by Murray Bail
Two more couples arrived, the men with bottles.
‘Well,’ Andy Cheel said, ‘we might as well have a beer!’
Laughter. The sun was beaming. They began drinking.
The women were seated together, and pecked at the air like birds. I heard Frank Lloyd extroverting into Sampson’s ear. Tiny for his name, Sampson was in a bank somewhere, and accordingly grey. Nodding, he said, ‘This is right. This is right. Yes, this is right.’
Lloyd was in advertising and already into his third glass. He blew froth from the top of it. ‘Ahhh,’ he said, and half-closed his eyes.
The chairs were comfortable, the voices grew louder. Latecomers arrived. Norm Daniels and Lloyd realised they were friends of Ed Canning.
‘Come over here, you bastard,’ they said to him. Lloyd shouted, ‘Who’s the old bag you’ve got with you?’
‘Oh, you!’ said Canning’s wife. She was quite heavy, but pleased with Lloyd’s compliment.
‘Have a beer,’ he said, ‘Sid’s not here yet.’
And Bill Smallacombe, who was climbing at Myer’s, arrived without his wife.
I had a brief mental picture of Joy. In bed one night she sat up and said, ‘I saw Bill Smallacombe at lunch today with a young girl.’ She fell back disappointed, full of indignant thoughts; a brown-haired concerned wife is my Joy. As I watched the party I imagined Joy submitting to the sun on the sand, breasts flattened, lying there keeping an eye on young Geoffrey and Mark. She must be satisfied with my career so far and is privately contented when I rush to town on business.
They were all there now, and the drinking had loosened muscles, floated the mouth muscles, wobbling the sincerities. The perils of Sunday afternoon drinking! Ed Canning and Frank Lloyd had taken off their shirts, Lloyd’s wife loosened her blouse buttons, familiar back-slapping occurred; laughter, so much laughter. I noticed the bachelor Maunder began stealing beer from someone else’s glass. Bill Smallacombe drank heavily and kept going inside to use my lavatory. Clem Emery I could hear repeating the latest stock-market prices, and Sampson was complaining that his new concrete path had been ruined overnight by a neighbour’s dog.
‘What say we get stuck into the grub?’ yelled Andy Cheel.
They all crowded forward, chewed on their words, dropping sauce and bones on the lawn, and briefly my name.
‘Clear those bottles off the table, Ed, before they fall off,’ said Canning’s wife. She was wearing tight blue slacks.
Carrying four to each hand he lifted the bottles over legs, lawn, to dump them behind the garage. Two were dropped on the last load, and broke with an evil loudness. Someone called out, ‘He dropped his bundle!’ and they laughed and laughed.
Later, Ed’s wife said, ‘You should see their lounge!’
‘Those curtains I didn’t like,’ said Georgina Lloyd. ‘I suppose Joy picked them.’
‘I’ve been with her when she’s bought stuff that really makes you wonder,’ said Joan Daniels.
‘Where do you think they got to, anyway?’ she asked vaguely.
By about half past four the party was noisy. This was emphasised when the Watkins’ tennis game suddenly stopped. And from the corner of my eye I caught grey-haired Hedley next door creeping towards our fence. I waited. Hedley squatted down, peered between the planks at the goings-on. He hadn’t shaved over the weekend, he twitched his nose, and at one stage scratched between his legs. For a good fifteen minutes Hedley spied before retreating. At his door he said something to his wife, and they went inside. Directly over the road, half-hidden by cars, George Pollard on the footpath faced the direction of our house. The other neighbours were either out or had decided to display no interest at all.
‘Only a few bottles left,’ Cheel announced loudly. ‘Sid’s got Scotch inside, but we’d better not.’
‘Why not?’ asked Lloyd.
There was laughter at that, and I had to smile.
Lloyd touched Canning’s wife on her behind. ‘You old bag,’ he said. She allowed his arm to go around her neck as he lit a cigarette.
Lloyd later tried a hand-stand between two chairs, tricky at his middle age, and swung off balance, knocking chairs and breaking glasses. He landed on a pile of chop bones; he lay there sweating, his chest heaving.
‘When are you getting your pool?’ Georgina asked Clem Emery.
‘Say seven weeks. We’ll have a bit of a do one night.’
‘Yes, yes, don’t forget us,’ others shouted.
Then Smallacombe came wandering down to the tree. He stopped right at the foot, kicked a tin, grunted, and loudly urinated. The others glanced vaguely. Sampson turned, but it seemed natural enough, relieving yourself against a gum tree on a Sunday afternoon.
Frank Lloyd, trying to balance a bottle on the hairs of one arm, was pulled away by his wife. ‘Come on, darl. We must be off.’ She called to the rest, ‘We’ll be seeing you.’
‘Gawd, it’s twenty past six.’
The Daniels moved out with the Lloyds.
‘What about this mess?’
‘She’ll be right.’
Smallacombe belched.
‘Leave it.’
My tree was draughty. They had me bored. I wanted them to go, to leave my place. Why do they linger, sitting about?
Gradually they gathered sunglasses, car keys, their cardigans and handbags, and drifted up the drive in a sad fashion as if they were leaving a beach.
At the gate Ed Canning stopped and shouted, ‘I’ve never been so drunk in all my life!’ It was a voice of announcement, sincere, and clearly loud enough to reach my tree. My binoculars showed middle-aged, sunglassed Canning rigid with seriousness after his statement. Canning, the manager saving for boat and beach-house; his wife had begun yoga classes.
Finally, there was the accelerating procession of shining sedans, saloons, station wagons, stretching past my house. Most of them I noticed had tow bars fitted. Canning, Smallacombe, Cheel, Emery, Sampson, Maunder, etc. One of them sounded his horn three, four times in passing. Was it Smallacombe? He was one of my friends. A stillness occurred, a familiar hour was beginning, lights flickered. And sliding down the tree I had to think about: who would have sounded his horn at me?
Zoellner’s Definition
Definition. The action of determining a question at issue; an ecclesiastical pronouncement. A precise statement on the essential nature of a thing.
Name. The particular combination of vocal sounds employed as the individual designation of a single person or thing. To call a person or thing by the right name.
Zoellner’s mother (whose name was also Zoellner) decided to call him Leon. His father preferred ‘Max’, but today on the birth certificate (and other records stored in cabinets in scattered buildings) he is identified as Leon—Leon Zoellner. In Zoellner’s opinion the first name is an accessory only made necessary (perhaps) by the complicated world population. Whenever he thinks of the shape of himself he sees the word Zoellner. Like most people Zoellner is intrigued by the name which is used to identify him. In the telephone directory there was only one other Zoellner, an architect with initials R. L. whom he has never met. In Basil Cottle’s Dictionary of Surnames he found only three names beginning with Z: Zeal, Zeller and Zouch.
Man. An adult male person. The human creature regarded abstractly. The spiritual and material parts of a human person; hence applied to the physical frame of man.
Zoellner has all the appearance of a man.
Face. The front part of the head, from the forehead to the chin; the countenance as expressive of feeling or character; a countenance having a specific expression.
Countenance. Appearance, composure of face; comportment.
He seems to be in mourning, or remembering something; Zoellner has that troubled vagueness. He seems to be listening intently; or he is waiting for something. The face has filled, rounded, folded and settled more or less naturally into the shape of those requirements. There is also the established persistence of his years. This can suddenly fix
itself onto another face, or a foot, a metal object, a crowd, or a distant mountain. To be precise, Zoellner glances at these things too rapidly. He is keen. Strange though: looking in mirrors he has trouble describing himself. Perhaps Zoellner is tired of his familiar face, the disappointing lines, inevitable expressions.
Skin. The continuous flexible integument forming the usual covering of an animal body.
This is amazing stuff. The way it stretches and clings to the elaborate shape of Zoellner’s ears, and other parts. Hair grows straight through it without a corresponding leakage of blood. Around the lips, however, it sometimes bleeds after Zoellner shaves. His skin is grey like the stone of city buildings. But looking at himself he sees a vertical body capable of locomotion, and none of the fine details of skin.
Eyes. The organ of sight, sometimes including the surrounding parts. The faculty of perception or discrimination of visual objects.
Positioned in fluid his eyes move in his head. Juggled by soft wires, apparently, they move freely without pain. His are the colour of wet nuts. Zoellner is positive: he would prefer to be deaf than blind. He has a stubborn wonder at sunrises, pigeons wheeling out from trees, waterfalls (and rain overflowing from blocked gutters), women’s teeth, processions, huge wall paintings. Lately he has observed scenes of human misery, perhaps believing that the sight of horror and original emotions will reveal some of the foundations of knowledge. Zoellner has cried, but then most men have—or if they haven’t they have felt like it. Zoellner reads. Most of the words produce the same movement: a man chases after God, or a white whale, gold, butterflies, women, evil men, etc. Zoellner wonders why they bother arranging these words. Other books he reads have a man chasing mysterious abstractions such as love, truth, power, respect, revenge and reality. Zoellner stands before a mirror and stares at every section of his face. His eyes are deceived. To touch his left ear in the mirror it is first necessary to find his right ear. It always surprises him. When not reading or looking into mirrors he imagines himself: he sees his shape walking towards him.
Spectacled. Provided with or wearing spectacles. In names of birds and animals having spectacle-shaped markings or appearance of wearing spectacles.
At certain angles the glass reflects light to such a sudden extent that his eyes are invisible. The frames are brown plastic. Apparently they are necessary on his head. He removes them (he has this habit) and rubs his eyes. Zoellner’s eyesight is getting worse. When it is tested he is asked to recognise letters from his language printed in rapidly diminishing sizes on a wall-chart. He is not asked to recognise pictures or mountains, or a forest, or a person’s face.
Mouth. The external orifice in an animal body which serves for the ingestion of food, together with the cavity to which this leads, containing the apparatus of mastication and the organs for vocal utterance.
Usually this is horizontal and rather wide. Laughing, it twists and floats into a ragged circle; shaving, it is pulled into soft triangles; yawning, the slit becomes a black egg, and his teeth suddenly protrude into it. Zoellner’s laugh is sudden and shy; it is both generous and genuine. He is amazed that the skin of his lips is softer and different in colour from the rest of his face. Often he breathes through his mouth. He drops food down the cavity, chews it, rolls it to the back, swallows the ball, repeats. Actually Zoellner has stopped enjoying the taste of food. With his mouth he touches the lips of others. He has noticed more than once that conversations between people are composed of questions. Thinking about this he compresses lips, making the mouth tiny, the lips themselves are crammed with tiny vertical lines.
Voice. Sound formed in or emitted from the human larynx in speaking, singing or other utterance; vocal sound as the vehicle of human utterance or expression. Sounds regarded as characteristic of the person and as distinguishing him from another or others.
He moves his mouth. It may be said that Zoellner curls his voice around his words; each syllable softly rolls into the next: his words are furry at their extremities: the sentences encircle invisibly from the air. A careful voice, not very loud. Perhaps he is cynical about death? That is what his voice sounds like. Characteristically, after producing a statement he will question it by adding, ‘Mmmmm?’ Lately he has lowered his voice in mid-sentence; those listening lean forward, rustling slightly. He soon questions others to check their statements—if there is room, if it is possible. His words seem to point. The letter in his language most suited to his voice is the circular R. So the words are offered. He hears the noise of his own voice. And then the words are gone. He thinks that spoken words are proof of the present, however temporary. But not the past; for the words, always visible, are departed, untraceable. And not the future; for Zoellner has not yet moved his mouth to restart his voice.
Cigarette. A small cigar made of a little finely cut tobacco rolled up in thin paper, etc., for smoking.
Protruding from his face is the white tube made by a machine, its red tip alive with silver smoke. Zoellner sends the smoke down his throat and allows it to fill his body. There it enters the narrowest places and trails throughout. Zoellner half-closes his eyes. He has filled the spaces in his body with a cloud. It pours out from his nose.
Tooth. The hard processes within the mouth, attached in a row to each jaw in most vertebrates except birds, having points, edges or grinding surfaces, for the biting, tearing, or trituration of solid food. Teeth, pl. of TOOTH.
Zoellner does not feel comfortable (is always wondering) when cracking nuts with his teeth, although his teeth are described as ‘excellent’ by several dentists. He has only five repaired areas, or ‘fillings’ as they are called: steel rods, lights and drills are aimed into the mouth, the holes filled with compositions of mercury and a tenacious cement. These filled-in areas are visible only when Zoellner yawns. Teeth are usually vertical; they have the appearance of polished bones. In the middle stand the largest; but of these the one on Zoellner’s left is leaning across at an angle. The smoke of his cigarettes stains his teeth, the yellow most noticeable in the front. Zoellner has another habit: he closes his mouth and rubs the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. This of course cannot be seen by others, when the size, shape, colour and spacing of his teeth are also invisible.
Nose. That part of the head or face in men and animals which lies above the mouth and contains the nostrils.
The entrances to Zoellner’s nostrils are partially blocked by hairs: they also protrude outside his nose. His nostrils are dark and rather wide. The nose itself is not noticeably large, but appears to be soft and porous, caused (perhaps) by the hundreds of tiny black holes. These can be seen when standing very close to his face. There is nothing extraordinary about his nose, and Zoellner himself rarely thinks about it. When blowing through his nostrils into a cloth to remove mucus he hears the noise (as do others): high, briefly loud, shuffling towards the end. Zoellner wonders why that is necessary. Other animals: do they remove mucus? Lying near a woman his chin is above her head. Looking up she notices (at that rare angle) his nose as an unknown shape related more to the peculiar stub of his chin. From there his face has an over-rounded graven appearance, alien and unattractive. Zoellner touches the nose with his hand.
Ear. The organ for hearing in men and animals. Its parts are the external ear, the middle ear and the internal ear, or labyrinth.
His father had voiced these words years ago. ‘It is better that you have your ears cut off than never to learn what they are hung on your head for.’ They are in fact auxiliary devices jutting from the sides of the head, partially obscured by hair. His ears are a deep red compared to the rest of his face. Zoellner sees that they are growing larger and more bulbous (bloated, bumpier) with his age. Still visible is the mildly circular labyrinth which must channel notes of an orchestra into his brain. These ridges also collect wind and dust. He listens to the actions and voices which surround him. It is necessary sometimes to turn his ear in the noise’s direction. Noise, to him, seems true and solid, so true that it is unav
oidable; it is, however, his most temporary indicator of time and reality. He touches his ears. Pinching with his fingers the flesh is insensitive.
Hair. The filaments that grow from the skin or integument of animals, esp. of most mammals, of which they form the characteristic coat.
The hair on Zoellner’s head is falling out as if he had stood too near to some nuclear blast. In the mornings he wakes up with strands of rejected hair beside him. The edge of his hair is retreating towards the back of his head. Its colour has changed to muddy grey and gaps reveal raw skin. Worse, he sees that the whiskers around his chin are hardly growing. It is necessary to shave only every three days. He watches his face in the mirror. The hair on top of his head is cut regularly by another man.
Arm. The upper limb of the human body, from the shoulder to the hand; the part from the elbow downwards being the forearm.
The length and position of the arms establish his proportions. He thinks of other animals. When he stands his arms hang at his sides and bend out where portions touch his body, the tips of his fingers finish halfway between his groin and knee. His arms swing as he walks and he seems to lean forward for balance. He points, shakes hands; he has many times placed an arm around waists and shoulders of men and women. He leans on his elbow. Out of habit Zoellner uses his right arm more than his left. He writes with that hand.
Leg. One of the organs of support and locomotion in an animal body; in narrowest sense, the part of the limb between knee and foot.
His legs are now thin and pale, although invisible beneath layers of cloth. They carry him along the street in the evening. There his shape is seen moving between the immovable flat surfaces of buildings. He walks without thinking of his movement; one leg jerks ahead of the other. His mind has migrated his body to some other place, another complicated situation. And he seems oblivious. The street is coated in a thick yellow light.