by Omar Musa
‘Too long, too long. Cake?’
‘Sure.’
The conversation starts with Jimmy and Solomon, and moves onto how quickly the Town is changing, then it draws to the inevitable, the reason she has come.
Grace begins to tell a story, breathlessly, of how she has been having trouble with a pair of neighbours. One of them, a truck driver, has taken to teaching people how to drive trucks in the carpark behind the flats from as early as seven a.m. on a Saturday. One day, after a long shift, Grace had had enough, and approached them to tell them off. The response had been swift and vituperative. They told her she was an ugly old slut, a coconut fucker, and mocked her for still living in the flats. There are tears in her eyes as she finishes the tale. Aleks looks at her with his head cocked like a bird. A dog barks down the street. He takes a neat sip of the coffee and says, ‘Which house is it?’
‘The big one. The old one with the lemon trees.’
Aleks knows it. It’s the most beautiful house on the street, directly across from the flats, like something designed to taunt them. A Nazi had lived there years ago, hung himself in the attic and now his ghost haunts the place, or so the story went. Nowadays a gunmetal-grey Porsche sneers from the driveway next to two trucks. Aleks nods to himself then stands up and hugs Grace. ‘All right; sorry to be rude, but I better get going, Grace. Gotta make the paint store before it closes.’
‘But what about —’ she starts.
‘I heard what you said. I listened. I’ll fix it, all right?’ He replies in a short but kind voice.
‘Thanks, Aleks,’ she says guiltily.
* * *
Aleks stands looking at the legal wall, rubbing his hands together. He quickly identifies the piece he is going to paint over. ‘Poor bastard, even after all these years his pieces are so toy,’ says Aleks. Solomon nods, dazed. It’d taken Aleks ages to get onto Solomon and when he finally had, he told Solomon to bring his new girlfriend along, intrigued. However, when he picked them up they were sullen and quiet. Solomon was drunk already and they’d clearly been fighting.
To Aleks’ surprise, Scarlett has brought her own paints. She shakes a tin of MTN 94 and eyes the wall, saying to no one in particular, ‘I love how these smell. Kinda like bubblegum.’
Aleks grins. ‘You must be crazy. Smells as bad as every other paint.’ He’s bought the new Ironlak Sugars and is giving them a burl. Particles of paint float in the air. It’s hot but a cool breeze is coming through, and soon Solomon is up and at it as well. He puts Spit Syndicate’s ‘Sunday Gentlemen’ on the speakers. Aleks props himself on the tips of his fingers as he paints, relishing the sun. He has no plan, but he writes JAKEL freehand in his tight, interlocking script. He has always been the best writer of the boys, a natural instinct to conceive a whole piece in his mind and execute it to perfection. He had re-arranged some letters in his surname to create that tag. He smiles to himself, thinking of his very first tag, KBAB, when he was just getting accustomed to Australia, and the ridicule he got for it.
The piece is starting to take shape, with a light blue to navy chroming effect in the middle, then black, then yellow. He’s sunburnt within an hour.
He gets a message on his phone from an unknown number. It is a photo of a hand with a finger stitched to it, dark blue and scabbed around the stitches. The message below simply reads, ‘No hard feelings, ay?’ He grimaces and deletes it, then keeps painting. The colours are really popping now and he uses a see-through paint, a black techie, to get a shadow effect on the letters so that they look 3D.
Scarlett, meanwhile, is painting a figure, a woman who is half bird, half human. Solomon is helping her and the wings are a vibrant yellow-to-white fade, like a sulphur-crested cockatoo. Aleks thinks that it’s definitely got an art-school vibe but is dope nonetheless. He is surprised to see them share a gentle, conciliatory kiss. Love and hip hop, ay? he thinks.
Once finished, they stand back from their pieces. They look so alive they could pop from the concrete and fly through the air.
* * *
Aleks stands in the garden of the house across from the flats. There is a fountain, terracotta tiles and four perfectly manicured lemon trees: a chiaroscuro in blue-black and white. A few fallen fruit on the ground. Holding something downwards in his right hand, he is rolling the blue bead with his left. He pockets the bead, steps forward and picks up a lemon with his free hand, weighs it, sniffs it, then places it carefully back on the ground. As he stoops to do so, the backdoor swings open and the owner of the house appears holding a garbage bag. The thin sound of laughter from a television inside.
Aleks steps silently back into the shadows against the fence; hidden in a darkness so pure it could be an extract of the outer reaches of space. The cricket bat in his right hand feels incredibly heavy, as if it could sink with him into the core of the earth.
The man is well put together, wearing a collared linen shirt tucked into his jeans. He has a military-style haircut. He reaches into his mouth, pulls out a piece of gum and throws it into the garbage bin. Everything he does is purposeful and his face is set severely. Aleks thinks of Grace and his hand tightens on the cricket bat handle, his palms sweaty. He swallows saliva and the man looks up, squinting towards the fence. Aleks doesn’t move.
The man steps forward into the moonlight, leaning out as if looking for land from a prow. Aleks stays in shadow, shapeless. His breathing and heartbeat has slowed right down to this moment. Too easy – jump out, three quick steps, then swing the cricket bat right into the man’s head. The weapon, the wolf, the victim, the piñata skull, each linked in a chain leading back to the bloody birth of the world. Each illuminated by a caustic falling of stars and well aware of the game’s rules – sacrifice, loneliness and violence. Who chooses their choice? he thinks.
Aleks spies something at the man’s feet. It is a child’s tricycle with a basket attached to the handlebars, lying on its side. Aleks had bought one just like it for Mila for Christmas a few years back. Aleks remembers the way she waggled her little toes as he guided her sandalled feet onto the pedals. He relaxes his grip on the cricket bat.
The man, content he hasn’t seen anything, turns and goes back into the house. Aleks leans his whole weight against the fence and exhales.
He drives away, parks on the edge of the river, and sees that the water is moving deceptively fast behind bending reeds. Often it roars, a guttural moan like a beast or a plane taking off. But tonight it is quiet and black, reflecting an almighty white swathe of stars. He looks up, squinting hard, and decides he will forget the phone number Clint gave him, he will let each number float from his mind like smoke rings.
He looks around. There is no one there. He reaches into his pocket, takes the blue bead out and pitches it into the water.
3
Jimmy is at the wheel.
The red bonnet is reflecting the murderous sun, throwing up vertical spears of light. The fan is not working. He hasn’t eaten since the curry four days ago and is unsure if he is awake or asleep. He feels faint as he listens to the voice on the other end. The voice – robotic, metallic – is unmistakably his father’s.
‘Magic is faith, James. You don’t trust me, I know that, but sometimes there is nothing to lose. And everything is contained in nothingness. You are on a road that is long and straight, no?’
Jimmy nods, even though he is alone in the car.
‘I want you to close your eyes and drive. You can open your eyes any time you want. Just trust. If you trust me and drive, and turn when I say, I will tell you everything you need; no, everything you want to know.’
Jimmy has the urge to hang up, to tell him to fuck off, but instead he listens and stares straight at the febrile sun, then closes his eyes to blot it out.
‘You’re on a straight road. Now drive and listen. Listen.’ Jimmy, eyes still closed, turns on the engine and begins to drive, with the phone on speaker. ‘James, all you need to know is contained in what I say. One. You come from a line of kings. They were a people who live
d on the richest land on earth. They had once been wealthy, but they became poor. These people were cast from gold. Their skin, their bones were gold, even their voices. They were each other’s gods, each to each. It was a land of mirrors they lived in, everything they saw was gold. But their land, which was once abundant, was now a land of drought – desert, where there should have been water, famine, where there should have been fruit. So the golden people, they began to walk. They walked over the deserts, treetops, over oceans. Turn left now.’
Jimmy does as the voice says. He’s parched, and when he speaks, it sounds like he has a mouth full of dead bees. ‘The golden people. What were they called?’
The voice doesn’t answer, and all Jimmy can hear is the engine and the wind before the voice speaks again. ‘The thing is, James, the golden people kept walking and along the way the elements tugged at them, their skin, their golden muscles, their bones. And they resisted. For a time. But they were hungry, and knew a thirst you and I hope never to feel. They began to sell pieces of themselves, bit by bit. First it was an eye, then an ear, then a tongue, a heart. Soon it was a free for all. Within no time, all that was left were golden voices on the wind. Turn right.’
Jimmy follows orders, sharply. There is silence and he drives onwards and onwards. The sweat drips down his nose and onto his lips. He hits something, hard, but doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he keeps the wheel steady. The voice speaks again.
‘The second thing you must know is the most important: the truth is not real. Sometimes all we have are questions and no answers. So we make up the answers.’
‘Stop talking to me in riddles. If you are who you say you are, then why can’t we meet in person, face to face?’
‘Because I had an accident.’
‘What kind?’
The voice coughs. ‘I was burned.’
‘How?’
There is a long pause and Jimmy waits patiently before the voice finally speaks again. ’I was living in an abandoned car, somewhere on the coast, could’ve been Port Macquarie, or maybe further north. It doesn’t matter. It was an old Holden, cleaned out by rust and scavengers looking for parts. Two side windows were shattered but somehow the driver’s side windows were intact, as were the seats and roof. During the day, I would walk along the beach. I would get high up on the cliffs and look for changes in the horizon. I saw schools of dolphins. One day I even saw a whale, although it could have been a submarine. Mostly, I just watched the restless sea. I soon began to notice the smallest variations in its moods. It’s the same with music, isn’t it? To a trained ear, the wrong snare on a beat becomes as obvious as the carcass of a dead elephant on a suburban street.’
‘What did you eat?’
‘I caught fish and prized shellfish off the rocks. I ate them raw with seawater. At night, I huddled in a blanket and listened to the thin fingers of rain drumming away on the roof. The rain would wiggle down the window in patterns, throwing shadows, like moving scripture, onto my lap. I swear I could read messages in them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Turn right.’ Jimmy does as he is ordered. The voice continues, as if it hasn’t heard the question. ‘On the dashboard, someone had pinned the photo of a young boy. He was skinny and wearing a Mickey Mouse jumper, staring straight at the camera. The boy seemed so full of longing my heart felt fit to burst. He looked like you, James. Since I had no photos of you, I began to imagine he was. I would tell him jokes, teach him recipes, tell him about my travels, my childhood. I apologised to him, James, I apologised for not being there. I told him I was ashamed.’
Jimmy can feel a bodily presence next to him in the car now. He can smell the sweat and breath of a man. The car is excruciatingly hot and he resists the urge to open his eyes or reach out to touch the man in the passenger seat, whose voice is now only half a metre from his ear. Instead, he drops the phone and takes his foot off the accelerator. The voice keeps talking, alive, present, close.
‘One night, when I was sleeping, I heard voices. I smelled petrol, I saw flames. There were men dancing around the car, laughing, shouting. I nearly died, James. They left me for dead. I don’t know how I got out of the car, but I did. I have burns on most of my body. I look like a fruit that has been peeled and left to harden. That kind of pain is . . . unbearable. My eyes don’t work, my legs. I am so ugly that I am glad I have no eyes to see. Nowadays, I just lie in bed and dream of rain. Not a light sprinkle, but something heavy and sweet and soulful, silver droplets, fat as coins or bullets. I raise my face and imagine the rain hitting me side on, from above, from below, turning this skin into thick mud that flowers can grow from. But it is a long, long time since any of us have seen rain, isn’t it?’
Jimmy can feel the car slowly coming to a halt.
‘So. That is the how. But you surprise me. You didn’t ask the most important question.’
‘Which is?’
‘Why?’
Jimmy clears his throat. ‘Why?’
The voice doesn’t reply. Jimmy lets the car stop. When he opens his eyes, he is facing the lake. He is alone in the car. The bonnet is steaming, as if it just passed through fresh rain.
* * *
He wakes up in hospital, a drip connected to his arm.
‘You’re badly dehydrated, mate. You should stay overnight,’ says a nurse.
‘Nah, nah, I can’t.’
‘You have to.’
‘I gotta feed my dog.’
‘Can you get someone else to do it?’
‘Nah. I have to. I have to. Please.’
She smiles softly. ‘I understand, mate. I can’t live without my dog for more than a couple of hours.’ She pats him on the hand. ‘You’re a nice bloke.’
At the bus interchange, Jimmy comes across a crime scene. The cops are pulling a tarp over a bloke and a woman is crying. A hand is stuck out from underneath the tarp and the cops are shooing people away. One of the younger cops looks scared. Jimmy watches from across the street. He’s never seen a dead person before, besides Ulysses Amosa, waxen and well dressed at the funeral. The arm that sticks out, resting palm up on the concrete, has a tattoo of a swallow on the wrist.
The evening goes from pink to purple to black as he walks home, the night full of shapes and shadows. Jimmy can smell tinder and see the moon through the powerlines, blind and lost. He stumbles forward, as if drunk. When he gets home, he’ll sleep for ages. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll go shopping. Stock the fridge.
In the light of a streetlamp, objects begin to appear: a car, a shopping trolley, a sofa, a jumble of sticks and leaves. He moves forward, as if through a fog, although he’s walked this street so many times before, too many. The Town is a maze, with a beast at its heart, like that ancient Greek story Ulysses Amosa used to read to the boys. Or maybe the Town is a thousand-roomed madhouse, built by a psycho, and somehow he’s meant to find his way out.
A final shape appears in front of him, magically, in the gutter. He runs to it.
He’s crouched in the gutter at first, patting the fine fur. He traces his right hand over the hound’s muscled legs, touches his paws, rubs his thumb on its nose – dry already. His hand rests on Mercury Fire’s belly, which is still vaguely warm, though it could be the sweat from his palm. He shifts his weight and his knees crack like buckshot. He cradles Mercury Fire in his lap then holds him to his chest. The body is almost completely stiff. Lights come threading through the darkness. He’s aware of car horns, and maybe even a person talking to him, but he doesn’t reply. At a certain point, he lies next to the dog, still holding him. Eventually he stands and carries him to his house. The door is open.
He gently places Mercury Fire on the couch and begins to brush him. He sniffs his fur, which is mostly odourless, but now has a tinge of dust. He tries to feed him some water, but it dribbles onto the couch, a spreading stain. He sends signals with his brain, messages of love, but there is no reply now.
He talks to him the whole night.
At dawn, he showers, dresses
as if for church, and then takes the hound in a blanket down to the river. He has a shovel. He covers him with dirt, beneath a willow tree. In the morning light he sees a crow land nearby. He shoos the crows away, again and again. Jimmy cries for a long time.
4
Jimmy is awake, the mattress beneath him warm with sweat, the dark room compressed. He is eleven. Pinstripes of light on his upturned face from the closed venetian blinds. His lips tremble. He cannot breathe; he almost moans at the heat. Jimmy rises and looks through a chink in the blinds. An owl sits on the branch of a plum tree. Hello, owl, he says in his mind. Hello, little owl, my friend.
The owl swoops away in a bellying trajectory, surreal.
Jimmy eases the door open and goes into the kitchen, walking on tiptoe. Scale disappears in the darkness but he knows his way instinctively. He feels around inside a cupboard. He touches a screwdriver, a hammer and a light bulb before his hand lands on what he’s looking for.
He goes down the stairs, past the potted flowers on the landing – freesias, geraniums, irises, all colourless in the moonlight – past the second floor that has no pot plants just pools of water, past the first floor (leaving wet footprints now) with its jam jar full of ciggie butts, then onto ground level, the concrete cool on his bare soles. He almost considers throwing some rocks at Aleks’ window but is afraid of his father. He army-crawls under the stairs and through a space that leads into the carpark underneath the flats. There is a 4WD and a busted Datsun, covered in spiderwebs and drawings in its dusty windows. He goes deeper into the carpark, feeling his way along the brick wall when it gets too dark to see, until he is in the corner. He squats on his haunches.
When the first match lights, it flares in front of his face, lighting it up like an animated mask, the contours of cheek and chin, eyes glistening like a Kathakali dancer, until it burns to his fingertips and submits him back to blackness.