“Dogs, in the end,” he said, “are much like human beings. That is not a platitude, exactly. What I mean is, they lack perception. When one had heard differently.”
“The poor buggers,” said Arthur, “are only dogs. I love them!”
The rangier, the more shameless they grew, lifting their legs on furniture when men weren’t looking, or even when they were, the more often was Arthur driven to scrabble on the floor amongst them, to grab himself an armful of dog, to plant his nose in one or other of the moist-blackberry noses so that he and dog were one.
Then Waldo would rush into their midst, putting the boot into those dogs.
“Do you think this is what we got them for?” he took to shouting.
“What did we get them for?” asked Arthur.
A big, porous, trembly lily, he was terrified for the fate of their dogs.
“What?” moaned Arthur.
Waldo could not always answer.
He once gasped: “Obviously not for copulation.”
Then when his panting had subsided, and he had thought it out: “Why,” he said finally, “to protect us from those who, those who,” he said, “make a habit, or profession, of breaking and entering.”
On that occasion Mrs Poulter was forced across the road, hands in the sleeves of her cardigan, to speak.
“You two men and your dogs!” she said. “To listen to you, anyone’ud think there was still a war on.”
Waldo’s guilt at being reminded was not less than his irritation at somebody else’s facetiousness.
The peace, he remembered, had caught up with him a couple of years after his momentous transfer to the Public Library. The new building was still smelling of varnish and rubber. By comparison with those of the old Municipal, the books themselves appeared new, or at least, the condition of their readers had not been ground into them. So Waldo could only feel quietly pleased. Particularly did he appreciate the discreet, the hallowed atmosphere of the Mitchell attached — all those brown ladies studying Australiana, and crypto-journalists looking up their articles for the Saturday supplements.
For a short time before, and especially during, the brief and ecstatic orgasm with Peace, Waldo’s faith in man revived. Several of his colleagues at the Library appeared to be discovering the subtler qualities in Mr Brown as they strolled with their lunchtime cigarettes, along the railings, or into the gardens and a glare of public statuary. Merely by their choosing them, such intellectual concepts and moral problems as they happened to discuss were at once made urgent and original.
“What does Mr Brown think?” Miss Glasson might enquire, to draw him in.
And Cornelius and Parslow, also, seemed to expect his participation.
There were mornings, fuzzed with gold, splotched like crotons, when Waldo found difficulty in breathing the already over-pollinated air, and would return to his table almost spinning on his heels, stirring the change in his pocket, slightly more than intellectually excited. It was the times in which they were living, of course. Because at his age, whatever he noticed in the behaviour of a certain type of gross business minotaur, to entertain sexual expectations would have been neither prudent nor dignified. Consequently, when Miss Glasson, so well balanced in her golfing shoes, and protected by her grubby finger-nails, asked him to her flat at Neutral Bay to drink coffee and listen to Brahms, he refused after giving it consideration. It was too far from Terminus Road, he could always explain. Miss Glasson blushed, and Waldo appreciated at least her sensibility. He was sorry about Miss Glasson. Whose two or three stories had been accepted by The Bulletin. (She had asked him to call her Honor, but he couldn’t.)
Cornelius, that rather ascetic Jew, heard that Mr Brown lived at Sarsaparilla, and wasn’t he perhaps acquainted with a certain family.
Waldo interrupted to explain that his own family had made too great a demand on his time.
And Parslow. Parslow, who remarked that by next Sunday he should have wangled petrol enough to drive out through Sarsaparilla, with Merle, and perhaps look in, Parslow had to be choked off. Because Mr Brown of the intellectual breathers in the Botanic Gardens must never be confused with the subfusc, almost abstract figure, living on top of a clogged grease-trap and the moment of creative explosion, under the arches of yellow grass, down Terminus Road. Waldo Brown, in whom these two phenomena met on slightly uneasy terms, would have suffered too great a shock on looking out, from behind his barricade of words and perceptions, to discover some familiar stranger approaching his less approachable self — as happened once, but later.
So Waldo, who was in frequent demand, continued to refuse, on principle, by formula.
To submit himself to the ephemeral, the superficial relationships might damage the crystal core holding itself in reserve for some imminent moment of higher idealism. Just as he had avoided fleshly love — while understanding its algebra, of course — the better to convey eventually its essence. He had the greatest hopes of what they had begun to refer to as the Peace. Remembering Miss Glasson’s success with The Bulletin (though you could never tell; she might have been somebody’s cousin or niece) Waldo almost wrote, not an article, more of an essay, embodying his reactions to the Peace. Searching the faces in the streets for reflexions of his own sentiments, he almost composed a poem. But men were either dull or dazed, incapable of rising to the ecstasies of abstract more-than-joy — die Freude, in fact — which he could not help visualizing as a great and glittering fountain-jet rising endlessly skyward — never, till then, plopping back into reality.
He was so exhilarated.
Then the Peace, the crucial moment, came, and naturally it brought its disappointments. It had its mundane aspects. It was a grand opportunity for everyone to get drunk as though they hadn’t done it before. Waldo accepted to drink a glass of something at a pub down near the Quay with Parslow and Miss Glasson, though he had not cared for Parslow since his colleague’s projected, practically immoral, assault on his private self. As he chose a port-wine, Waldo wondered whether Parslow realized the degree of his forgiveness.
On that night, when he unavoidably missed his usual train, swamped as he was by the chaos of drunken faces, hatched and cross-hatched in light and lust, laughing right back to their gold, singing, sweating, almost everybody dancing as though it came naturally to them, Waldo was accosted by a woman in Bent Street. On such an occasion, he decided, he must return at least a token civility by listening to her. But how relieved he felt that Arthur was not present to pervert an already dubious situation.
It was not a question of listening, however, for the woman, of vague age and positive colours, her face and body blown up over-lifesize by drink and emotion, fastened her greasy lips on his mouth, and as though she had been a vacuum cleaner, practically sucked him down. Waldo had such control of himself he was able to laugh afterwards while re-adjusting his hat.
The reeling woman refused to believe in failure on such a night.
“Come down by the water, brother,” she invited with her body as well as with her tongue, “under oner those Moreton Bay ffiggs, and we’ll root together so good you’ll shoot out the other side of Christmas.”
But Waldo declined.
And so did the Peace. Though not at once. On his way home from work some weeks later, still intellectually drunk on that idealism which an almost blank future can inspire, Waldo bought the doll for Mrs Poulter. Certainly it was cheap, considering its size, and rather ugly. Nor did Mrs Poulter come spontaneously to mind, more the desire to exercise his generosity on some unspecified human being. Then, who else, finally, but Mrs Poulter? There could not have been anyone else.
All the way home in the train Waldo was conscious of the huge doll lying on his lap, and of the eyes of his fellow passengers boring through paper wrapping and cardboard box. Long before Lidcombe he resented buying what had started as a bargain and a gesture. The dolls were being offered at one of the stores to demonstrate the versatility of plastics. So that he might enjoy the reality of plastic flesh the young lady at the c
ounter had even undressed the doll for Waldo, and buttoned her up again in what she referred to as “the little lass’s bubble-nylon gown.” Waldo’s first qualms set in. The continued weight of the doll on his crotch did not lighten them. Nor was it probable that the idealism or the outlay of his gesture would be appreciated at the other end.
Mrs Poulter, less firm than fleshy now, warier of spontaneity, still lived in the house across the road built by her husband and the lad from Sarsaparilla soon after their arrival. The speed and necessity of its construction had possibly given it that abrupt look, not so much of house, as of houseboat moored in a bay of grass. Never putting out in its semblance of boat, the alternate illusion of house had been strengthened by fuchsias and geraniums springing up to dare the waves.
Even so, several times a day, Mrs Poulter used to come on deck, and lean upon the gunwale of her boat, in her capacity as captain and look-out. It would have been tempting, Waldo thought in rasher moments, to ask Mrs Poulter what she had done with her telescope. Although not exactly inquisitive, her eye clearly yearned to see farther than it could.
On the evening Waldo brought the doll down Terminus Road Mrs Poulter was, as a matter of course, leaning on her gunwale. Whether Bill Poulter was at home or not, Waldo had no time to consider. The speed of events was carrying him along, and the obscure, by now half-frozen desire to present the wretched doll. He was appalled by Mrs Poulter’s cheeks alone, which by this period had started turning mauve.
“Good-evening, Mrs Poulter,” Waldo said.
And then stood. Time had stuck for the two of them. Nor did their familiar surroundings offer for the moment any sign that it might be set going again.
It was Mrs Poulter’s smile which released them both, for it could not be stretched indefinitely, but snapped back into its normally perished self.
“I brought,” Waldo began to eruct, “I lugged this thing all the way down Terminus Road, and think you had better have it as — well, there isn’t anybody else.”
Mrs Poulter did not retreat, for after all it was a good-will offering, not a bludgeon, he was handing, or thrusting, over the gunwale.
She had turned practically puce. She was licking her lips for the brown parcel. Her fingers were fiddling to no effect.
“What — a present, Mr Brown?” she said. “I don’t know what I done to deserve it. Not a present.”
Waldo could not have felt more foolish if he had been sure Bill Poulter was inside. Or Arthur behind their own hedge. What would Arthur, what would anybody think? When, after all, there was no cause.
While Mrs Poulter, clutching her parcel, was again overtaken by paralysis.
“I don’t know, I don’t really.”
Presently he got away, and Mrs Poulter went inside, but although he waited behind their protective hedge in the dusk, there was no indication of what she might have felt on unpacking the huge plastic doll.
Nor was there ever any. Never.
Mrs Poulter continued to come on deck, and nod and smile, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her cardigan, above the fuchsias and geraniums which attempted to disguise her houseboat. The sight, and the thought of it all, made Waldo sweat.
So he got to resent Mrs Poulter, and everyone else who made mysteries as the Peace declined. He began to hate the faces leering and blearing at him in the streets. He hated, in retrospect, Crankshaw and his priests. He hated his brother Arthur, although, or perhaps because, Arthur was the thread of continuity, and might even be the core of truth.
Some years later, when they got them, he hated Arthur’s dogs — though technically one of them was his own. If anyone, thinking of his good, had been interested enough to accuse Waldo Brown of neglecting his responsibilities to his fellow men, nobody could have accused the dogs of neglecting theirs: in being, in reminding at least one of their owners of the exasperation, the frustration of life, in farting and shitting under his nose, in setting beneath his feet traps of elastic flesh and electric fur, to say nothing of iron jaws, in chewing up bank notes, and far more precious, the sheets of thoughts which escaped from his mind — lost for ever. So the whole purpose of the dogs, together with Arthur, seemed to be to remind, constantly to remind.
Then there was the visit, more ominous still, because less expected, more oblique in execution, undoubtedly malicious in conception.
It was a couple of years after they got the dogs that the strange man pushed the gate which never quite fell down. It was a Sunday, Waldo would remember, the silence the heavier for insects. The thickset man came up the path. He was the colour and texture of certain vulgar but expensive bricks, and was wearing tucked into his open shirt one of those silk scarves which apparently serve no other purpose than to stop the hair from bursting out. If it had not been for his vigour, the burly stranger, who inclined towards the elderly by Waldo’s calculating, might have been described as fat. But with such purposefulness animating his aggressive limbs, solid was the more accurate word. Waldo had begun to envy the artificial gloss which streamed from the stranger’s kempt head, and the casual fit of his fashionable clothes, so that it came as a relief to spot one of those zips which might one day get stuck beyond retrieve in some public lavatory, and to realize that, with such a build, in a year or two, a stroke would probably strike his visitor down.
If visitor he were. And not some busybody of an unidentified colleague. Or blackmailer in search of a prey. Or or. Waldo racked his memory, and was racked.
He found himself by now in the dining-room, that dark sanctuary at the centre of the house, from the safety of which on several occasions he had enjoyed watching with Mother the antics of someone unwanted, Mrs Poulter for instance, roaming round by congested paths, snatched at by roses. Only now, with Mother gone, the game had lost some of its zest, he had forgotten some of the rules. The Peace, moreover, had so far receded he couldn’t help wishing the dogs hadn’t gone trailing after Arthur, that they might appear round the corner, and while Scruffy held the stranger up, Runt tear the seat out of his insolent pants.
For the man had begun to knock, and ask: “Anyone at home?” then growing braver, or showing off, to rattle, and shout: “Anyone in hiding?”
Waldo sincerely wished Mother had been there to deal with things, especially as a woman, more of a female, whether the stranger’s wife or not, was following him up the path. She walked with the quizzical ease of a certain type of expensive woman Waldo had never met, only smelt, and once touched in a bus. She walked smiling, less for any person, than for the world in general and herself. Which was foolish of her when you knew how the axe could fall.
“Perhaps you’ve made a mistake,” the woman said rather huskily, touching her hair, and looking around at nothing more than a summer afternoon.
She was wearing a lime-green dress of more than necessary, though diaphanous, material. Raised to her hair, her arm, exposing the dark shadow of its pit, was a slightly dusty brown. Under his dressing-gown, Waldo got the shivers.
“No, I tell you!” the man insisted.
He continued rattling the door-knob, till he left off to thwack a window-pane with the crook of one of his blunt fingers.
“I can’t believe anyone really lives in it,” said the woman in her inalterably husky voice.
Waldo was sure he had heard somewhere that huskiness of voice was an accompaniment of venereal disease. So however good the stranger might be having it with his wife or whore there was retribution to come. Waldo nearly bit his lip.
But much as he regretted the stranger’s presence and relationship, he thrilled to the evocations of the woman’s voice as she stood amongst the lived-out rosemary bushes, humming, smelling no doubt of something exotic, Amour de Paris out of the pierrot bottle, holding her head up to the light, which struck lime-coloured down, at her breasts, and into her indolent thighs. The result was he longed to catch that moment, if he could, not in its flesh, oh no, but its essence, or poetry, which had been eluding him all these years. The silver wire was working in him ferociously now
.
At least the long cry in his throat grew watery and obscure. Mercifully it was choked at birth.
Again memory was taking a hand. He remembered it was that boy, that Johnny Haynes, they could have cut each other’s throats, telling him behind the dunny to watch out for hoarse-voiced men and women, they were supposed to be carriers of syph.
Waldo might have continued congratulating himself on this piece of practical information, if the man hadn’t just then shouted at the woman:
“But I know it is! It’s the place all right. I’d bet my own face. There’s that erection they had my old man stick on top because they wanted what Waldo’s dad used to call a ‘classical pediment’. I ask you!”
But the woman apparently did not care to be asked. She remained indifferent. Or ignorant.
It was Waldo who was moved, not by the materialization of Johnny Haynes, but by the motion of his own life, its continual fragmentation, even now, as Johnny, by his blow, broke it into a fresh mosaic. All sombre chunks, it seemed. Of an old blue-shanked man under his winter dressing-gown, which he wore because the house was dark and summer slow in penetrating.
So it was only natural he should continue hating Haynes, clopping like a stallion with his mare all round the house, staring vindictively at it from under his barbered eyebrows — what vanity — as though he intended to tear bits of the woodwork off. Waldo remembered reading some years earlier, before the demands of his own work had begun to prevent him following public affairs, that Johnny Haynes was going to the top, that he had become a member of parliament — if you could accept that sort of thing as the top — and been involved in some kind of shady business deal. Exonerated of course. But. You could tell. Only gangsters dressed their women like that.
Then, edging round the secure fortress of the dining-room, Waldo saw that Johnny had come to a stop in the yard. After kicking at the house once or twice, to bring it down, or relieve his frustration, the visitor appeared the victim of a sudden sentimental tremor.
“I would have been interested,” he grumbled, “to take a look at old Waldo. And the dill brother. The twin.”
The Solid Mandala Page 20