Mad Max nodded consolingly and asked Houghton if any resentment remained.
‘Resentment?’ Houghton said, quite surprised. ‘I just wish I’d done half as well. There’s a photo of him in a book and he’s standing behind Niki Lauda and Jody Scheckter at Brands Hatch.’ Houghton relaxed after having his say, by giving a long, quiet fart like a cat’s purr.
Bagger was next; in for a long career of stealing meat from works’ coolstores and flogging it to city butchers. ‘Was my Dad a bloody tartar,’ he said with rueful admiration. ‘Was he ever. A skinful every Friday and Saturday night and then he’d go looking for an argument in the pubs and take-aways. The Liverpool kiss was his favourite. He had so many teeth marks on his forehead you’d think he had a frontal lobotomy, but he never hit a sheila, not even mum. I seen him once handbagged in the face by Nancy Kingham, because he decked her hubby at the Celtic Rugby Club. The catch on the bag drew blood, but Dad just walked away, eh.’ Bagger shook his head and cracked his knuckles in wonderment at the mythology he’d created. ‘Every bloody thrashing I got I had coming, and he never hit a woman. Kept fighting even in the home he ended up in. Cleaned up one of the male aides who was thirty years younger and kept changing channels when Dad was watching footy.’ Bagger obviously hoped for such belligerent resilience in his own old age. ‘He died only last year in Taihape, and I got special leave to go up to the funeral. He’d no hair at all on him in the coffin, but most of the scars on his forehead had faded. I had this beaut pork meal in a diner out from Wellington on the way back. The screw Forbes took me in and he told this waitress that I was the underworld King of Paparua. She kept looking at me over the coffee machine.’
‘Do you dream about your dad?’ asked Mad Max.
David knew that there was nothing he wanted to say about his own father — not to Houghton, Bagger and the others, not to Mad Max — but, even had he wanted to speak, his love and sadness would have choked him. ‘All that crackling,’ Bagger concluded, ‘and the pork fucking tender so that it just falls apart. Bloody beauty. And this waitress slut scared shitless.’
The fact that David’s father had done a thesis on Lucius Cornelius Sulla was no hindrance whatsoever to his skills as a farmer. He could have killed Bagger’s pigs better than the next man and dressed the carcases almost as neatly as a works’ butcher.
He had a favourite knife, slimmed in the middle from sharpening, and so keen at the blade that flesh seemed to flee before it. ‘Always cut away from yourself,’ his father told him. ‘Then if the knife slips you don’t slice yourself. And never try to work quickly with a knife when you’re tired.’ He could peel the pelt from a dog tucker ewe, or table hogget, like a banana skin. The inside of the pelt had a pearly sheen, and in winter steam would drift from it, and from the carcase swaying slowly beneath the tree, suspended by the metal hook beneath the tendons of the back legs. ‘Best to kill an animal when it’s relaxed,’ his father said, ‘A frightened animal spasms and the meat’s never as good.’ He hated cruelty and suffering. Death was another matter entirely; just like the sun and rain which made the farmer’s world.
A mother’s love is demanded and a father’s love sought, Mad Max told them. One of the circle said his father never said anything at all within the house, but that he would sing and talk to himself behind the locked door of the garage. The shed is a male domain, Mad Max told them, and preferred for suicide.
Drought was the punishment for an east coast farm. David’s father had paid no attention to the showers that only laid the dust, but a sweet, persistent rain brought him out to watch his land’s release, even if it came at night. He would wake to the sound of it, lie listening and, if it set in, then he’d get up from his single bed and go quietly out, taking a parka from the hook at the back door. David had sometimes heard the click of the gates as his father went down to the yards, and from the window he could see him under the overhang of the tractor shed, or the pines, listening to the rain, taking a quiet pleasure in his land drinking after drought.
There was nothing that David wanted to say about his father at Mad Max’s session: nothing that he would willingly share. Not that he thought himself better than Houghton, Bagger, or Paewai, in for assault, who had a tooth turning black as coal in his upper jaw, but that his father was too good for them and him, and by a mile.
‘Why is that, do you think?’ Mad Max had asked equably after Richards said that his father never allowed his mother to sit in the front seat of the car.
The Romans were a very violent people, David’s father told him, but, unlike some other violent peoples, they were creative: and valued dignity of mind.
TWENTY–ONE
Schweitzer’s secretary buzzed through to Takahe just a day or two after Easter. Was David able to come over? Some time between eleven thirty and noon if possible. The greater the gap in status, the less it needs to be emphasised. David thought Schweitzer was beginning to take something of an interest in him. He’d used his name at a staff meeting, which was something in an organisation so large; he’d sent a memo specifically asking him for a report on Dilys Williams’s condition after the business of heckling phone calls to the mayor of Picton.
Once, when out jogging, Schweitzer had come over to where David and Abbey sat on the verandah. He did his warming-down exercises, and talked in his quiet, fluent way: his language never self-important, but supple, original, responsive to his listeners. He hadn’t become overwhelmed by his own achievements. Abbey was so blessed by his attention that she breathed through her mouth to be noiseless, and her eyes widened in the regard of him. Schweitzer had a smooth scar on his left knee: a burn probably. Sweat darkened his hair, and his throat was noticeably pale, because he habitually wore a tie.
He said that he sometimes saw David rowing out in the dinghy to go fishing. ‘I can see the sound from the office and I look up from my desk and there you are, enjoying the distraction I often wish for myself. Perhaps it’s another keen fisherman, of course. It’s too far to tell, but I know you’re often there.’ Abbey said meekly that sometimes she went out in the boat too, and so reminded David to introduce her.
That day, however, soon after chocolate eggs and an increase in visitors, when David was shown into Schweitzer’s office after waiting less than fifteen minutes, he could see the reduced pink float marking the favoured fishing spot, and there was no one there at all. The director’s office was unlike that of any of the other administrators, and not just in favoured size and location. Some modern philosophy of management determined that the evidence of a chief executive’s day-to-day responsibility be hidden. No stacks of files, no in tray and no out, no bagged sandwiches, no heavily scored wall diary, no obsolete monitor relegated to a corner. No adhesive smudges, darkened sellotape tracks, or pin holes on the sheened walls. No white, warped plastic hanger behind the door. Not even framed qualifications with the rich, wax seals of approval.
Just the quiet heart of efficiency and decision. The arrangement of fennel and chrysanthemums on the expanse of the desk, a Grahame Sydney print of tussock land behind it, a buttoned, dark blue leather sofa and three matching chairs, so that Schweitzer could choose to abrogate his status behind the burnish of his desk and come to sit with his visitors. He didn’t go quite that far for David.
No pretension, however, no arrogance. Schweitzer’s talents required no such protection. It was the programme of challenge therapy that interested him, he said, and David was happy to talk about it, though Schweitzer could have picked a better day. David had a cold so severe that his sinuses were stuffed with mucus thick as rope and throbbed with the heart’s pulse. Schweitzer wore a wine-coloured suede waistcoat with his grey suit trousers; the coat hung in the closet by the drinks cabinet. ‘I have to fly up to Wellington after lunch,’ he said. ‘There’s a big push on for more funding. Money coming in makes the politicians’ mouths water, but going out makes their eyes water.’
‘And is throwing money at Harlequin the way?’ asked David.
Schweitzer
didn’t answer that at once. ‘No matter what your profession, growth of responsibility means in the end your main task is ensuring resources — making money. And you’re in competition not only with others like yourself, but with those whose speciality was money in the first place.’
‘But what else has the shock value of Harlequin?’
‘Shock value?’
‘Doesn’t fear loosen the purse strings?’ said David. His voice sounded strange to himself because of his trivial illness. Schweitzer nodded gently and sucked air through his teeth. His eyes rested for a while on the bushed hills across the sound, before coming back to David, candidly. ‘But how much do we want to scare them?’ he said. ‘That’s the question making me sweat at nights. Scared people are dangerous.’
Perhaps if David had got married, he might have worn a waistcoat on his wedding day, but no other situation had prompted that small, sartorial experience missed. The wine suede was trim, elegant almost, with a close line of silver buttons. And the shirt was the pale pink of the bleached craypot float at the fishing spot. And Schweitzer’s burn scar was hidden by the quality fabric of his trousers, while David had a shirt with a worn collar and breathed through his mouth. All over the world was a juxtaposition of setting and circumstance which would never quite exist again, despite the apparent repetitions of everyday life. Things were for an instant, then toppled into the abyss.
‘I wish I knew the best way to tackle Harlequin Rex. Jesus, yes,’ said Schweitzer.
‘I’ve never heard the Rex added.’
‘Nothing. Just a foible usage of mine,’ said Schweitzer. ‘But anyway, you learn that any approach takes money.’ He was looking at David appraisingly, as if he’d been told things about him and wanted to see if they fitted. David had reasons for not wanting too much enquiry, despite his respect for the director. ‘Tony Sheridan tells me that you and Raf Hewson are accomplishing a good deal in Takahe with people who could turn out to be among our successes. There’s resilience and intelligence there.’
‘And despair.’
‘All of us dealing with Harlequin have that acquaintance, don’t you think?’ said Schweitzer. That was true enough, but had David known him better, or been less junior in his organisation, he would have questioned the lumping together of those who treated the symptoms of Harlequin with others who were afflicted with it. Almost every night, just before David slept, his true, unguarded self rejoiced in being free of the disease: an emotion stronger than any commiseration with those who suffered. He knew he couldn’t bear to change places with any of them; no, not even Lucy.
‘Anyway,’ said Schweitzer, ‘what I wanted to ask you was whether you’d be prepared to co-ordinate an extension of your programme throughout the centre? Perhaps initially develop a presentation for supervisory staff. Dr Mousier, or myself, would help kick it off, and Tony Sheridan’s willing to set up an ongoing medical appraisal as to its benefit. There’s some initial research evidence from France that Harlequin may be ameliorated by emotional distraction: a sort of psychological displacement therapy which inhibits attacks.’
‘Or maybe it’s just patients clutching at anything to take their minds off this appalling illness.’
‘Quite, and maybe even that’s a justification for your programme.’ Schweitzer never pretended that he had a handle on Harlequin; that there was no crisis, that a cure was at hand. That lack of pretence was one of the likeable things about him. Another was his ability to put aside most of his specialised jargon for a time and still assume intelligence, as he did in his continued conversation with David about the programme. The desk buzzer sounded several times, but the director took no notice of it. He had the mild mannerisms of swaying forward to smile, and smoothing his eyebrows in reflection. ‘And where do these ideas come from?’ he asked. ‘They’re new to me, but I gather that you’ve been overseas a good deal.’
‘They come from prison and military rehabilitation courses,’ said David.
‘Ah, then no wonder they fit snugly round here,’ and Schweitzer gave a laugh of genuine delight, but didn’t press any more about origins. Another thing that David appreciated.
When Schweitzer had to leave, he took his suit coat from the closet, running his fingers under the side pockets to make sure the flaps weren’t tucked in. He had yet to drive over the Rai and Whangamoa to Nelson Airport. ‘My door’s always open. Well, figuratively,’ he said, smiling as he closed it behind them. His secretary had selected two letters of particular note from the latest heap, and she held them up like an auctioneer’s chit, and the director took them with the use of the same smile.
Schweitzer and David went down together towards the main entrance, and David saw an opportunity for a question. ‘Where do you think it comes from?’
‘I know where it comes from. It comes from the same place as Lassa fever and Ebola — it comes from Africa. Man came out of Africa, and now perhaps his nemesis is taking the same path.’ Schweitzer raised a hand to Louise at the reception desk, and went and put his head around Mousier’s door. ‘I’m off,’ he said. When Schweitzer talked of Harlequin he might have been talking about David’s head cold, or the fishing that he was wistful about, but never had time to do. You can become accustomed to talking about something even as hideous as Harlequin. Familiarity, evasion, optimism, impotence, all play a part. As the Jews debated orthodoxy while waiting for the gas chamber.
‘And how did it get here of all places?’ asked David.
‘Better questions, and I’ve no answers,’ said Schweitzer. They had come out of the main door and to the parting of the ways, but the director paused briefly, just his words speeding up because he was short of time. ‘You know the real thing is to find how to stop the bastard in his tracks: bring him down.’ He rarely swore, certainly not in the staff meetings. The vehemence was heartening somehow. ‘We’re not anywhere close to cracking it at present. That’s the truth,’ said Schweitzer. He shrugged and raised his palms in apparent apology, for his inability to give better news perhaps, or the need to leave at once. David watched him walk up the slope towards his house: the posture impressive, the stride benefiting from the regime of jogging. His black shoes, highly polished, shone in the sun; his jaw, closely shaven, was gun metal blue.
Another busload arrived that day; newly arisen Harlequins after Easter.
TOLLY’S VIEW
Is becoming Harlequin’s view, for he is at the arched entrance to an episode. Maybe soon he will blow, or be driven to a fit of compulsive gymnastics on the cool, perky grass of the night. The world is as each individual sees it, and Harlequin sees it with ancient, such ancient, eyes. A dangerous and exhilarating release spreads through Tolly’s system as the checks and balances of thousands of years fall away, and jaunty, with simian insouciance, old brain steps out again to claim his subject — Harlequin Rex, demon hunter, primal lord.
The face is a familiar map for the neurologist. The lion visagè of Alzheimer’s, the tic grimace of Tourette’s, the averted eyes of autism. Schweitzer has dubbed Harlequin’s expression ‘the scenting face’.
Tolly has it now: restless, inattentive to any verbal language, his head tilted up and mouth half open. He stands in the night by his telescope on the Takahe verandah. The receding voices of rationality and temperance give way to sharp awareness of possibilities around and within. The distant majesty of stars, which have no fragrance whatsoever, is not enough. Oh, the scents of the night, and the tastes borne on the air to the acute tongue in his open mouth. His head lifts in the luxury of it, and lips draw back. Bathroom fittings and investments are nothing to him now: he cares bugger all for the responsibilities of family or friends. No pallid restraint of dignity, or convention. Fierce appetite and dread, curiosity and stimulation — self, self, above all.
Tolly starts to hum: basic, stripped down forms of the more sophisticated music he loves. Music is a link between old Tolly and new Tolly. In terms of Harlequin, of course, the old Tolly is the new Tolly and the new Tolly the old.
&nbs
p; He knows that Transylvanian garlic has been crushed in the kitchens, and that kumara is being scrubbed up. The meat tomorrow will be pork. He knows that in his own block both Abbey and Gaynor are menstruating, that Dilys Williams has apples hidden in her room, that David has a fresh stash of prime West Coast shit, that the caretaker’s Samoyed is running free on the gorse slope. He knows that Evan Beal sprayed Roundup hours before, because the poison is sharp in his nose. He hears rats in the ceiling by the water cylinder, a hedgehog in the gardens, and the rustle of thin, upright branches of broom on the hillside. His vision sharpens too: there are distinct vehicles in the car park, and swimming togs draped on the edge of the verandah. He sees the lights from the windows of other blocks blaze like campfires. Woodsie from Hoiho is far down the covered walkway going home. Tolly cannot recognise a face at that distance, but the posture, the mode of locomotion, are simple for Harlequin to identify.
He feels a flare of animosity for that shallow, pompous bastard, Woodsie. Maybe he should go to Woodsie’s block through the night, and give him a good thud or two. Yes! Woodsie’s well-merited pain and confusion; the impact of Tolly’s boot on his tender balls. The establishment of primacy by force. Maybe he should visit Amelia Struthers of Weka to put his mouth to the large tits he saw by telescope the night before. He imagines all the natural and roguish smells of her, the pleasing roughness of her nipples to his tongue, his grip on the heavy flesh of her shoulder. Harlequin in this simulation has no way, or wish, to give him the artificial fragrances of soap or perfume.
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