The Doubleman

by Christopher Koch

  ‘Bela talks too much,’ she said. ‘He shouldn’t have said that about your leg. You had polio as a child?’

  They were very personal and direct, these people.

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry about Bela,’ I said. ‘I like him. Besides, I’m used to it. I’ve been crippled a long time.’

  ‘You aren’t crippled.’ She sounded suddenly almost angry, and I saw that her moods changed by the moment. ‘You scarcely limp at all,’ she said. ‘Look at Jaan. He was knocked down by a car when he was six, and he’ll never walk again. He was a perfect little boy before that. You should be thankful, not sorry. Calling yourself a cripple may make you become one.’

  She couldn’t see me flush, in the dark. There was a sudden outburst of seagulls’ voices from below on the Harbour, and we both started.

  ‘They fight over scraps,’ I said; I hardly knew what I was saying, and she looked back at me solemnly.

  ‘I think we should say goodnight.’

  She unlocked her glass doors; I unlocked mine. It was ridiculous, and perhaps she thought so too. Glancing sideways, I saw her glance back; she released a faint breath of laughter, and went in.

  7

  Martin Gadsby’s party was at eight o’clock. I discovered that his apartment was in Berkeley Towers, whose high, orange-tiled rooftop and little turrets, cut against the Harbour’s many-coloured skies, I had so often contemplated from my humble niche on the arcade. The coincidence didn’t surprise me, it was the sort of address I expected him to have; many broadcasting people lived in this area.

  On Saturday night, ‘Twist and Shout’ thundered out over the district as usual just as I finished dressing, and the festive voices began to murmur in the upper air as sunset tinted my room. It took me only two minutes to walk along Elizabeth Bay Road to Berkeley Towers, passing the Keep Out sign by the wrought-iron gates. Making my way down a hallway on the fourteenth floor, I found this level to be filled with the same amplified rock music — much louder now. The tune had changed to ‘All Shook Up’. Was it possible that it came from Gadsby’s? Why would an elderly director of radio drama be playing rock music at his party?

  My knock was answered by a big, fleshily handsome man of about thirty-five, holding a drink. When he flung open the door the noise was deafening.

  ‘Rich-ard Miller! Yes? We’ve been expecting you. I’m Rod Ferguson.’ He was like a joyous butler, his pink face glowing with controlled delight; he radiated pink and silver, his beautifully-barbered hair ash-blond and grey. He ushered me in, shouting in my ear. ‘Sorry about the show. I hope you don’t mind watching.’

  When I looked bewildered, he gestured across the large, dim living-room towards a TV set, on which the contorted face of Sydney’s favourite rock star, Mick Jordan, was coming to climax in close-up. So it was from here that the music emanated, and not from a record-player. ‘“Eight O’Clock Rock”,’ Rod shouted proudly. ‘My show: I produce it. We always watch it go to air at Martin’s. He loves it.’

  ‘I never miss it either,’ I shouted. ‘I couldn’t if I tried.’ He pointed his finger in mock horror. ‘You live down below, don’t you?’

  Martin Gadsby appeared in front of us, his gleaming white shirt fresh from the iron, a Paisley scarf knotted at his throat. He shook my hand, and held it. ‘Hello, son. You look startled. I hope you’re not snobbish about rock and roll? We love it. And Mick Jordan’s marvellous, don’t you think?’ He made further remarks, but I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying, being distracted by the scene at his back; then he was gone again. The room was very large; its only light came from the fast, spectacular Sydney sunset which was reaching its penultimate stage of deep orange, out through the big windows. Twenty or so people were standing about with drinks, most of them actors and actresses I recognised, dressed with carefully casual smartness. But among them danced limber, alien figures who appeared at first to be naked.

  The girls wore minute bikinis; the youths had on briefs that were little more than G-strings. Oblivious of the stares and smiles that followed them, they writhed and twisted about the room, and made wild cries in worship of Mick Jordan. They only looked self-conscious in the intervals when the music stopped.

  Talking with Rod Ferguson by the windows in one of these intervals, I watched a nude, self-conscious youth with tattoos on both arms being engaged by the perfectly-dressed Gadsby in measured conversation; uncertain of what to do with his hands, he began in desperation to twirl the hair in an armpit.

  ‘How do you like our rockers?’ Rod asked. ‘We always get a few up here for the show. They’re a good guide to how the programme’s going. If they like it—’ He raised his thumb, and smiled.

  ‘Where do you get them from?’

  ‘Around the Cross. We bring them off the streets. They don’t give any trouble, or else they don’t get asked again; and they want to be asked. Martin insists they wear the swimsuits — it gives us a free floor show. They get issued with them at the door.’

  I began to question him about the techniques of television production; from this we passed on to theatre, and found our opinions compatible. We talked for perhaps half an hour, drinking Scotch, during which time I was constantly conscious of the height I stood on. It was like being in an airship, up here near the turrets of Berkeley Towers, and the view was even more spectacular than I’d imagined below in the arcade; Beaumont House with its slate roof and Italianate tower looked small from up here. Sydney is a city of hills, but all of them are low, so that the only way to see its extent is to get on top of a high building. From Gadsby’s apartment, the sheer, intricate size of the landlocked Harbour was opened out: the whole twenty-one square miles of bays, urban headlands and peninsulas of olive-green bush, unravelling to the Heads and the Pacific. Although electric lights teemed on the many foreshores, the vast, milky blue of the water with its traffic of ships and small craft could still be made out, as well as the orange roofs of terracotta suburbs, drowning in twilight.

  ‘Eight O’Clock Rock’ was over; softer music came from a record player to which the naked rockers still writhed, and Rod Ferguson’s voice, speaking directly in my ear, was now more distinct. What he said startled me; but since I was somewhat drunk, it seemed to come to me through a baffle.

  ‘So you’re going to join us, Richard. Another recruit for Aunty ABS.’ I looked at him; his theatrical jollity had vanished; his gaze was fixed on me with the professional interest of an executive. Suddenly I was being interviewed; or was it a parody of an interview? My head swam with whisky.

  ‘There must be plenty of others in the race,’ I said. ‘I’m not counting on anything yet.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand, Mr Miller.’ He beamed with quick, well-crafted benevolence, his gaze insistent. ‘I’m on the interviewing committee, and I’m prepared to take Martin’s word about you. He’s very impressed. The rest is formalities.’

  I stood still, trying to look gratified and sober; what he had just said would sink in fully later. Darkness had set in, and the only light in the room at our backs came from a single standard lamp. Still standing by the window, we were looking through our reflections into the sky, where stars rose and burned. Far below on the Harbour a thicker light glowed in ships’ portholes: Navy destroyers off Taronga Park; freighters from Europe and Asia anchored off Cremorne Point. Ferries scurried quickly to the north shore and back, like lit-up clockwork toys.

  ‘It’s a great town, isn’t it?’ Rod said, and his congratulatory hand fell briefly on my shoulder. Without a pause, he went on: ‘ABS is a funny place, matey. You may begin by directing everything from the kiddies’ serials to King Lear. But where you go from there is up to you. Maybe you won’t get stuck in radio for ever — even though Martin thinks it’s the only artistic medium.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t misunderstand me — Martin’s a great old radio man, and I love him — but television’s the future. It’s hard for the older ones to adjust who grew up with radio — but a young bloke like you would be crazy not to go with
TV eventually. If you ever get interested, come and see me.’

  He was looking out through the glass, or perhaps at our reflections, his patron’s hand on my shoulder, his bulk making me look thin and starved: the Prince in his tower, being munificent to a vagabond.

  Some time later, when the party had ebbed a little, I found Gadsby at the open door of a bedroom off the hallway, handing out briefs to a new crop of male rockers who had come in late. Nude figures laughed raucously in there, capering about while he stood in contemplation — cigarette in mouth, now and then releasing a discreet little cough, or patting his bleached yellow hair.

  ‘Hello, son. Would you like to slip on a pair yourself?’ He chuckled through his cigarette, and then looked faintly embarrassed. ‘No, well perhaps not.’ He became suddenly serious, a hand under my elbow, leading me away from the doorway of temptations.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got to know Rod, he’s important to you. We’ll be writing to you soon. I think we’ll have you with us in the Department.’

  I began to thank him, and he patted my arm. He was more fatherly than lascivious, I saw; the beseeching look of friendliness had come back into his eyes. ‘Enough said for now. We’ve still got to go through the hoops: an interview and so on. But your life ought to change, soon. No more hand-to-mouth, eh, dear boy?’

  He was uncomfortably perspicacious, I thought; he knew exactly what he was rescuing me from, and the importance of what he was giving me.

  ‘You live in that seedy guest house next door, don’t you? Bloody eyesore; used to be a fine old house. These scruffy DPs will ruin the district before long,’ he said. Like many of his generation, he was a Blimp about foreigners, it seemed; Bela’s palazzo was dismissed.

  ‘You’ll soon be out of there when you join Aunty. I think you’ll find the salary we’ll give you will let you do better.’

  I made no comment; I was able to half enjoy his snobbery, since this was my night of triumph. But it appeared that there might soon be appearances to keep up in my private life, and I was touched with a faint unease; I’d grown fond of Beaumont House, and just for a moment I thought of the Vildes, and felt obscurely ashamed.

  As we went back into the living-room, Gadsby said: ‘Rod can teach you a lot, even though he’s a TV man — keep in touch with him. But for God’s sake, don’t think of going into that vulgar television yourself.’ His expression had become almost threatening; had he overheard us talking? Carefully, I assured him I was only interested in radio production.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and his face softened again. Cigarette in mouth, his fast mutter went on. ‘The bloody morons want to turn on pictures now the way they turn on hot water, and have all the work done for them. But to listen to words and build everything from sound: that takes imagination. There must be a few people left with imagination, mustn’t there, son?’

  As I came back along the arcade to my room, I saw that someone was standing by the balustrade down at the end, looking out over the Harbour. None of the rooms showed lights through their doors, so I came quite close before I recognised Katrin Vilde.

  She wore the same close-fitting black frock as the other night: perhaps she’d just come home from a singing engagement in one of the migrant clubs. She turned as I approached; it was too dark to see her expression clearly, and yet I had the impression that her smile was willed.

  ‘You’re all dressed up,’ she said. ‘Have you been to a party?’

  I told her I had; I even pointed up to Gadsby’s lighted windows, and told her about him. I was full of whisky and elation, and found myself announcing that I had the ABS job.

  She grew animated at this, her face lighting up as though the good fortune were hers. ‘I knew you’d get it,’ she said. She asked many questions; they weren’t insolent and probing as Bela Beaumont’s were, but I felt purpose behind them; her high-arched brows betrayed small, enigmatic assessments. ‘Won’t you have to compete with others, before this position is decided?’ she asked.

  I told her what Rod Ferguson had said, and she listened carefully.

  ‘Yes, it’s quite plain. The old man has a lot of power, and he is giving you the job because he finds you attractive.’

  In spite of the truth of this, I grew somewhat nettled. Gadsby could hardly appoint me if I had no ability, I said, no matter what his sentiments.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said calmly. ‘He appoints you because he can see you have talent, but also because you’re attractive to him. Both things are true. There’s nothing wrong with it. That’s how the world is.’

  This revelation of European realism both mollified and impressed me. Then her mood changed again.

  ‘You’ll forget your poor migrant friends,’ she said, ‘now that you’re becoming a big producer.’ The joke was not just a joke; I heard wistfulness in her voice.

  I seized my opportunity, and asked her to come out to dinner with me the following evening.

  8

  For nearly nine years, the memory of Deirdre Dillon had prevented me from caring permanently for anyone else. Not a month had gone by in all those years when I didn’t think of her.

  This isn’t to say that I lived always in a state of hopeless yearning, or that I didn’t otherwise enjoy life. But Deirdre was always there, in the back of my mind. I would take out her photograph sometimes and study it, and she would smile back at me roguishly, poised with her long cigarette-holder, creating exquisite regret. As I read the inscription on the back of the black-and-white print, it was as though she spoke in my ear, in her low, intimate voice. (The twenties!!) Her twenties headband and beads, as well as the deep swell of Time, reduced the reality of this figure, as the years went by. A strange young woman at a party, she looked at me from out of another decade, another life: someone I should long ago have forgotten. Yet my love affairs all came to nothing, and every girl was measured against the image of Deirdre Dillon. If I finally drew back from a relationship, Deirdre was the reason; and if a girl grew tired of me, it was because she sensed the presence of Deirdre — or so I told myself. Even then, I sometimes suspected that the memory I nurtured with such sickly care was no real memory at all, since memory implies reality recollected, and this was something else: something other; something more and something less. But then I would dismiss the thought; I would summon up my devotion with renewed intensity; I would patch any weak point in the wall of my obsession.

  At the time when I met Katrin Vilde, I was still privately casting myself as the survivor of a blighted love affair; and if anyone had told me that there really had been no love affair, I would have grown angry. I thought then that my fixation had begun at Greystones, when Deirdre and I had met. It was all very simple, and appealingly wistful; she and I had been ideal lovers, barred from each other for ever by her bad marriage, and by the gap in our ages. But I was wrong, hopelessly wrong. I should have looked much further back: I should have recalled the Red Room, and the Mask of Paralysis, which had spared me so narrowly. I ought to have thought more deeply about the Barrow World of Faery, and asked myself why I had longed for it, and why I had cast Deirdre as its queen.

  When Katrin and I began to go out together, I realised that she was someone whom the image of Deirdre was unlikely to devalue; and I began to think myself cured.

  There were certain people, I believed, who made us know instantly that they would change our lives, and that our depths were known to them. These were people who were descended from what I thought of as prototypes; figures from another time. And the little shock we experienced on meeting such a person was in fact the recognition of the prototype: that other image behind the face in front of us, seen as though through a distorting glass.

  Where had we first encountered these prototypes? In dreams; in an earlier life, I said — never in this one. I thought about this often, on Bela Beaumont’s arcade, as my feeling for Katrin Vilde grew. Perhaps it was when one met and recognised the descendant of a prototype that one truly fell in love; and the experience was all the more intense when t
he loved one was superficially different from oneself. Opposites did attract, but only when commonality was hidden underneath. This was the paradox that made for fatal piquancy and force: the long-beloved face beneath the new beloved’s mask; the marvellous sub-soil of the familiar, recognised with joy, shared like childhood, potent as ancestry: the prototype whom our own prototype had known.

  On our first night out, I took her to a Hungarian restaurant in the Cross. It was cheap and musty, with an aggrieved waiter, hard wooden seats and candles stuck in Chianti bottles, and we were perfectly happy there. We began a dialogue which continued without flagging over the next few weeks — sometimes in the restaurants and streets of the Cross, sometimes in her grandfather’s flat, where she invited me frequently for coffee.

  Although we were foreign to each other, we had significant things in common, we found. Our different childhoods, in a small city in Tasmania and a town in South Germany, were like two shards from the same pot. We came from the same temperate zones, at opposite ends of the earth — touched by soft, elusive lights unknown in Sydney. We were both strangers in this latitude, we said, whose radiance in the end was like the glare of delirium; we shared the same homesickness.

  Katrin and Jaan and the widowed Andres Vilde had come out to Australia in 1951 on the Goya: one of those warships the Americans had converted into crude passenger liners for the transport of refugees. Painted white for its new role, the Goya had carried East Europeans to Australia from the DP camps of Germany; and the Vildes came from a camp in Dillingen-on-the-Danube. In Vilde’s cramped flat, seated on a straight-backed chair, sipping Katrin’s coffee, I began to understand their past. The old man nodded and made brief interjections, usually in Estonian, prompting Katrin. Once, I had longed for unknown Europe: the Tuscany of the Franciscan, and Fra Filippo Lippi; the Germany of forests and castles, in my books at Trent Street. Now here was Europe in exile; Europe at second-hand.