by Peter Corris
"Light," Lou said to himself. "Strong light."
Under the light the type was faded but clear enough.
"New ribbon," Lou said. "Thanks, Uncle Lou." His hands were shaking; he drained his can and went out to the kitchenette to get another. He found himself walking backwards, reluctant to take his eyes off the binder. When he got back to the typescript he took it off the floor and dumped it on the table that served him as a desk and eatery. A cloud of fine dust arose from the pages and made him sneeze.
"Okay," he said, "you're an antique. Don't worry, I'll treat you right."
He stayed up all night reading his uncle's embryonic novel. Trained now in the ways of professional writing, Lou could see a hundred flaws—point of view wavered; the author was unsure of whether to go with first or second person and did some experimenting along the way; the pages recounting the heroine's brief stay in Australia were unconvincing. But the book had life.
Lou closed the binder shortly before dawn. "Christ, Uncle Lou," he said. "You were a hell of a writer. Hollywood was fucking you over, but you had it!"
Over the next few weeks of the semester Lou wrote almost nothing. The manuscript obsessed him. In the briefcase he discovered sets of notes his uncle had used to build up the story. Mostly, they were in the form of recorded conversations with his wife Susannah. The name 'Gulliver' appeared in these notes although the name of the fictionalised heroine was Susan Gully. Her brothers' names were John, Carl and Edward. The baby, born at sea and orphaned within hours of his launching into the world, had no name.
Before the semester ended, Lou had won the affections of a woman, as he always did. She was a fellow student, Rachel Hattie Brown. Rachel was black, hailed from Queens, and her one aim in life was to get back to New York with some kind of ticket that would win her a job. She called Californians 'airheads' but made a partial exception for people who were from San Francisco. Lou showed her the typescript and told her the story.
"Simon and Schuster," Rachel said.
Lou sipped some generic white wine which was all he could afford. It gave him a headache but he was prepared to put up with that for Rachel's sake. She was a big, coffee-coloured girl with impressive breasts and she seemed willing and able to drink copious quantities of anything. "Huh?" Lou said. He felt his head throb.
"It's their kinda material. Sell it to them, man. I know a coupla agents'd jump at it."
"It's not mine. I didn't write it."
"Got the same name, haven't you? Inherited it and the material, didn't you? What the hell, baby? It's dog eat dog."
"I might try to get a couple of stories out of it."
"That's minor league ball, man," Rachel said. "Go the big forone."
"It's only fifty thousand words."
"Ever read Gatsby? That's forty thousand, tops. Any more wine?"
It was Rachel who showed Lou the item in the San Francisco Courier that had run in papers around the world. They were resting after a bicycle ride in the hills around the Stanford campus. Lou had sold his Volkswagen after he'd learned what a Palo Alto garage charged for repairs. As a New Yorker, Rachel was contemptuous of automobiles. "I slept in a car once," she told Lou. "I wouldn't want to have anything to do with something smells that bad."
Now they were out among the pine needles and eucalypts and sassafras. Rachel pulled the cutting from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to Lou. "Read yourself rich, man."
Lou read, "Mr Benjamin Cromwell of Chelsea, London, has announced that he has very good news for descendants of John Gulliver who migrated with his family to Australia in 1910." He looked enquiringly at Rachel.
"Forget about the novel, honey," Rachel said. "And read on. You gotta get in touch. We talking movies here."
32
London, October 1986
Montague Cromwell rubbed his hands together as he looked around his drawing room. Scruffy character, he thought, averting his gaze from Jamie Martin. He favoured Jerry with one of his most Monty-like smiles. "You're looking marvellous, Jerry. Marvellous. What about you help with the drinks while . . ."
"The men do the talking? No, thank you, Montague. I'll just get myself a drink." She poured a small gin and topped the glass up with tonic. She refused lemon. "And I'll put my oar in as required. You've done us proud here, I must say."
"Yes, Dad. Great spread." Ben poured a whisky and took a smoked salmon sandwich. Montague had laid on the drinks and eats to fuel what he called 'a review of events', Ben had introduced Jamie Martin as his 'research associate', a title which Montague, who liked titles, found mystifying. Also, he was made uncomfortable by the obvious distance between Ben and Jerry. Sensitive to the ebb and flow of human feelings, Montague could feel a strong ebb on Jerry's part away from Ben. In whose direction, though? he wondered. Surely not to this nuggety blond fellow who is drinking beer from a can? Chap looks like a Welsh bricklayer. Montague took a stack of colour transparencies from his pocket and handed them around.
Jerry held hers up to the light and squinted. "Is this the Turner? It's not very clear."
"It's not meant to be clear,' Ben said. "It's meant to be intriguing." Ben would have preferred Jerry not to be at the meeting but Jamie had insisted. Ben didn't push it; he wasn't going to cause dissention over a woman. He suspected that Jamie and Jerry were lovers and was surprised to find how little he cared.
Montague was urbane. "When the time comes we'll be preparing a kind of press kit. I thought you'd all like to see the transparencies. Of course they don't do the painting justice. To business—first, I'd like to congratulate Jamie on his work. We've made remarkable progress."
"Too bloody much progress," Ben said. "I'm in favour of calling it a day with the Australian and the Russian. Two's company."
Jamie shot a glance at Jerry. This was what they'd feared. Jerry's mind raced, searching for an objection. She clutched the transparency and the idea came to her. "That would be stupid," she said. "Can't you see the possibilities in this for film or television?"
Ben downed his drink and poured another. "What are you talking about?"
"Look, we've got a lost masterpiece and international ramifications—Britain, Australia, Russia, America. It's an epic."
Half drunk, Ben smelled money. Montague stroked his nose and thought of the publicity and prestige involved. "Who would own those rights?" he said.
Jamie Martin sipped beer. "Good point."
"Legal point," Montague said. "Does any of you have legal training?" Three heads were shaken and Montague felt he'd gained the high ground. He took another sip of sherry and fiddled with a cigar. "I know several lawyers."
Jamie pushed aside a plate of vol-au-vents and spread some papers on the table. "The American's going to want to be in on anything like that. This Faraday chap."
"Yeah," Ben grunted, "that's what I mean. He's in, but let's make that the cutoff."
Jerry drew a breath. "I think we're going to have disagreements. Would you mind clarifying that?"
"Right." Ben reached across the table and scooped up Jamie's papers. "We've got the Australian woman, Georgia Gee. Great-granddaughter. All looks above board. Documentation's okay."
Jamie nodded. "Bright woman, to judge from her letter. Very keen and willing to come to London. Wants to be in up to her neck."
"What about the Russian?" Montague said. He was of an age to fear Russians, whom he still thought of, somewhat confusedly, as cossacks and revolutionaries. Glasnost, he suspected, was an invention of the Sunday papers.
"That's tricky," Ben said. "We've only got the one letter. There isn't any hard evidence . . ."
"Come on," Jerry said. "Carl's wife is still alive."
"Only just, from what he says." Ben located his drink and took a heavy pull on it. "There's a lot of snags. He can't get out of the country, for one thing."
Montague's nod signified agreement. "And the American's bound to hate him, for another."
"That's a stereotype," Jerry said. "Not all Americans are unenlightened. God, it's a
great story."
Talk of stories worried Montague, who wanted to keep everything on a factual level. "You're investigating the Russian's claim, are you, Jamie? Going to the Australian Army and so on?"
"Yes," Jerry said. "He is. Try calling him Mikhail, Montague. He sounds like a decent man."
After the initial letters had been sent, Ben had delegated to Jamie the job of writing to the discovered Gullivers, and he was now unfamiliar with the correspondence. Jamie repossessed his papers. "Mikhail works very hard. He doesn't get much time to write or to investigate his family background. They work doctors hard in the Soviet Union, it seems. The Jewish angle's interesting."
Montague grunted. He approved of making doctors work hard and there was a Greenberg in his own family tree. He poured more sherry and turned slightly to get a better look at Jerry. She wore a white silk blouse with several buttons undone. Her dark red hair was loose. Her eyes were on Jamie as he riffled through the file. Montague sensed that the meeting was going badly and he coughed to get attention. "I've talked the lawyers around somewhat. Two heirs is enough. We can negotiate a sale now. I'm not at all sure about this film business."
"No!" Jamie said.
"Let's cut the crap," Ben said. "Forget the bloody films. Monty's got a buyer. We can fake an auction, flog the picture and walk away with a whacking commission."
"Fake an auction?" Jerry looked away from Ben's glowering face. Jamie had turned pale and had bunched a thick sheaf of paper in his hand.
"For the Yank," Ben said. "To kick the story along. One heir from the east, one from the west. A buyer from . . . wherever. English know how delivers the goods. Monty and I have agreed to divide the commission up four ways—lion's share for him, of course, but healthy whacks for the rest of us."
"Crudely put, Ben," Montague Cromwell purred. "I have expenses to recoup. This research has cost me a fortune."
"I don't believe this," Jerry said.
Jamie moved from his chair to stand beside Jerry. "Speaking of research," he said. "Aren't you forgetting that the MO's log gives us a good lead on the third son? The way it looks, Ferdinand La Vita took an interest in Edward."
"La Vita," Montague Cromwell said. "What sort of name's that?"
Jamie pulled a chair up and sat beside Jerry. Ben was staring into his glass, apparently uninterested in the discussion.
"Bolivian," Jerry said, "according to the passenger list. That's colourful." She shot a glance at the silent, detached Ben. "I don't think the story can do without the Bolivian."
Montague rolled his eyes. "South America. God help me. Ben, what've you got to say?"
Ben could feel the approach of hypoglycaemia. When his blood sugar level dropped suddenly, he was subject to fluctuations in moods and distortions of perception. Now he felt the obvious harmony between Jamie and Jerry as a bitter personal attack, a reproach against his entire life. They'll get fuck all out of this, he thought wildly. I'll take the lot, the bloody lot. He reached into his pocket and took out a glucose tablet, which he held up for Jerry, in particular, to see. "I've had my say," he mumbled. "Got enough bloody Gullivers."
Montague watched his son crunch the tablet and slump back into his chair. "Ben's not well," he said. "This has been a big strain on him."
"He shouldn't drink," Jerry said.
Montague put his sherry glass on the nearest surface. "I agree. But he's right on this point. It's time to bring things to a head, and . . ."
Jamie's voice was hard and without the polish that years of university had put on it. He sounded like the east Londoner he was. "If you try to cut things off now I'll go to the newspapers, and you won't like the story they print one bit."
Ben wiped sweat from his forehead and blinked as he waited for the glucose to work. Montague bit his bottom lip. Jerry looked at them as if they had confessed to torturing animals and burning books. "I can't believe you could be so, so . . . immoral and, and . . . unimaginative. Don't you want to know what happened to the baby?"
"I don't give a shit," Ben said.
"Well, I do!" Jerry got to her feet and took a step towards Ben.
"What're you going to do about it?" Ben said.
Jamie moved smoothly between them. "We can write to Australia, Russia and California and tell them how you and Montague are trying to fix things."
This was enough for Montague. He got up and put one hand on Jerry's shoulder and one on Jamie's. "Now, now. Let's not be hasty. I withdraw the proposal. Jamie, you say you think we can find the Argentinian?"
"Bolivian," Jerry said.
Edward,
Juan
33
'Southern Maid', Sydney, June 1910
Ferdinand La Vita sat under a canvas canopy on the deck of the Southern Maid. His face was in shadow under a wide-brimmed hat; he wore a crumpled white suit and fanned himself occasionally with a folded newspaper. The heat and glare were intense. The ship's rail was too hot to touch and paint bubbled on the deck. La Vita puffed on his cigar and watched with some regret as the Welcome family left the Southern Maid. He felt sure that if the voyage had lasted a little longer he would have succeeded in getting on even more intimate terms with Laura Welcome. She had interested him. She seemed to possess a sensuality that simmered under the reserve and formality all the English seemed to wear like a cloak. He flicked his cigar butt into Woolloomooloo Bay, crossed his legs and instantly forgot Laura. That was another of his characteristics—quick recovery from wounds to the heart.
"Well, Eduardo," he said in his heavily accented English to the boy sitting beside him, "time we looked at this funny country, don't you think?"
"Yes," Edward Gulliver said. He had been puzzled by almost everything that had happened since the ship left Colombo. His mother and father dead, his two brothers and sister whisked away by unseen hands. Only Ferdinand La Vita was left in his life. He did not understand why the tall, dark man had stayed close to him and made sure that he was fed.
"But first we have to see the doctor again."
"I don't want to see him. He took Carl away."
"The doctor is simpatico," La Vita said. "All will be well."
La Vita stood by as the doctor and quarantine officers prodded and examined Edward. They went into a huddle after the examination; the doctor accepted several printed forms from the government men and nodded his agreement to their proposal.
"The boy will have to spend some time at the quarantine station," Dr Anderson said.
La Vita protested. "Why? He is perfectly healthy."
"It's for his own good. The authorities need time to decide what's to be done with him."
"His father entrusted him to me."
Anderson looked sceptically at La Vita. His linen suit, although threadbare and soiled, had been cut with too much care for the doctor's taste, and his waistcoat had a suspicious sheen to it. "Do you have anything in writing to that effect, Mr La Vita?"
La Vita turned haughtily away, cursing at the arrogance of the Anglo-Celts. Although born in Bolivia, he had been partly educated among such clods in London and he knew that their prejudices were immovable. "I will try to explain your attitude to him," he said over his shoulder. "Perhaps we could have a few minutes in private."
Anderson was touched. The plight of the Gullivers tempered his deepest prejudices. "I'm grateful for your concern, Mr La Vita. These children have suffered a terrible loss. I'll leave Edward in your care for a day or so if you're willing to remain aboard."
La Vita nodded and beckoned to Edward. "Twice around the deck, Eduardo, for your health."
The man and the boy left the doctor's quarters; they enjoyed the privilege of passing along the second class corridors, now almost empty of passengers, and climbed the iron steps to the deck. When they were out in the afternoon sunlight La Vita lit one of his few remaining cigars. "We are going to have an avventura," La Vita said. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Edward had grown used to La Vita's accent, his strange words and odd pronunciations. "An adventure
? Yes, sir."
"Call me Tio. It means uncle. That's easy to say. Tio. You remember the word for yes?"
"Sí, Tio," Edward said. "I'd like an avventura. What is it?"
La Vita laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "We're going to jump ship. Get your things together."
La Vita had anticipated the official line and bribed one of the Southern Maids crew to make a dinghy available to him at sundown when the watches were slack. It meant landing illegally in the country with almost no money, but that was no novelty to Ferdinand La Vita. He packed his own bags—a valise and an old but good leather suitcase with solid straps. Among other things, the valise contained a Webley .45 revolver.
Under the cover of near darkness La Vita and Edward descended an iron ladder near the stern of the Southern Maid and dropped down into the waiting dinghy. The seaman had been untroubled by providing the boat. "It's the swimming off to get it that worries me," he told La Vita.
"Why?" the Bolivian had asked.
"Sharks."
Although he thought of himself as a man from the mountains, the Altiplato of Bolivia, La Vita could handle a boat. He had rowed on the Thames and the Cam and, as a natural athlete, all specialised physical co-ordinations came readily to him. He stroked easily towards the finger wharf a hundred yards from the ship. The seaman had told him about the loose security arrangements at the wharf gate, especially at eight p.m. on a Friday night when honest Australian workers were expected to be drunk, or nearly so. Alcohol was not one of La Vita's vices, a fact for which he had often had cause to be grateful. He had never yet been in a situation where it was a disadvantage to be sober, and Ferdinand La Vita had been in a large number of tight corners.
The dinghy bumped against the piles; there was just enough light left in the sky for La Vita to sight the ladder that led up to the wharf. "So, Eduardo, we are about to step ashore in Australia."
Edward hunted among his recollections of the many books Carl had read him for a parallel to this experience. "It's like Treasure Island," he said.