The Olive Sisters
Page 21
‘My name is Adrienne Bennett, I’m the new Senior Account Manager,’ I say stiffly.
‘Oh,’ she says, unimpressed. ‘He’s not in yet.’
Warwick is not in either. I wait in the reception for a whole hour before Warren wanders through the doors. He is holding a wafer-thin mobile to his ear and is seriously schmoozing someone on the other end. On seeing me he slides genially out of his conversation, flips his phone shut and pops it in his pocket. He comes towards me, hand extended. ‘Wonderful!’ he says. ‘You could not have arrived at a better time – synchronicity, serendipity, call it what you will. Come, come.’
He strides off down a long corridor flanked by glass offices, identical booths that each house a desk, a computer and a person. We step into a private lift where Warren gazes at himself unashamedly in the mirrors and rearranges his hair, flicking it this way and that, as he explains that one of my new key accounts, a subsidiary of the multinational Superbrand International, is arriving shortly to brief us on a major product launch. ‘Short deadline, national roll-out, seat-of-the-pants stuff, but we need some clever, clever ideas – something fresh.’
Like a tai chi instructor he uses his whole body to emphasise and illustrate with arm movements too expansive for the confines of a lift. ‘Perhaps a spot-fire tactic or a scattergun approach – throw all we’ve got at it.’ I stand well back, mesmerised by his flying hands.
We arrive at the penthouse boardroom. It’s got white walls decorated with massive corporate artworks; great slashes of colour in rust and bronze that harmonise perfectly with the furnishings. One wall is floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s as though we’re at sea suspended in a blazing blue sky, the city below a distant shore, the board table as big as a boat in a dark red timber.
‘Why don’t you sit here, I’ll sit here, and then Warwick can sit there.’ Warren prances around the table giving each of the high-backed leather chairs a playful slap as it’s allocated. ‘We’ll have the brand manager sit opposite Warwick and between you and me. Important to get the dynamics right, isn’t it?’ He gives a thin smile.
‘It might be fun if we take one chair away, play some music, run around the table —’ I falter at his frown. ‘Warren, what exactly is the product?’
Now he’s fussing around with the phone, buzzing one extension after another, barely giving anyone time to pick up. He glances at me with surprise. ‘No idea, they have any number of products. Natalie! Thank God I’ve found someone, I thought everyone was dead. I need jugs of water, glasses, coffee, Danish pastries, whatever, pronto.’ He listens for a moment. ‘I don’t care, fix it,’ he hisses down the phone.
He slams down the receiver and pulls open a drawer of the cabinet. ‘Lucky you reminded me,’ he says. ‘We do need you to sign a confidentiality agreement before the meeting.’ He slides it across the table. I sign it and slide it back without even reading it.
The phone buzzes. Warren picks it up, listens for a second and hangs up. ‘Gulls on the tip,’ he chirps. Moments later we hear the sound of the lift rise.
Warwick leads the Superbrand marketing team into the boardroom, none of them over twenty-five. Ellie: tight suit, tight hair, tight face. Jonathan: smooth hair and a very smooth suit. Mathew: one of those people who likes to fast-track his business relationships. He and I make eye contact, a firm, dry handshake ensues, he repeats my name as a memory peg and I can almost hear the cogs turning as he creates a word association. I wonder what it is.
Last and least, Cindy, the most junior of the juniors, enters. She hasn’t got it yet. Fluffy and flowery, she is disregarded by all present. Warren doesn’t give a fig where she sits. A flustered young woman, presumably Natalie, scurries in behind everyone with a water jug and glasses.
‘I assume Adrienne has been given a background briefing?’ Warwick asks Warren as each of our visitors skims a business card towards me across the polished expanse of the board table.
‘Of course,’ says Warren, bowing his head as though taking part in a Zen ritual.
I open my mouth and close it again.
Mathew takes the floor. ‘Because of the size of the project we have made the decision to delay the roll-out and will invite three agencies to pitch. Cindy will give you the briefing documents after our presentation, but rest assured that our media spend alone will be 2.4 million.’
The news that we’re in a pitch situation is clearly a shock. Warwick purses his lips with annoyance. Warren blinks rapidly and fiddles with his pen. Mr Seat-of-the-Pants has just fallen on his arse.
Oblivious to the effect of his announcement, Mathew continues his rant. ‘We’re looking for creativity with a capital C. We’re looking for clever solutions. We’re looking for complete commitment to the brand. This —’ he pauses for dramatic effect, ‘will be bigger than Ben Hur.’
If it were possible to lay the clichés on any thicker we’d be backing this soliloquy with the soundtrack from 2001: A Space Odyssey. My concentration wanes and I find myself thinking about what I’ll have for lunch. Suddenly, Ellie takes over in the same hectoring, evangelical tone. ‘We’ve got a great story to tell and we’re looking to our chosen agency to create the narrative, relaunch the product image, new branding, new packaging across the brand range, new print and television campaign. We’re tired of being number two. We are ready to own the premium category!’ She’s almost shouting now.
Cindy, now the magician’s assistant, places a box on the table. She opens it and brings out three large steel cans. She takes a snazzy-looking can-opener out of the box and deftly opens a can as though she has rehearsed this moment. The lid comes off cleanly. She takes three beer coasters decorated with ‘Superbrand’ logos out and places the cans on them. She slides the cans towards each of us. Warren takes his and has an appreciative sniff. ‘Hmm, new formulation?’
Ellie simpers. Mathew nods, hardly able to contain himself. Warwick gazes into his can almost lovingly. I have to stand up to reach mine and pull it over. I look into the can. Oh, fuck. It’s dog food.
She gives us each a spoon.
Jonathan makes eye contact with each of us in turn, waiting to see if one of us lacks ‘commitment’; watching to see if anyone has an ‘I’m-not-eating-frigging-dog-food’ expression on their face. I have no idea what the expression on my face is – wonderment, perhaps? Is this a typical day in the life of a marketing mercenary? It’s certainly put me off lunch.
‘The breakthrough!’ he practically shouts. ‘It will change the pet-food industry forever. The third chunk – that’s what’s going to differentiate us from the market. Three vertical chunks clearly visible from the top of the can. Real meat chunks drenched in vitamin-enriched gravy. Go ahead – try it, you’ll love it.’
Warwick quickly picks up his spoon, digs a lump out and pops it in his mouth. Warren gives me his thin smile and does the same. He makes a show of savouring the moment. ‘Grrr, I can feel fur growing on my back.’ The team look at each other, clearly thrilled.
I look around the table. All eyes are now on me. The spoon sits untouched in front of me. I’m trapped. I gaze out into the blue. Out into the wild blue yonder.
Warren fiddles restlessly with his empty glass, twisting it from side to side. It catches the light off the water jug and spins it across the table where it comes to rest within my reach. I pick up my spoon and tilt it until it scoops up the light. I smile. They don’t.
Warren puts his glass down sharply and the disc of light is flung to the other end of the table. I’m aware that several people shift uneasily in their seats. No one wants to articulate what everyone is thinking. There is a tension in the room. Warren looks at me, his eyes narrow as he moves the glass slowly around, shifting the disc onto the stark white wall. I get up and follow it. I stand against the wall, the filament of light projected onto my cheek. I close my eyes. I can actually feel its warmth. It’s as warm as blood.
There is so much I want to tell these young people with their hard little faces. I want to tell them about Joy’s coffee c
ake, Deirdre’s hysterectomy, Mrs Leeton’s lizard feet, Goldsmith’s garters. About kindness and dirt, mistakes and loneliness and how fragile we become. About starting fires and putting them out. About the cathedral of olives and my grandfather’s apple tree. I want to tell them about my mother, Rosanna, and about my father, Jack. About my daughter Lauren and how I miss her. I need to tell them what little I know about love and forgiveness. I miss Dog. I miss Joe. I miss Joy. I think I even miss Deirdre. I want to tell them that the woman they see here is not me. Finally, I have realised that this is La-La Land.
I look around the table; all eyes are on me. I don’t know where to begin, so I begin with the end. They wouldn’t understand anyway. ‘Thank you,’ I say. And I really mean it. I pick up my briefcase and leave.
I ring Joe on his mobile. I hear the mower engine dying as he answers.
‘What’s up?’
‘Um, the job didn’t work out.’
There is a moment’s silence. I assume he’s checking his watch but chooses not to comment on the fact that it’s only 10.30 a.m.
‘I saw the light.’
‘Yeah?’ There is silence between us. I can hear the echo of bellbirds down the line.
‘Come on home, Baby. We’ve got everything you need here.’
‘I’m on my way.’ My voice is thick with unshed tears.
I go back to the mocha apartment, pack my things and leave an entirely unsatisfactory note for Diane. I lug my stuff down to the ute and drive out of this lovely suburb with its old trees and young cafés, espresso and friands, poodles and BMWs. I drive north for an hour on autopilot while my mind processes my thoughts into an unrecognisable puree.
I pull off the freeway into a rest stop and sit staring at the inside of the windscreen for a very long time. Jack’s letter somehow makes its way into my hand. I slit the envelope open and unfold the piece of paper. It reads:
My dear Adrienne,
We’ve spent our lives apart and it’s not your fault, it’s mine. There never seemed to be a right time to tell you the truth about your birth. It seemed to get harder over the years and I couldn’t find the words to explain why things were the way they were. Isabelle was my wife but not your mother. Her sister Rosanna is your mother and I hope you will understand and forgive me when I say she is the greatest love of my life. By the time you read this I will be gone, I only hope she has not.
All my love, Dad.
I take the loop road and head back to Sydney. I have one clear thought, one thought that feels absolutely right and I have no choice but to follow where it leads. I feel calm. I’m aware of being hungry and thirsty but I can’t stop.
I keep driving until I reach the nursing home. The old people are parked out on the lawn. I wonder if they always sit in the same places. I wonder if they leave them out there overnight.
Rosanna is in her bed. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘They won’t let me out of bed. Nobody talks to me.’ She points towards the other bed in the room, which I barely noticed last time I was here. ‘She’s been dead for three years,’ she says accusingly. The bed is made so tightly that the occupant, who lies on her back snoring softly, appears to be almost flat.
‘We can’t have that. Shall we dob her in?’ I say with a smile.
‘Might as well. I’m sick of all these half-dead people.’ She casts a belligerent eye around the room for any other offenders.
I sit down on the side of her bed and take her hand. Her hair is loose today, it’s been washed and brushed and flows thick as molten silver over her soft shoulders. She wears a faded cotton gown sprigged with flowers. She is much darker than my mother; her skin is olive, her eyes black and surprisingly alert. This time I’m the one to take in every detail. I savour her voice, her smell, the smooth plump texture of her skin. I quietly make her mine.
‘Now, I know you.’
‘I’m Adrienne. I’m your daughter. The baby Isabelle took away, remember?’ I say gently.
For a moment it seems as though she doesn’t understand me. She wraps her arms around herself and lifts her face to the heavens as if in prayer. From where I sit all I can see is the tilt of her chin, trembling delicately. Several slow minutes pass us by. When she lowers her face it has changed. She has the beatific smile of an elderly cherub. It’s as if a thousand dancing blessings have indeed rained down upon her. Her eyes glow with tears but I can see the happiness runs five layers deep. She strokes my cheek and sings in a low voice, ‘Ninnaò ninnaò, questo bimbo a chi lo do —’ She raises her hands to the ceiling and calls, ‘Grazie, Bella, Grazie.’
When she speaks it’s not the slightly befuddled Rosanna but one who is completely here, completely her. ‘You were so beautiful.’ She laughs out loud. ‘Everyone’s gone but you’re here.’ The tears spill down her cheeks as she wraps her arms around me and holds me tight against her warm soft body.
‘I want to take you back to the farm with me. To live,’ I say as I disengage from her embrace and brush away my own tears.
‘I’m not sure I can go,’ she says cautiously.
‘Oh? What’s worrying you?’
‘I tried to escape and now they’ve hidden my shoes.’
‘Is that all?’
Her mouth turns down at the corners. She leans forward and whispers, ‘I’m worried I won’t remember how to put them on.’
‘Well, that’s okay because I know how to do those things. I’ll help you. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll remember anything you forget.’
If only I could do that for her. If only I knew what the future held for us. My only thought is that I’m ready to take this step; ready as I’ll ever be.
Epilogue
There’s a frosting of ice on the grass this morning, and my breath forms plumes of white against a deep blue sky. The grove is a sea of netting that swirls around the trees like a foamy tide. Birds of every creed and colour have gathered in the cathedral to give thanks and sing the praises of the olive. Soon the pickers will come with rakes and tubs and chase them away, but it’s still early, and for the moment the grove is the birds’ domain.
By the time I reach the foot of the hill my boots are soaked through but the sun has climbed a little higher and warms my shoulders. Ernie’s right behind me; I think he’s happy to have his real name back. I take off my jacket and begin the ascent. I come here often now. I come to visit Rosanna.
Joe’s built me a little timber seat up here under the wattles, now resplendent in their winter gold. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple construction of split logs to create a seat and support for my back, but I’m very fond of it. From here I can see across the valley, the soft green pattern of the grove and the dark curl of the river beyond.
Rosanna’s plot is beside Francesco’s. I hope that one day Jack will have a plot here too. That’s something I’d like to do for him if it’s possible.
She died last summer, just eighteen months after I brought her home. She was as strong as a woman half her age and when it came to how to prune an olive tree or bake a pan di spagna, her memory was faultless. I knew that would change.
She was often forgetful, and she was certainly eccentric, and it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference between the two. She insisted on swimming every day. In the summer I would swim with her, while in winter I would sit on a rock wrapped in a rug while she plunged into the icy water. The water seemed to cleanse her mind of confusing detritus and it was often during our walk home that she had her most lucid memories.
She would experience the past disconnectedly, like scenes in a play, but could vividly describe Isabelle notating the words of songs played on Rosanna’s little brown radio; my father and grandfather playing cards by the fire; the women preserving summer fruit; Isabelle making a dress of roses for her.
It was on one of these clear, bright days that Rosanna remembered with sadness, not anger, Isabelle’s threat to twist the story of the planned conception so that I became the child of an adulterous love affair, and Isabelle a martyr.
What a tangled web these three did weave … One secret became many, with fears and guilty revelations still bubbling to the surface half a lifetime later.
Rosanna often mentioned Jack and would coo with delight when she discovered the odd possession of his that had escaped my brutal throw-out phase. I know she loved him and he loved her. I’m so glad they found each other in the end. Twice a week he had visited her over the last two years of his life. Same time, same days every week, regular as a heartbeat.
I spoke on a number of occasions to Mrs O’Brien, the manager of the nursing home, in my efforts to fit together the disparate pieces of information I had about Rosanna’s past. Mrs O’Brien added some pieces to the puzzle but it remains, even today, far from complete.
Rosanna, it seems, moved to Sydney of her own accord in her early seventies, and perhaps with a purpose, since she had lived out most of her adult life in South Australia. Soon after she arrived she suffered her first stroke in the dining room of the boarding house where she was staying. She was taken to hospital, where they undertook an extensive search to find her next of kin and located Jack.
‘At first, when he placed her here, we thought they were husband and wife – quite the lovebirds they were,’ Mrs O’Brien explained over the phone. ‘We couldn’t understand his reluctance to take her home, apart from the fact that he was an elderly gentleman himself and, with all due respect, she was a bit of a handful. When the paperwork came through it turned out she’d been married briefly to a fellow over in Adelaide, but never to Jack. Bit of a story behind those two if you ask me.’ Never a truer word. ‘She used to ask quite often for her sister – Bella? But I think Jack managed to make it clear to her that she was long gone.’