Why She Loves Him

by Wendy James

  The Italian sits down at the instrument and plays. This time, for it is a piece much favoured by Clara, I recognise the composition. It is a Bach fugue, played too swiftly for my taste, the weight and significance of each voice obscured in the flurry of sound. Still, the man is a celebrated performer, and my knowledge of music sadly limited. When the piece is complete he strikes a note in the bass, a chord in the treble, goes through a series of arpeggios. He turns to my father. ‘Johann,’ his voice is a little creaky, so he clears his throat and begins again. ‘Johann,’ he says, ‘I am ashamed that I ever doubted your abilities. The action is perfect, perfect. Listen,’ his fingers ripple delicately along the keyboard, ‘it is so quick and light – and of a consistency I had not imagined possible.’

  My father says nothing, he wipes his neck and bows.

  ‘I would like you to proceed with the instrument,’ the Italian continues. ‘I will pay you half now, the other half in ten days.’ He hands my father a bulging purse, a folded sheet of paper, then moves to the door. ‘In that letter you will find listed precisely my needs. I will visit at the end of next week to see how you progress.’

  ‘Signor, I...’ My father is overcome, can do nothing but perspire and bend at the waist.

  ‘And Johann, though you will read this in my letter, I must emphasise to you my two most fundamental requirements. First: that this fortepiano be of a temper sweet and yielding, and second: that it be free from any reverberation or repercussion.’

  ‘Sweetness of temper, absence of reverberation,’ my father agrees, ‘Good, Signor, it is done...’

  But he speaks to the air, the Italian has gone.

  ***

  ‘Mama,’ I say, though her eyes are closed tight, her breathing shallow. ‘Mama, the Italian has given Papa the commission. We are delivered.’ I take her hand between my two. Her skin is clammy, though my breath makes a fine mist in this wintry chamber. Death cannot be far away. I tuck her hand beneath the quilts, kiss her lightly on the forehead.

  ‘I am delivered.’

  ***

  My father beds early, sleeps heavily. The Italian has given me the key to a back entrance, that way I do not disturb his servants. I bring with me food – each day he has sent fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, fowl, and a brief missive communicating his culinary fancies. His own cook is a pig, he says, but honest, and as he is only in Salzburg two months of the year, honesty and economy (she is housekeeper, too) must take precedence over skill. I cook his meals in the afternoon, prepare enough for three, eat my portion in company with my father – who, preoccupied as he is with the instrument, has not yet noticed the sudden richness of our diet.

  The Italian greets me with great courtliness: first relieving me of my burdens, then bowing gracefully, his lips remaining just a hair’s breadth above my extended hand. ‘Marie-Christine,’ he says, ‘you are very welcome. I am, as always, ravenous.’ I set out the warm dishes on his writing table, serve the first course, pour his wine. I stand beside him as he eats, serving each course immediately the last is consumed. He eats each dish hastily and without conversation, for it is late, and he is, as he has said, famished.

  Replete, he bids me sit beside him, pours himself more wine. Between sips, he talks of himself. I listen. His genius is undeniable, is still to be rivalled, across the continent: I agree. He is a wealthy man, a nobleman, is of independent means, has no need of patronage: I exclaim. There is lately afflicting him a certain dullness, a flatness and – though it is a lack that none but he would recognise – his playing, his compositions, have suffered. It seems his muse, once so pliable, has become perverse and wilful: I commiserate. He turns to me. Takes my hand. Traces circles in my palm with his finger. ‘So sweet,’ he says, ‘so yielding. Perhaps you can help me?’

  ***

  I tell my father that I have given up all hope of my mother surviving this winter, that she will not eat, will not be warmed, will not take any comfort, any relief. He is diverted, momentarily, from his mechanics. ‘Perhaps it is better so, Marie-Christine,’ he says. He sighs and turns back to the instrument.

  ***

  He bids me sit beside him, pours himself more wine. Between sips, he talks of himself: his career, his wealth, his music. I listen. Agree. Exclaim. Commiserate.

  He turns to me. Takes my hand. ‘Perhaps you can help me?’ I prise my hand, though not unkindly, from his grasp. There is a clavier in the middle of his room. I move quickly, sit before it. Motion for him to follow.

  I play.

  I have no need of his muse.

  Perhaps I can help him.

  Escapement

  ‘Listen, Signor,’ my father can barely contain himself, ‘even if I strike hard, thus, the sound ceases. There is no vibration, no jangling.’

  ‘It is as I requested then.’

  ‘Aah, but I have done more Signor, more. Look.’ My father holds his lamp higher, illuminating the interior of the instrument, then presses a note in the bass, does not raise his finger. ‘Do you not see?’

  ‘See what, old man? I can hear, is that not enough?’ The Italian is impatient, taps his foot.

  ‘Signor, the instrument has an escape action. It matters not whether you hold down the keys or release them, the hammers fall back the moment they have struck the strings. An escapement! There can be no reverberation. No repercussion. It is a great advancement for the fortepiano, a great achievement...’

  ‘Yes, yes, Johann. Wonderful. But enough about the instrument. I desire your opinion on a matter of some urgency. It is of a somewhat delicate nature, so if you will ask your daughter to leave the room...’

  ‘Marie-Christine?’ My father, bewildered, peers into the shadows.

  But there is no need for him to ask. I go.

  ***

  I read Clara’s reply to my mother, though it may be that she cannot hear. She has not spoken for days, nor moved, and my work to keep her clean is increasingly difficult. ‘Dear Sister,’ I read, pressing her burning fingers with my own, ‘Though I must confess that my husband’s family have been more welcoming than I expected (and the warmer climate of Florence a great relief), the promise of your company is vastly pleasing, and much anticipated. You do not tell me how or why or who, but then, this has always been your way...’

  My mother’s breathing is irregular, sometimes she gasps. I fold the quilts back to the foot of the bed, cover her loosely in a sheet. I leave the room, closing the door gently behind me.

  I think Salzburg will be cold tonight.

  Ground Zero

  It’s a fine day, a fine day and the woman and her son are striding out across the park, are heading for the cliffs, for the blue of the ocean. See how quickly they move. How tall the woman is, how long her legs. She’s walking quickly not because she’s in a hurry, but because she can, this is how she likes to walk. And her son, he’s only a child, five or maybe six, tall for his age, he’s working hard, almost running to keep up with his mother. But he likes to run, anyone can see that, watch the way he dashes past her then trots back, grinning and panting, rounding her up like a dog.

  They’re alike, this mother and her son. Note the resemblance as they power across the green: both long-limbed and golden, their bright eyes and easy smiles. See how confident they are – arms swinging, heads held high – and how comfortable they seem together, how content.

  As she walks the woman is thinking, oh, not about anything in particular, just vague images, inconsequential and fleeting. She is thinking: I hope Kevin’s not late for dinner tonight. An early night. She is thinking: Must call Mum. Two weeks. She’ll be edgy. She is thinking: Oh, spring! The afternoon sun. The breeze. The watermelon smell of the sea! She is thinking: What it is to be here! What luck!

  And her boy? He’s running hard uphill, not a dog now, but a plane. He’s rocketing along with his arms out, through long grass that swishes against his knees. He’s weaving in and out, narrowly missing trees, a bin. He’s screwing up his eyes against the sun, against the rushing wind of his s
peed. He’s going all the way up and at the top he’s ready – has found his target. He’s taking aim, counting down. Three, two, one, zero. Bombs away. He’s making that sound that boys make: a screeching sort of whistle that descends then explodes, reverberates. Ground zero.

  The woman calls – he’s out of her sight. ‘Daniel,’ she calls, ‘Danny!’ She keeps walking at the same speed – her movements quick, but relaxed, unhurried – she knows that in a moment he’ll come racing back down to collect her. He doesn’t come. She calls out again. ‘Daniel. Back here, darling. Back where Mummy can see you.’ The highway curves close to the park at the crest, and though she’s not exactly worried – they have walked this way often enough and he’s a sensible boy – she sings out again and begins a casual jog up the hill. ‘Daniel.’

  Sorry? You fucken little smartarse. Fucken white smartarse. Need yer fucken arse kicked. Smartarse. Size ten up the back of the arse’d fix you. Teach yer to throw fucken rocks at people. This yer Mummy, eh? This yer Mummy come to save you from the nasty man. Hi, Mummy. Say hello pretty Mummy. Tell yer Mummy what you done, little boy. Go on, tell ’er.

  Excuse me? Take my hands off your son? Your fucken little darling just hit me in the head with a rock, you stupid bitch. Take my hands off him? Needs a fucken strong hand on his arse that’s his problem. An accident? It’s always a fucken accident. Only a little boy? Well you should teach your little boy better lady – we got fucken rights now you know. Fucken rights. I got as much fucken right as you to be here you bitch and yer son of a white cunt son. Oh, I’ve made him cry have I? Awfully terribly fucken sorry – but it was an accident. I’m only an ignorant fucken coon, lady, don’t know any better. Go on cry-baby. Fucken sook. Go on. Get back to yer Mummy. Fucken little sook.

  Yeah, fucken piss off. Go on, piss off both of yous. Fuck off and don’t come back.

  Go on run, you stupid bitch, you stupid soft white cunt. Run.

  No fucken right here anyway. Arseholes. No fucken right.

  Watch her run.

  There is a gob of spit on her cheek, close to her eye. His spit. She wipes it with the back of one hand and pulls her son along with the other. Her long fingers are clamped around his wrist, they’re too tight, she’s hurting him, he’s whining, sobbing, wailing. Muuummeee. She’s running too fast, he’s only five, can’t keep up. He stumbles in the long grass, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, just pulls the boy up, drags him along behind her. She’s hurting him. Muummmeee. She says nothing. Swipes at her cheek again. She doesn’t look back.

  She is afraid.

  As she runs the woman is thinking (her thoughts are hot, sharp, thrusting), she is thinking: What if I can’t keep running? What if he follows me? What then? She imagines herself slipping, tripping, lurching headlong into the unimaginable; sees herself at home, pushing the front door against the man’s relentless anger; watches helplessly, hopelessly the splintering of the glass panels, the practised fingers reaching confidently through. She is thinking: Oh God, what if he hurts Daniel? What could I do? A man like that. What would I do? She imagines this same hand, thick fingered, hairy, sees it closing around her son’s delicate neck, watches helplessly, hopelessly, the tightening.

  They are back on the flat, approaching the children’s playground, tennis courts. There are people about, men women children dogs, she can afford to slow down, to look back. There is no one behind them. She releases her grip on her son. See how she puts her head back, gulps in air. The boy stands with his head down. ‘Oh, Daniel.’ She goes to hold him, but he shrugs her away. He is still sobbing, but silently now, his chest heaving. ‘Daniel.’ Snot bubbles from one of his nostrils. He runs ahead of her, his sore wrist held stiffly in his other hand. She says nothing, keeps walking.

  She is thinking: I don’t deserve this. An accident? It’s always a fucken accident. She is thinking: I don’t deserve this. There are other people. Bigots. Racists. I am not one of them. I support his people, his claims. I wish I could tell him that. I’m only an ignorant fucken coon, lady. Don’t know any better. She is thinking: I am informed. I read the papers, follow the debates. Mabo. Wik. Stolen children. I understand. I sympathise. I am one of the good guys. I am a good person. I would like to tell him that. I got as much fucken right as you to be here you bitch and yer son of a white cunt son. She is thinking: I am a good person. A good mother. I am raising my son to be a good person. To believe in equality. We are all equal. Well you should teach your little boy better lady – we got fucken rights now you know. I got as much fucken right as you. She is thinking: This shouldn’t happen to people like me. There are other people. Other people. The enemy. Run, you stupid bitch, you stupid soft white cunt. She is thinking: I believe an apology is needed. For reconciliation. I would like to tell him that. I am on their side. On his side.

  Her son has slowed down, though still ahead he is walking at her pace now. She hurries to close the gap, tousles his hair. ‘Are you alright?’ He looks up at her briefly. His face is red, smeared. ‘I think you’ve broke my wrist.’ He wipes his nose on his T-shirt.

  She is thinking: We need better locks, more locks. Maybe a security system. A big dog. She is thinking: There are things you can get from saliva. Hepatitis? Tetanus? I should see a doctor. Shots? Her son tugs on her hand. ‘Listen to me whistle, Mum. I can whistle.’ The boy makes a whistling sound through the gap in his teeth, it’s not a real whistle but a screeching sound that descends then explodes. She smiles down at him. ‘Wow. Aren’t you clever.’ He grins, squeezes her hand.

  They swing their arms high. She looks around her. The park is green and seems full of smiling people, bounding dogs. The sea breeze is sweet and cool. She breathes deeply. Then vaguely, fleetingly, she is thinking: they shouldn’t be allowed here. They spoil things. People like that.

  The Witch’s Daughters

  My great-grandmother was a witch. Or so they say.

  ***

  My grandmother’s two sisters are visiting. There were two brothers, but they are both long dead. Younger than their sisters, they died not young but not old, and remain forever cracking stockwhips and clearing fences in their sisters’ memories.

  ‘Those boys,’ they sigh.

  ***

  I drive into Central with my grandmother to pick up one of the sisters. We are running late and Nan perches on the edge of her seat peering at the city street names, anxious. ‘Castlereagh. Pitt. This must be George.’ She knows that I know the way, but can’t help herself. ‘Yes. George Street. Turn up here. Left.’ I drive slowly past the town hall and its clock reminds her. She looks down at her watch. ‘Oh dear,’ she says.

  For some reason I miss the turn-off for the country train arrivals. I’ve driven straight past, not noticing until it’s too late. There are two lanes of traffic each way, with wide guttered median strips and no way back. My grandmother says nothing, but I fuck fuck fuck under my breath.

  There are three sisters – Athelene, Eileen, and Olive – and it is Olive that we are meeting at Central. Athelene is already here. She is waiting at my grandmother’s, it is winter and she is the eldest and frail, and the trip to Sydney has knocked her about a little. She is waiting at my grandmother Eileen’s house, waiting to see her other sister. She has the heater on, and the television, and a blanket on her knees. She is Athelene, but everyone calls her Bub. She was once, a bub, I mean, though it’s hard to imagine now.

  I find a park easily and my grandmother stays with the baby while I run in. It is one o’clock and the train was due in at twelve-fifteen. Aunty Ollie stands clutching a coat, her small suitcase by her feet and doesn’t recognise me until I’m right in front of her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say and bend a little to kiss her rough, parched cheek, ‘we got lost.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, dear. I was a bit worried that you might’ve forgotten, but you’re here now.’

  I pick up the suitcase and she follows as I walk too quickly towards the car.

  My grandmother lets her sister sit in front. She
is a fat old lady, my grandmother, and can barely squeeze in next to the baby seat. She holds her breath as I do up the seatbelt for her. Olive is thin, almost gaunt. She is dressed all in black and her hair falls in yellow-white waves to her bony shoulders. She lights up a cigarette as I start the car, and twists around to face the back.

  ‘So this is little Michael. Looks like his daddy. Those eyes.’

  ‘This is your aunty, Micky. Say hello.’

  He clutches his teddy, saying nothing.

  She turns back to the front and blows smoke out the open window.

  ***

  My great-grandmother was a witch. She lived in an old house hidden behind big trees. Inside there was a long dark hall with kewpie dolls on bamboo canes and a smell like kerosene. Once when we visited she made me a sandwich. It was corned beef and tomato but the meat was thick and grey, the bread stale. My mother said to eat it outside so I dug a hole in the soft dirt behind the dunny and buried it. If we stayed long I would walk the length of her low stone fence and jump off into the neat, pruned garden of the CWA next door. Mrs Dawson, the caretaker, was fat and comforting with a smell like face powder and lipstick. She would give me tea and hard scones with jam and let me the play the treble part of Heart ‘n’ Soul on the old upright until my parents were ready to go home.

  ***

  I’m in the wrong lane and can’t turn right where the sign says ‘Harbour Bridge’. The old ladies are nattering and don’t notice that we are heading south and back into the city.

  ‘...and he turned up finally, but it wasn’t till–’