag a little. Sorsha is my best friend. She’s told me about all her personal drama. I think I remember saying to her, not so long ago, that I would probably need to be coached through my own drama one day. And here I am, side-stepping the coaching.
‘I’ll…talk to you about it. Soon.’ I press my lips together. ‘I just need to figure a few things out first.’
She swings a leg over her bike and smiles. ‘That’s what I used to tell myself–‘I just need to figure this mess out’. I never did figure it out myself. But like I said, you’re welcome at the van anytime.’
I spend the rest of Thursday on study, before dropping by Lee and Annie’s van to give Lee a massage treatment–he’s dealing with some physical therapy issues while his broken leg heals. In the evening, I waste an hour googling quick-fixes for lung function problems–surprise! There aren’t any!–before finally giving up and going back to the books.
By Friday morning, my butt is sick of sitting down. I stretch in my room, then push my furniture around a little and continue with my practise on the floor. It’s all part of my new theory: if I don’t go to the Prac Shed, no one will see me practise. Such a simple solution! Nobody will know how much work is involved in coming up with a new routine that bypasses all my weak spots.
By the end of the day, with much trial and error–I have to use my puffer three times, yuck–I’ve figure out a routine. A sinuous, snake-like image isn’t going to be possible with the limited range of movements I have available. I end up adapting a routine I’ve used before, which is a bit more comedic, and looks like I’m sliding and rolling on sheets of glass. Lots of splits, especially side-oversplits. One deep backbend, but it’s only for a short time, and it morphs quickly into a handstand.
I’m covered in sweat by the time I finish, but I think I’m set for Sunday. I can pull this off. No problem. And if I can get through Sunday, I’ll have a week to rest before the re-open. Surely my training problems will be resolved by then.
I shower and change for my workshop at Cadell’s. I’ve been cloistered in my room most of the day, so emerging into the late afternoon sun is a bit of a shock. My Cons slap the concrete as I make my way past the Spiegeltent. Just before I reach the main gate, where Fabian–another member of the show’s acrobatic team–is waiting for me, my phone buzzes with a message. My phone reads ‘Unknown Caller ID’. Except I know exactly who this caller is.
“Get off the bus at Stop 18, William Street. Walk 1 block north. Left into Franklin Street. Building number 244. See you tonight.”
Zep has messaged me directions, so I don’t get lost. And he said, See you tonight.
A warm buzzing sensation starts up under my ribs. It keeps buzzing and humming in a steady, deeply distracting way as Fabian and I chat on the bus, as we arrive at Cadell’s, as I help my students lay out their yoga mats.
The buzzing continues all through class, until the class finishes and I smile my thanks to everyone. I meet Fabian, and as we find our way back home, the buzzing sensation settles into a spot low in my diaphragm, like it’s decided to camp out for a while.
By the time I’m walking back to my dorm room, the feeling is at fever pitch. This is ridiculous. Zep is coming over to talk business. We will have our serious faces on, because we will be discussing serious things–like breaking into a competitor circus’s lot. Get a grip, Ren.
And I have some organising to do before he arrives, because I moved all my furniture around to make space for training today. Dumping my workshop bag near the door, I open the windows to clear any dust. The night air rushes in, smelling heady. I push my bed and desk and dresser back into position, re-align my chair, and tug everything else back into place. There are certain spots for all my belongings, and I like to keep everything neat.
It must be nearly nine p.m. when I kneel down to unroll the rug.
A familiar voice sounds out from nearby. ‘Re-decorating for my visit? You shouldn’t have.’
Zep is sitting on the window sill, wearing skinny jeans and a black-and-white plaid shirt with thin black braces. One of his knees is cocked up, his booted foot against the jamb. His other leg stretches to the floor. He must’ve climbed in–my window opens wider than his–but I didn’t hear a thing.
‘You snuck up on me.’
‘I’m sneaky.’ He ducks his head. ‘That sounds bad in English, doesn’t it? But saying ‘I’m good at breaking and entering’ sounds worse.’
I dust my hands on my overalls. ‘Well, now you’re here you can help me with the rug.’
‘Sure.’ He eases off the ledge and hunkers down beside me, so we can unroll the rug together. ‘Why did you roll up the rug in the first place?’
‘I was practising in my room.’
‘There’s prac space literally thirty feet away. Why are you training in your room?’
I keep my eyes on the rug. ‘I like to train in private sometimes.’
‘Wow.’ He makes that slow smile again.
‘What?’
‘You’re a terrible liar. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who’s as terrible at lying as you are.’
I stand up. ‘I’m not lying. I train in my room every morning.’
He stands too, his head angled. His narrowed eyes examine me. ‘That part’s true. But the other part’s not.’
I sigh. ‘What’s giving me away?’
‘Your eyes, mostly.’ He grins. ‘Want me to teach you to lie more effectively?’
‘Maybe.’ I make a face. ‘I have to visit my family tomorrow. I’ll be telling a lot of lies then.’
He nods, like he understands this. ‘Okay, don’t look at the floor when you lie. That would be my first tip. Why will you be lying to your family?’
I walk to my bed, which needs the sheets and pillows tidied. ‘They want me to quit circus. Well, my mother wants me to quit circus.’
‘So you have to lie to your mother.’ Zep pulls the wooden chair out from my study desk, turns it around and straddles it.
I yank the corners of my bedlinen into place. ‘I try not to lie. I try to just leave out the details. Circus work is…tidak pantas. Inappropriate. It’s not appropriate work for a young woman of my age.’
Zep’s forearms rest on the chair back, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. ‘What counts as appropriate?’
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ I sigh, finish neatening the pillows. Then I turn and plop on my bed, push my loose hair back. ‘It’s not so much about appropriateness. I think mama just wants me to move back home and study full time, to be near her.’
‘But you love the show.’
‘I do.’ My fingers pick together in my lap. ‘I love performing, and being on the lot. I even love living in the dorm. In circus, it doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter if you have an accent, or you’re a woman with a beard, or you’re queer, or–’
‘Or you have a criminal record,’ Zep says, glancing away.
He has a criminal record? Huh. But he clearly doesn’t want to make a big deal about it, so I don’t. ‘That’s right. None of those things make any difference. Only your skills and your work ethic and your community involvement matter. I love that.’
‘So you’re going to fight to stay on the lot?’
‘I am.’ It sounds good when I say it firmly like that. ‘I’m legally an adult–I can make my own choices. But it’s hard when your choices bring you into conflict with your family.’
He makes a rueful grin, scratching at his neck. ‘I’ll say amen to that.’
‘Tell me about Lost Souls,’ I say, returning to the reason he’s here. ‘The layout, and the security.’
‘You really want to do this?’ he asks quietly.
‘No,’ I point out. ‘You really want to do this. I’m just helping.’
He snorts.
I go to my desk, where my study notebook is stacked
with some others. I have to lean near Zep to grab it–he still has that enticing scent, which I try to ignore as I open the notebook at a blank page.
I hold up my pen. ‘Draw Lost Souls for me. Like a map. I’m a visual person, it will help me remember it better.’
With a last, considering look, Zep takes the pen and the notebook and starts sketching. He explains as he goes: outlined squares become training areas, storage sheds, living quarters, admin facilities. I make him note down every detail: every building, every window, plus a description of the ledgers.
It seems there’s a lot of old, converted shipping containers that act as offices or storage, or even living quarters. Zep talks about who lives where, who goes where, how things are run in the day-to-day. And how things are run at night, which is probably more important, as that’s when we’re planning to visit.
We’re both hunkered over my study desk now, with me kneeling by the desk making little scribbled additions to his map, and Zep sitting in the chair on my right.
I tap my pencil against my teeth. ‘We can’t take the bus. A car would be better overall.’
Zep nods. ‘I can borrow one from the mech yard.’
‘Can you really pick the lock on your father’s shipping container once you’re inside the warehouse?’
He shrugs. ‘I can pick the lock on almost anything. The lock isn’t the problem. Getting inside the warehouse is the problem, because it has a high security deadbolt.’
‘I don’t understand why the container is inside a warehouse. But it doesn’t matter–you said there’s a vent?’
‘Here. Above the outside water tank.’
‘Then that’s our way in. What if the troupe leader–’
‘Vas Cavendish.’
‘Right. What if Mr Cavendish has relocated your dad’s ledgers to a safe or something?’
Zep frowns. ‘Vas doesn’t know about the ledgers. They were always my father’s fallback insurance. But if Angus moved them to a safe before his arrest, then we might have to beat a retreat. I don’t know the first thing about safes. So this could all be for nothing.’
‘But at least you will have tried,’ I point out, as I stand up.
‘It’s the trying part that’s giving me a buzz.’ He keeps his gaze lowered, but his eyes light from inside. ‘I haven’t attempted direct action against my dad before. Everything I’ve done up until now has been about avoiding Angus, working around him, staying out of his way. Hiding. I’ve been a coward, really.’
‘Hey.’ I nudge his shoulder with my hip. ‘You’re not a coward. You put up with Angus for years. You’re strong.’
‘I know this is a crazy plan. But it’s making me feel better.’ He throws down his pen. ‘Okay, let’s take a break. Wanna play cards?’
‘Pretty much always,’ I say, grinning.
He’s brought his Bike cards over. We compare decks for a little while; mine are not as good, and I’m jealous of those cards. He explains where to order them online. We sit on my bed–like him, I only have one chair–and he teaches me a simple force, then we get down to business.
I deal first, because he still seems to enjoy watching someone else work the cards. We’ve played two hands of Shithead already before he brings up our earlier conversation.
‘So are you going to tell me why you were training in your room?’
The fact that his eyes are on his cards, and not on me, makes me braver about skirting the truth. ‘I’ve been a bit breathless in training since the fire. It makes me self-conscious.’
He glances up. ‘You never told me that. Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Yes. I have asthma medication. But I don’t have to stop training just because I get a little breathless sometimes.’
I must sound defensive, because his response is very neutral. ‘Okay. I’m sure you know your own limits.’
‘That’s right.’ My cheeks warm. I can’t keep dissembling about this–I have to divert. ‘Are you going to tell me about your name?’
‘My name?’
‘Zep is short for something, right? Malcolm called you –‘
‘Zeppelin.’ He shrugs. ‘Angus’s favourite band is Led Zeppelin.’
‘Does it bother you, having your father’s favourite band as your name?’
‘I’m used to Zep.’ He sails his discards onto the pile. ‘It’s the ‘Deal’ part that bugs me. For one, it’s a cliché. A cardsharp called ‘Deal’? Come on.’
I grin. ‘That’s like a contortionist called Stretch.’
‘Right? Or a pool shark called Cueball–it’s ridiculous.’
I consider. ‘What was your mother’s family name?’
‘Navarre. I like it better.’
‘Maybe you should change your name.’ I toss out cards and collect alternates. ‘You can do that these days.’
He looks at me, surprised. ‘Maybe I will. Ask you a question?’
‘Silakan.’ I glance at him. ‘That means, ‘go ahead.’
‘Okay.’ He grins. ‘How are you so good at cards?’
He thinks I’m good at cards? That’s a heck of a compliment. ‘I used to play with my dad. I’m good at numbers, and I like the rhythm of it. I run a regular poker night here in the dorm.’
‘Really? I bet you fleece all the other players.’
I shrug, because this is mostly true.
‘So…when are we doing this?’
‘The break-in?’ The rapid change of subject has caught me unawares. ‘Uh, when do you think would be good?’
He smiles. ‘Hey, this is your plan.’
I think about it. ‘Well, you said Monday is a busy night at Lost Souls, because it’s the last performance of the week?’
‘Yeah–we have Monday off here, so Lost Souls is open that night. They usually take Tuesday as their rest day. By Monday night, everyone is exhausted.’
‘Then they’ll be too tired to pay attention… So how about this coming Monday?’
‘That’s in three days.’
He looks apprehensive, and I wonder if I look the same way. But I’m excited, too; it would be amazing if we could get Zep free of his father in the space of three days, after he’s waited for so many years. And I’m excited to put this plan into action.
I smile. ‘Yep. That’s when we go in.’
I lay down my hand. It’s the first time I’ve won all night.
Five
‘I hope you’re keeping up with your studies,’ my father says, as we sit together in the quiet of his car during the ride home.
I watch the scenery out the front passenger window. ‘Yes, my study is going well.’
The urban landscape of concrete and steel that I’m accustomed to living with has peeled back. The high scraping towers of the CBD are gone: the view outside the window now is totally suburban.
My father lights a kretek cigarette as he drives. ‘Your mother has been looking forward to seeing you.’
My parents’ house is in the middle of an area that was fattened out years ago with immigrant money. It should be a cultural smorgasbord, but the houses and gardens all have a manicured sameness.
‘I’m excited to see her, too.’ I wind down my window. ‘And how is Uncle Agus?’
My father says a dialect slang word which sounds a lot like a spitting noise, and shrugs.
As a language professor, my father understands perfectly well how gesture and nuance change meaning in speech. What he’s said could mean either ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t care’. His little rebellious outburst makes me grin as we pull up in the driveway.
The house is unchanged since my last visit. The tall brick fence encloses a two-storey brick façade house with a brown tile roof, lacy white curtains in the windows. The front yard is mostly bricked over too, with a small area in the far corner for my father’s collection of potted succulents. Thi
s is the nicest house my parents have ever owned, I think. My mother is scrupulous about maintaining it exactly as it was when they first bought it.
As soon as we come through the door, mama emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
‘Reni!’ She tucks the dish towel into the waistband of her apron and grips me by the shoulders. We press cheeks, smiling.
‘Aku pulang kampung,’ I say.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ mama whispers. She pulls back. ‘Come on. Come help me in the kitchen. Your sister has already said no.’
‘How come Santi gets to beg off?’ But I let my backpack slip off my shoulder, onto the runner in the hall, and follow her anyway.
‘Gak apa apa. It’s okay. I get to talk to you.’ My mother leads the way back down the hall and into the kitchen and dining area. ‘Why are you looking so thin?’
‘I always look thin, mama.’ It’s true. I have my mother’s face on my father’s body type.
‘Here, take these over to the table. I’m spooning out the nasi.’
I help her lay out more dishes on the already-groaning table. I think my mother’s plan is to feed me until I’m too round to get back out through the front door. If she’s cooked rendang, then I might have trouble resisting.
The smells of cardamom, ginger and chilli waft above the table, blending with the odour of my father’s kreteks. I make a happy sigh. This is the smell of family, and the food that I love, and the place where I belong. The whole scene makes me wonder if Zep is equally torn by these feelings of nostalgia and belonging when he is around his father.
And I am not under any illusions: I know very well that the scent of Zep’s skin, with that faint hint of cloves, reminds me powerfully of the smell of home.
I position small finger-bowls of water for cuci tangan. ‘Where’s Uncle Agus?’
‘He was taking a nap.’ Mama places cut banana leaf over the heaped platters of cooked rice–she’s a bit old-fashioned about rice. ‘Santi is waking him now, so he can join us for lunch. He has taken your room. You and Santi can share tonight.’
‘Great.’ It’s not great–my sister snores–but I’m not going to complain.