I knock once more. Then I twist the doorknob. It turns in my hand. The door opens a few inches. My heart is hammering so hard I feel faint. 'Simon?' I stand in the doorway. My voice is loud in the silence. I push open the door a little further. There is just dim grey. I close my eyes a moment and open them, to get used to the dark. The blinds must all be down. I take a few steps into what seems to be the hallway. 'Simon?'
Carpet underfoot. I tread silently up the hall. Slowly. The silence feels inhabited. Like a held breath. And then I hear something. A creak of floorboards underfoot? Maybe it's just the groan of an old house. Maybe there are robbers, hiding in a wardrobe somewhere, behind a door. The sliding starts inside my head. I lean against the wall, palms laid out flat along it, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. On the opposite wall I make out a collection of masks, polished dark wood faces, blue and gold feathers leafing from the top. A mirror, too, framed in carved wood. I catch sight of my hair, electrified. Then I turn and walk towards the light opening up at the end of the hallway.
A cane wicker couch spreads the length of a large sunny room. Desert-coloured cushions pile at either end, a zebra-striped blanket bunched up in the middle. On the coffee table in front, crayons are scattered over sheets of coloured paper. Below, staining the beige carpet, a red crayon has been trodden into the weave, a jagged smear the colour of blood. I creep forward and bend to look at the pictures. Children's drawings, bold and unambiguous. One is of this house – there is the big orange door, a man standing in front of it. His hair is white but he is black. There is a sun, the round orb surrounded by gold spikes like a weapon. I riffle through the pictures. Another house, bright flames against a black night. Trees on fire, a dog running.
I hear a noise, a scratching sound coming from a room leading off the hallway. My heart jumps. I turn and inch out of the room, along the carpet, towards the noise. I stand flat against the doorway and peer in. A single bed runs against the far wall, a foldout stretcher next to it. Doonas and sleeping-bags are flung over the beds, and in between, open on a burnt umber rug, is a suitcase in which a teddy bear, a woolly giraffe, and a fluorescent pink elephant sprawl comfortably in a nest of jumper arms and pants legs. In among the clothes and toys on the floor are torn-off plastic wrappings and price tickets. I pick up the bear. It smells new.
I'm standing with the bear soft against my cheek when the noise comes again. There, over by the window near the bed. A pale shape on the windowsill outside. Peck, flap, peck. I advance towards it, picking my way through the bright tangle on the floor. A white cockatoo, creamy and fat as a cat. It doesn't move as I loom up, only an inch away on the other side of the glass. It cocks its head to the side, examining me. I cock my head too and we stare at each other. I wonder if the bird is having sliding sensations. No, he's just getting a better look. Another cockatoo arrives and sits almost on top of him. They squawk angrily at each other and I understand that Simon must feed these birds – Simon, or whoever is living in this room.
Now I decide to explore all the rooms. Simon might be lying unconscious in the bathroom, slain in the kitchen. As I turn to walk out something squeaks underfoot and I jump back. 'Feed me' cries a doll plaintively.
The bathroom is tiled white with ivy-green trim. There is a bath and two fresh handtowels hang on the rack above. A yellow plastic duck and other bath toys are piled neatly in a green plastic tub next to the bath on the floor.
I tiptoe out of the bathroom and up the hall, stopping at the main bedroom. I peep inside, attracted by the vibrant spread on the queen-size bed. The design has an African feel, startlingly beautiful. Earthy reds, ochres and rich browns burn dramatically against a black background; wild animals, abstracted into geometry, prowl the borders. The black fringe at the top and bottom feathers like something alive across the pillows. Strewn across the middle are a pair of jeans, underpants and a wet towel. I smile at the underpants.
I pad into the kitchen that runs off the living room, facing out to the bush. When Simon stands at the sink doing the washing-up, he must see the red bloodwoods and the khaki weave of the forest.
I go back into the living room and perch on the edge of the couch. Near the crayon stain at my foot a couple of drawings have dropped. I pick them up and see the yellow cover of a Kodak packet of photos lying beneath them. I put them on the coffee table, with the drawings. I sit and listen to the silence and the occasional tapping at the window. I look at the yellow Kodak cover. Would he mind me looking at them? I don't know. I've become a snoop and a house invader. I take out the photos and start leafing through. There are children, a boy, maybe around eight or nine, and a little girl. The children are black, thin, serious. They stare out at the camera from a bland grey sky, a brick wall. I think of the masks hanging in the hall – it's as if the children are looking out from the masks of their faces, keeping themselves secret inside. My stomach clenches. I wonder how tight their little bellies must be. I look at one photo for a long time. The boy is sitting on concrete steps. His hands are empty in his lap, his eyes loose and unlatched, vacant. He looks as if he's been told to wait, not at a bus stop, but in a place he's always been waiting, and his face holds a combination of hopelessness and fear, not sure perhaps if he wants the wait to end. It's a look I've seen in news shots and documentaries, of people herded into camps, temporarily safe, waiting to see if the calm will last.
A door bangs shut. I jump with fright. There are footsteps coming down the hall. I turn around and Simon is standing in the hallway. From the sunny living room, he is a matt shadow in the gloom. Those dear, familiar, responsible shoulders make me melt. My stomach gurgles. There are shopping bags in both his hands. His legs are rigid with surprise. He lets the bags fall from his hands.
'Rachel, what are you doing here?'
I leap up, dropping the photos onto the table, the floor. 'Oh, sorry – I was worried. You haven't called, I haven't seen you.'
Simon is bending down, picking up the groceries. I spring forward to help. Milk, butter, bread, ice-cream, oranges. Such heavy packages. I spot a carton of eggs. Damn. But when I open them, I see they're still intact. 'That's lucky,' I say, showing him the eggs. His face is red – with embarrassment or the effort of reaching down, I'm not sure, but we're both glad we've got the shopping to concentrate on. I think of another time we were doing this together, and I am blushing too. Sweat breaks out on my lip. The navy jersey is suddenly far too warm.
We stand up, almost knocking our heads together. He's not smiling. He politely nods his head towards the kitchen. Silently, I take my share of the bags. He indicates the bench on which to put them down.
'Why did you come?' he asks again.
'I was worried, Simon. Why did you just stop calling?'
He makes a sound of exasperation, a rush of air through his teeth. 'Shit, Rachel, why do you think?'
The anger in his face makes me turn away. 'Where do you want these?' I ask of the fruit. 'Fridge or bowl?'
'Bowl.'
With my back to him I arrange the oranges in the wooden bowl on the bench. 'They match the door.'
'What?'
'The oranges.'
'Oh.'
'Silly. I always say silly things when I'm nervous.'
I take out the bread. Black rye. 'Simon?'
There's a grunt.
'I didn't mean to snoop, but I thought you might be sick or you know, robbers – I have these constant scenes of catastrophe in my head . . . '
'Not on my account, surely.' His tone is dry.
'Yes, on your account, and what if something had happened to you, the young guy at Poolwerx said you had the flu, and you live alone – or so I thought, except when I went looking through the house for you I saw two beds and stuff ed toys and then on that table there are crayons and . . . photos. I thought your daughter was grown up. Do you have other children? Another wife?'
He sighs. 'The children are Sudanese. Been in detention for two years. I elected to see them, you know, on my visits to the detention centre.
I've known them for a long time now – you can't just take on children in detention without a commitment. They come to stay with me sometimes . . .'
'Oh, I didn't know.'
Simon rubs his hand over his face. 'Why now? Why make all this effort to find me?' His eyes meet mine. I look away, fiddling with the bread wrapper. He turns to haul the milk cartons out of the bags. One is jumbo sized, full cream. I hope that's for the kids, we shouldn't be drinking full-cream milk at our age, should we? He stops suddenly, his hand on the fridge door. His back is startled, as if he's been seized by something arresting occurring inside the fridge.
'What?'
'I still can't believe you're here – in my kitchen. Putting away groceries. It's incredible.' He glances around at me with a slight shake of the head. His grin is fleeting like a breeze lifting. 'How did you get in? With one of your picklocks?'
I feel my cheeks burn. 'No, well, I just came in. I mean I knocked for a while but the door wasn't locked.'
Simon groans. 'Oh, well, at least I wasn't away long. Only up the street to get the stuff .' He runs a hand through his hair. 'These last few days though, my concentration seems to be shot. Been forgetting to do a lot of things.' Our eyes meet for a second. The green of his eyes turns to topaz in the light. How beautiful. 'Found my screwdriver in the oven yesterday.'
I laugh. 'I know, I keep my brush in the fridge!' It's so good to laugh.
He shakes his head again. His grin is sheepish and uncertain and desirous and urgently sexy and it's all I can do not to fling my mouth upon his. That full, generous mouth. He stands there, hands full of Milo and Vegemite. But he doesn't move towards me. The moment catches, and something freezes in me, blanking into cloud. My hands are clammy and the shame rises in my throat.
'So, um, are you going to visit the children now or are they coming here?' I point to the food, the moment breaking. Shattering.
He bends to put the tins in a cupboard next to the sink. When he straightens up, his face has lost its smile. 'They've just been granted a temporary visa. We think there might be a Sudanese family who will take them in, eventually go for adoption.'
God. 'Have you told the kids, have they said . . .?'
'I'm taking the kids to meet the family this afternoon. That's why I've asked for days off work. I'm trying to talk to them about it, introduce them to the new situation. They're afraid of anything new, you can see why. Any change could mean horror for them, that's been their experience. They've become institutionalised.'
'I see.' What can a comfortably off middle-class person say in the face of this kind of misery?
Simon is silent. I wonder if he's waiting for me to go. He's got a lot to do this afternoon. He probably wants to get on with it. I pick up the bananas. They can go in the fruit bowl. When I've finished with the fruit and bread I open the pantry for the olive oil. It's well stocked, like the fridge. Organic lentils, brown rice, fair-trade coffee from New Guinea. He's stacking the fridge with chunks of cheese, rashers of bacon. I wish he'd say something, make some move. But I suppose it's up to me. I'm the one who forced my way in here. What can I say about the children, his extraordinary acts of kindness?
I lean against the bench, studying his back. 'I just don't get it. People who make those decisions, who put children in detention, it's as if they have no empathy. Or it's been worn away, like weathering or something. Do you think?' Simon doesn't turn around. 'I guess that's what happened to me,' I mumble. 'Lost my empathy somewhere. You can lose it in a long shitty marriage. You just look out for yourself.'
Simon doesn't turn around. He says nothing but his hands have gone still inside the fridge.
'What I mean is, there's no other explanation for how I could have said something so thoughtless the other day.' I stare at the faded blue denim of his shirt. It's worn thin and soft , almost white at the elbows. His wrists are brown from the sun, strong and capable, used to bearing weight heavier than his own. I wish he'd help me out here, show some response. But his back is determined. Or indifferent. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It's like a jump off a cliff . I don't look down. 'You came to see me with those beautiful flowers and I said to you that awful thing about Jonny Love—'
Simon swings around and looks me in the eyes. 'It wasn't awful, it's how you felt. Feel.'
'But I don't—'
'I just realised how stupid I'd been, how futile this was. Years I've been visiting you, feeling . . . seeing your misery, wanting to help, hoping. But how could I ever compete with a guy like Jonny Love? Money, charisma, power, good looks – it'd be a pretty magic package, right, hard to resist! I'm just a guy from Poolwerx with too much weight around the middle who has a van with a dinky clutch that I don't even own, living in a house with a ridiculous mortgage that I'll never pay off , or only if I live to a hundred and twenty-three. Hopes, shit . . .'
Simon slams the fridge door and walks out. I try to slow my breathing. My heart is pounding much too fast.
When he comes back in, he stands so close I can smell his soap. Imperial Leather. His breath is warm on my forehead. 'Why did you come here, Rachel?'
I glance down at his sandshoes, a smear of tomato on the toe. I like the comfortable way he dresses. His clothes are for work and playing with the kids and walking in the bush and cleaning the leaves out of gutters. He's a beautiful man who talks about ideas and children and how Joe Cocker makes you jump out of your skin. I feel such a rush of wanting to be in his arms, smell the faint chemical burn inside his collar, be inside his space. But even more, I want to talk to him. Use my voice. Hear his.
'Simon, so many things are new to me, I can't quite make them out at the moment. But what I'm thinking is I've been distracted by the big showy things, acts of god they look like, tricks of light, and they let me escape from myself – you know, all the drudgery and the gritty bits of life that stick in your teeth.' I grin sheepishly. 'I love all that – the escaping, I mean. But I've always looked to a man to do it for me – I suppose a lot of women do.'
'I've never been any good at that, Rachel. Wouldn't know where to begin. A lot of the time I just feel like I'm floundering. It's only now and then I even get my head above water long enough to take a gulp of air before I sink back down again. But some guys, you know, they prance around up there walking on water.'
'That's how it looks from the outside. Like some people are perfect. But no one is, are they? Everyone spends time underwater.'
'I came out on top when I saw you.'
We look at each other. His face is softer. 'Me too,' I say. 'I could be myself with you. But I didn't see the value of it at first.' I grin, shamefaced. 'I had these illusions, you know, wanting to be the girl in a man's show. But it's like looking at the sun and everything behind goes black . . . '
'You don't have to explain—'
'No, I know I don't have to tell you, but I want to. Meeting Jonny brought it all home to me – he has presence, sure, and he's a great magician – but he never showed any curiosity about me as another human being. In fact he treated me as a magician's assistant, snapping his fingers and expecting me to obey.' A wave of sadness rises into my throat. 'You know, believing in a magician and his illusions, it's like believing in god. But in real life, isn't a relationship a double act? With Guido – you know it's not his fault, my misery – when I married him I signed up as magician's assistant, and when he stopped behaving like a magician, well, I didn't know how to do a . . . career change.'
Simon is watching me. His gaze goes right through me. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open – he is listening to me, hearing my voice. He wants to know.
'You were brave coming here today,' he says. 'That was a bold act. I like that about you.'
I smile, and look at the watch on his wrist. We both shift our feet. 'Do the children speak English?' I ask.
He coughs, looks surprised. 'A little . . . not well. They'll need English classes but they're not provided by the government any more. It'll cost.'
'I could do that.'
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'What?'
'Help with English. You know I used to be a teacher. Not ESL, but I taught reading . . .'
I feel an excitement rising. You can't fix the whole of Tanzania, said Zuri, but you can help where you can. Start locally. Couldn't I reinvent myself, like Clara talks about, like Jonny says, teach English using magic – magic is like music, it can cross borders, language, culture . . .
'So if it's not about the bright lights and money, what else do you think life's about?' says Simon softly. 'Like, after teaching English to kids who need it, and supporting your family, and paying your bills, what else is there for us godless souls?'
I look at him. I don't know what he means.
'What do you do for fun?'
'Oh.'
'Pleasure. What gives you pleasure?'
I feel my face start to burn. 'Oh I don't know – I've always thought pleasure, the pursuit of it anyway, was illegitimate somehow. Something slightly illegal!' I finish in a rush.
Simon laughs. 'Maybe that's another thing that could change. With a bit of practice.'
I stand with my hands hanging by my sides. We look at each other. It's as if we have no clothes on at all. He looks down at my face and takes my hands. Then he puts his mouth on mine and we don't close our eyes and the colour of his eyes is like the sky at the top of the hill where I run, bursting free of the black wires and the grey clouds and just for a moment I let go and sail up there with him, no strings, side by side.
Chapter 34
Mum, I hope you are sitting down. I went to Sophia's again and this time I brought the exercise book dad gave me. I put it in her lap. She read the name out loud. 'Gianni Leone.' At the sound of her voice the skin on my arms tingled.
Where did you get this? Her tone was so sharp it was like teeth on tin.
My father gave it to me. He said it was his best friend's book.
That is my son's name. Gianni Leone.
But your surname is different
I went back to my maiden name after the divorce. What name does your father use?
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