by Cenarth Fox
‘No, but your spread is,’ said older sister, Madeline.
It was Monday night and the Garbos had been. Bernie put away his bins then did the same for an elderly neighbour, who opened her front door.
‘Ciao Mr Bernie; how is my kind and lovely friend?’
‘Buona sera, Signora,’ said Bernie. ‘I’m ready for Gary’s walk.’
‘Oh, did you hear that Gari? Mr Bernie will be taking you to the walk.’
Gari to the Signora, and Gary to Bernie, was really Garibaldi, a small dog of unknown parentage, who kept the Italian widow company. She was too frail to walk the hound, and Bernie offered to help. His kindness had a touch of selfishness, as both man and beast needed the exercise.
Not that Bernie ever worked up a sweat. Gary’s creaking joints meant the short walk took forever. En route, Bernie collected Gary’s droppings, properly disposed of same, then knocked on Signora Conti’s door.
‘Come in, Mr Bernie, please to come in.’
Bernie did as he did every time he returned with Garibaldi. This small act of kindness meant the world to the widow. She lived alone, and refused to move. Her children and grandchildren had given up trying to persuade their beloved mother and grandmother to live with one or more of them. Bernie’s visits became the highlight of her day.
‘How was your walk, Gari?’ she said to the dog. ‘Did you walk nicely for your friend?’
Gari had taken a vow of silence whenever food was within a mile of his senses. He settled for chewing.
‘Now I have made some lasagna for you, Mr Bernie,’ she said handing her neighbour a container wrapped in a tea towel.
‘Oh Signora, you shouldn’t have.’
‘You no like my lasagna?’
‘Truthfully Signora, I don’t like it.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I love it.’ She beamed. ‘I just don’t want you to go to any trouble.’
‘I tell you something, Mr Bernie. The day you have the wife, I stop the cooking for you. Okay?’
Bernie nodded. ‘You could be cooking for another fifty years, Signora.’
It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, but then she laughed, and Bernie joined the fun. Garibaldi kept chewing.
‘Oh and here is some chicken for your gatto, Alberto.’
Bernie called his cat Albert because of that famous scientist, Herr Einstein. His Italian neighbour had chosen the Italian version of Albert.
The dog-walker now had two items of food to carry home. Both residents in Bernie’s Chestnut Street abode would dine well tonight.
The pharmaceutical conference was as expected. Bernie found the first speaker more interesting than his topic. A ludicrous bow tie, speech impediment, and a failure to master elementary button pushing made the lecture almost tolerable. But then a highlight appeared.
At morning tea, Bernie, with quality black coffee in hand, surveyed the range of edible goodies. No cinnamon doughnuts, but the upmarket biscuits looked intriguing, and those Danish pastries called to him like the Seirēnes of ancient Greece. “Go on, have two Danish,” they sang. He was about to yield when a voice interrupted his snack selection.
‘Good to see Labcope putting in an appearance.’
The woman beside him looked like a model. To have a stunner “chat up” Bernie was so unusual it put him right off his food.
Her hair glistened, and her understated jewellery screamed class.
‘We don’t usually see you lot at these highbrow events.’ Even her sarcasm was subtle, and she nibbled and sipped with style.
Bernie recovered from shock, and attempted to join the conversation. ‘You come here often then?’ was his pathetic attempt at being funny.
Help me, someone.
‘So Bernie, what’s your real interest? I would have thought this gig far too sophisticated for a homeopathic juggernaut like Labcope.’
Bernie twigged that the gorgeous woman deduced his name and employer from his plastic nametag. She remained anonymous.
‘You wouldn’t be a journalist by any chance?’ he asked.
She smiled, and Bernie’s interest in Danish pastries evaporated.
‘Do I look like a journalist?’
No, you look like a living doll who is so far out of my league I could be arrested for even standing next to you.
‘Well I notice you’re not wearing a nametag.’
‘Oh that,’ she said producing said item from her Gucci bag. All Bernie saw was the name Claudia. ‘Mustn’t damage the jacket.’
The price difference between Bernie and Claudia’s jackets was the equivalent a Third World country’s GDP.
‘How did you find Professor Bow Tie’s address?’ he said.
Claudia laughed, and Bernie’s mouth went dry. ‘Let’s just say the thought of a quality coffee kept me going.’
Bliss. This has to be love; a stunning woman who adores good coffee. Say, Claudia, do you fancy a cinnamon doughnut?
He tried a new tack. ‘I must admit I’d much rather be back in the lab.’
‘Turning out placebo goodies with the TGA’s blessing.’
‘Actually I’m in Research and Development.’
Claudia’s face turned serious. ‘You have R & D for vitamins?’
‘I’m working on new meds for mental health issues.’
Claudia’s surprise continued. ‘Labcope researches the brain?’
‘Afraid so. Beneath all those over-the-counter pharmacy specials, there’s a serious scientist desperate to discover some new magic bullet for depression, autism and schizophrenia.’
Bernie’s confidence grew. Wrong. He failed to see the danger ahead.
Claudia showed genuine interest.
‘I’m impressed. So what’s your take on Norman Doidge’s work?’
Bernie hesitated. Claudia pounced.
‘You’re working on brain disorders, and haven’t read The Brain That Changes Itself and The Brain’s Way of Healing?’
Bernie tried a pathetic joke. ‘They’re next on my list.’ That died. He dug an even deeper hole. ‘Would you believe I’m waiting for the movie?’
Claudia’s head shook. ‘And I suppose you’ve not heard of YouTube?’
Bernie groaned. Shit. His flippant remarks backfired. Claudia turned her back, and Bernie’s mood turned black. Not only had his “date” dumped him, he’d admitted being pig ignorant about the work of a leading psychiatrist doing wonderful things in Bernie’s so-called area of expertise. From there, Bernie’s conference went rapidly downhill.
At lunch, he spotted Claudia, surrounded by admiring delegates who ignored their vittles, and feasted on her body.
If Lois retires and Claudia takes her place … ah, dream on.
That night, while Albert slept, Bernie googled Norman Doidge, bought digital versions of his books, and explored neuroplasticity.
Bernie’s thoughts kept returning to the lovely Claudia.
Maybe I can still impress Ms Gorgeous. But where does she work?
Online he watched films about examples of the brain healing itself. It was impressive, and Bernie felt ashamed of his ignorance. It wasn’t exactly his work area but certainly related.
In one film, stroke patients learnt how to re-do things they once took for granted. Impressive stuff. And this got Bernie thinking. Did it relate to his research? Could chemicals help in this repair work? Could he create some formula to produce a brain changing action?
After a few solid hours, he made more coffee, and flopped on the sofa. Albert refused to budge; perfectly reasonable as it was his sofa.
Bernie flicked on the box, and surfed. Normally an SBS and ABC man, he found their offerings didn’t appeal. He landed on some commercial network showing a documentary about true-life villains.
Organized crime figures had no compunction about maiming and murdering, not just their rivals, but judges, lawyers, journalists; anyone who opposed their “business”. Innocent bystanders were killed in the crossfire. Their fault. “Serves ‘em right for being there”.
God, this is so gruesome.
Why does anyone watch this?
Bernie did then retired, still tasting lasagna, while pondering the evil humankind heaps upon itself. Deep in Bernie’s subconscious, an amoeba of a thought plopped from the mudflat to dry land.
Nice idea, Bernie.
Next morning, he sat in the Labcope staff canteen, consuming a cinnamon doughnut and black coffee. Life was grand until Josh arrived.
Every company has a Josh; someone who grates on colleagues, could bore for their country, and yet who thinks they’re interesting.
Piss off, Joshua.
‘Maaaate,’ he oozed, sliding in next to Bernie. ‘How they hangin’?’
‘Morning,’ replied Bernie wanting to stand and depart.
Josh loved himself and, as a boastard, (a bastard who boasts about his sexual exploits), could kill a conversation in a nanosecond.
Why do some men boast about their “success” in the bedroom? Mind you, for Bernie to reciprocate, fictional tales would be essential.
‘You know that receptionist on the ground floor,’ leered Josh, ‘the one with the amazing legs?’ Bernie knew what was coming.
Just say, “I’m not interested”, or “Piss off, dickhead”.
And for Bernie, what made these appalling reports worse was that Josh had a wife and children at home.
‘I gave Ms Amazing Legs a lift home last night,’ gloated the slime ball. He edged closer and whispered. ‘She was very grateful.’ He winked, and Bernie silently groaned.
To be fair, Josh included his spouse in his Casanova conquests. Whenever the randy boastard persuaded his wife to grant him his conjugal rights, the next morning, in the canteen, Josh would approach Bernie, and tap the scientist on the shoulder. That was the signal.
Last night, I did it with the missus.
It was too much information. Bernie hated himself for being so weak.
I don’t like this man. I don’t want to hear about his intimate boasts. Or wait. Oh no. Maybe I secretly do. Maybe I stay and listen because I get some perverted thrill at being part of his sordid existence.
Bernie returned to his lab, and Lois looked up. ‘Gossiping in the canteen again? What do you men talk about?’
Sex thought Bernie, and resumed his work.
3
My conscience shall dispose of my hand.
Charlotte Brontë
WHEN BERNIE SLIM and Luca Parisi were turning 20, a young Melbourne lawyer started making waves. She had ambition to burn, and balls to boot.
Suburban solicitors were a dime a dozen but Jessica Reid was not suburban. Adversarial by nature, she took to criminal law like a commercial television network to dross. She kept winning. Crims loved Jess because so often the redhead helped them skewer the pigs.
Jessica chose not to be a barrister due to her desire, need even, to do other things. She wanted to play at politics.
The woman was born with a how-to-vote-card in her hand. Her parents belonged to the Sandringham branch of the Liberal Party, and Jessica joined the Young Libs in her first year at Monash University.
She loved the conflicts in politics, the deals, the dirty tricks, and the backstabbing — and that was just within her own party. She fantasized about the power a government minister enjoyed, and craved the top job in her home state of Victoria.
She never missed party meetings, volunteered for everything, and earned a PhD in sucking-up. Jessica paid her dues, and if the Libs had a Rising Young Star Award, she would have been nominated — often.
At 28, as a lawyer and bright young thing, her day job saw her dealing with barristers defending criminals in Melbourne’s County Court. She believed her job helped prepare her for a life in politics, and she saw crooks and politicians as being pretty much the same. Oh, except she knew crooks stabbed you in the chest.
A young tearaway and his father entered Jessica’s office. The court case beckoned. The villain had been charged with threats to inflict serious injury, and riot, and been granted bail provided he lived with his family. The court case beckoned.
‘You sure you’re up for this, Miss?’ asked the father. ‘I mean is there someone more senior?’
Jessica looked at the father. Her expression zapped Mr Sexist, who instantly became Lot’s wife. When Jessica’s advice and choice of barrister saw the young thug found not guilty, her reputation within the criminal fraternity continued its upward trajectory.
She loved the law but politics more.
Her growing reputation defending riff raff hardly seemed the path to winning Liberal Party preselection, but Jessica disagreed. She liked being different. Besides, rubbing shoulders with criminals taught her survival. She discovered ruthlessness, and shady characters taught her how to bluff, threaten, and lie — excellent attributes for any aspiring politician. If Jessica ever wore a tee shirt, the text would be Don’t Mess with Jess.
Her parents wished their girl had chosen Wills and Conveyancing, even Family Law. Her mother pleaded.
‘But darling, if you must work in criminal law, why not prosecute?’
‘Your mother’s right,’ added Jessica’s father. ‘You won’t win preselection working for criminals. Delegates choose feminine not feisty.’
Jessica didn’t argue. The more people pressured her to follow the “rules”, the more she rebelled — and triumphed.
With a state election due, she won endorsement for a super-safe Labor seat, lost, but did frighteningly well. Movers and shakers took note. Labor were back in power, and Jessica, although not yet a member of parliament, shone as a future Liberal Party star.
In the meantime, she returned to those drug dealers and thugs at the criminal law grindstone. It would be years before another preselection battle.
As the next State election drew nigh, Alan “The Animal” Darcy came to see Jessica the solicitor. A mid-level career crim, never destined for greatness, Alan lived in hope.
‘Take a seat, Mr Darcy,’ said Jessica. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Beer’d be nice.’
‘Time is money, Mr Darcy.’
‘Call me Animal, everyone does.’
‘So, what’s the charge?’
She knew but made her clients explain their predicament. This often revealed possible flaws in the police case, and allowed her to perfect her skill of spotting fibs.
What a gift, and what a godsend for any politician. Naturally, her clients lied for a living, and Jessica’s antennae picked their porkies. Every politician would surrender his or her chauffeured limo to be able to tell when someone was lying.
‘The cops set me up.’
‘That’s a new one,’ she said, watching her sarcasm sail through to the keeper. ‘Tell me about it.’
Animal knew this solicitor took no prisoners, and got blokes off.
She’s not bad looking. Not the sort I’d take home to meet me Mum, but I’d certainly let her “get me off”.
Jessica ignored the looks and comments from crooks. She knew criminal law, and usually got the best possible deal for her clients. When they offered favours or gifts, she spurned them with ease, and never let villains within a mile of her private life.
Colleagues and friends joked about her sordid cases, and a few heavy-hitters in the Liberal Party began to worry that, by mixing with felons, their rising star would be tainted. ‘At least let her prosecute,’ they said.
‘So, Mr Darcy,’ began Jessica.
‘Go on, call me Animal.’
‘How exactly did the police set you up?’
Animal yielded to the iron maiden. ‘The usual way; two cops pulled me over, and planted drugs in the boot of me car.’
‘You saw them plant the drugs?’
‘Course I didn’t. That’s how they work. One cop distracts you while the other pretends to search, and then allegedly finds the gear.’
Jessica wondered if Animal could spell allegedly.
‘And did you handle the drugs in any way?’
‘What drugs? I just told you the cops planted ‘em.’
Jessica decided that Animal had slightly more intelligence than the average crim. She made notes for the barrister she knew could make the arresting officers squirm. They did — squirm that is.
In court, Animal did exactly as instructed. Jessica’s notes and suggested plan of attack were delivered superbly by the barrister, and after the trial, Animal sported a grin not often seen in the County Court.
‘I gotta buy you a drink, Miss,’ he beamed. ‘I reckon you’d be a champagne drinker.’
Jessica checked her phone and read an imaginary text.
‘Sorry Mr Darcy. You’ll have to settle for Miss Bennet.’ She left.
Animal last opened a chapter book in Year 7 — he closed it almost immediately — and today restricted his “reading” to the study of glossy publications featuring female pulchritude. Jessica’s comment became a cultured pearl cast before a bore of a boar.
Heading back to the office, her mobile rang. Her excited mater spoke.
‘Darling, I’ve just heard. You’ve been preselected for Brighton.’
Jessica shrieked, and passersby stopped, thinking someone was in trouble — hardly trouble, more a triumph for the redoubtable Ms Reid. Brighton was a super safe seat, and Jessica had just scored a gold pass entry to the Victorian Parliament. Her political dream became a reality.
The state election drew closer, yet Jessica chose to continue working with criminals. This brought more concern from her folks, and frowns at Liberal HQ. But like Mrs Thatcher, this lady’s not for turning.
I‘ve got this far by sticking to my guns.
And stick to them she did.
Now there are friends, best friends, and first-best friends. Jessica met Genevieve at uni, and the two clicked. Yin and yang, The Odd Couple or The Bobbsey Twins, the women became the perfect double act.
Genevieve got Jessica elected as President of the Young Libs through a mixture of bribery, blackmail and bastardry. Vote early and vote often. What fool said Labor invented branch stacking? Genevieve was living proof that behind every great woman is a great woman.