by Natasha Molt
‘Come in,’ he says in his jovial voice. ‘I thought that perhaps you had taken my advice and were trying some tai chi.’
‘I did exactly that, Sensei.’
He looks at her dubiously, and begins the class with a series of drills and warm-ups. Running up and down the hall, push-ups, sit-ups, squat kicks. There are about ten students today, not a bad number. Some faces are new. She hasn’t practised for three weeks.
In less than a minute, she decides on her first sparring partner. He is one of the newcomers, a six-foot-four bulk of muscle with no neck, and his best friend is probably a bench press. She will enjoy bringing him down.
Noriaki directs a series of katas, first by number, then by sequence. Next it is time for the sparring. On the way to one of the four canvases, she gestures with her chin at the man of muscle and whispers in Noriaki’s ear, ‘That one.’
But the bulk leaves unexpectedly, in the direction of the washroom. Amira steps onto a mat and Noriaki selects another partner for her. He is six feet tall, blond; another face she hasn’t seen before. Athletic, compact and muscular. In the gap at the top of his uniform she glimpses a sun-kissed chest. More pretty boy than Bruce Lee. She’ll have him lying on the ground within twenty seconds.
She steps off the mat. ‘I’ll wait for the guy in the bathroom.’
Pretty Boy’s mouth hardens. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Amira looks over at Noriaki, and he nods in his serene way. She sighs heavily, steps back onto the canvas. She can always tackle the guy with no neck afterwards.
Noriaki introduces the pair, one of his customs. ‘Anika, this is Lukas. He normally attends evening class.’
With a surprisingly firm grip, Pretty Boy shakes her hand. Amira responds with greater pressure.
Pivoting sharply, her back to him, she loosens her neck joints. When she turns around again Lukas looks straight into her eyes. He smiles casually, almost disdainfully, before glancing sideways at Noriaki. How fucking annoying is that? She’ll wipe that smirk off Lukas’s face in two seconds.
Noriaki looks around the room at all the participants. ‘Hajime,’ he calls. ‘Begin.’
Lukas and Amira bow, and without hesitation he advances. His eyes take on a fervent sheen, his smile gone.
He pounces, launching his body into the air, attacking with one sharp flying kick.
Amira takes a deep breath, steps to the side and fires an outside block, then a counterpunch. Her fist catches Lukas in the jaw. He doesn’t go down, barely stumbles. He lowers his body and goes for a foot sweep. She lifts her legs, spinning midair, landing firmly on both feet, attempting a punch to his ribs, another to the chin. He deflects both. His hand sends a stabbing pain through her left wrist.
She throws a sweep of her own, and another. No contact. He turns into her and swipes her with a knifehand below the knees. Her legs buckle and she hits the canvas hard.
She lies stunned, a bead of sweat on her upper lip.
‘You’re done,’ Lukas commands, hardly breathless. ‘Go get your water.’
Her leg whips to kick him from the ground. He blocks the blow in time, arching an eyebrow, and his smile returns.
Noriaki calls the round. ‘Yame!’
Anger rises up inside her. If only the sparring continued, she could flip him over, his face nuzzling into the mat. Show him that he has simply caught her in an off moment.
Lukas stands, his feet rooted to the floor, and holds out a hand to help her up.
‘I can do it myself,’ she says.
She pushes off the canvas with her hands and struggles not to wince. The pain in her left wrist is slowly burning. He looks down at it.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘That’s good, because I barely felt your punches.’
She rises, swaying on her feet, her pupils unable to focus. Lukas is watching her carefully and, before she can turn away, he is swinging her up into his arms.
She fights it, kicking her legs, incredulous. ‘Put me down!’
‘I don’t think so. You need to sit or you’ll pass out.’
‘I don’t faint.’ But as she speaks her limbs go weak.
He puts her on one of the wooden benches lined up around the dojo and squats in front of her, taking his time to inspect her.
‘Got some water?’
‘In my bag.’
‘Where?’
She glares at him.
‘You know you want it; just let me get it for you.’
Amira remains silent. Her throat is parched, but she isn’t about to admit it. She wants him to leave her be, to start sparring with his next opponent and allow her a moment alone to recover.
‘Damn it,’ he says, his face now red.
He strides away and her shoulders relax. Lukas approaches Noriaki. The sensei then points at her bag. Here she was thinking that Noriaki is her friend.
Lukas digs in her knapsack. She tries to rise but dizziness sweeps over her and she has to sit back down. He finds her drink and brings her bag over, too. He hands her the water bottle.
She grits her teeth. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. How’s the wrist?’
‘I told you, it’s fine.’
‘I thought it might be sprained.’
‘As if.’
Lukas shakes his head. ‘Look, I wouldn’t have been so hard on you. It’s not my thing to spar with women.’
‘Sure it’s not.’
‘Noriaki told me to come. He said you were tough. That you could handle it.’
‘I can.’
She leans back against the wall, staring off into space, her sore wrist lying in her lap.
‘Low blood pressure,’ Lukas says. ‘You should get it checked out.’
‘What are you, a doctor or something?’
‘No. Actually, I’m a cop.’
She stops herself from rolling her eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the people she had to meet today. She needs a run, or an alcoholic beverage.
‘That’s nice,’ she says, her voice unfailingly polite.
Lukas smiles, then laughs. ‘That’s not the usual response I receive.’
This time she is determined to get off the bench. She begins to heave herself up but it’s no use. Her arms wobble. Why is she like this? He didn’t even knock her head around and she’s like a rag doll. It must be prolonged jet lag. The memories of Britta and Amelia that have attached themselves to her brain. Amira lowers herself to the seat; she will have to wait a few more minutes, put up with Lukas the cop.
‘How did you get here?’ he asks.
She wants to tell him to go to hell, mind his own business. ‘Walked.’
‘You need someone to take you home. I’ll give you a ride.’
She looks at her unwanted companion. His stance is firm, back ramrod straight. She can tell that he is probably used to getting his own way, ordering people about. He looks as though he may be around twenty-six and she guesses that he is one of those ambitious up-and-coming police officers who work most of the time with no social life.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Her voice is clearer now.
He gives her a long look. ‘Can you call someone, then? A friend? Family member?’
She smiles wanly. ‘Yes, officer.’
‘Fine. Use the phone in your bag.’
He leaves and goes back to the lesson.
Amira contemplates saluting him behind his back, but doesn’t in case he turns around. Noriaki pairs Lukas with the guy with no neck. The two men go to a canvas, bow, and begin to spar. Lukas has the other man on the floor within thirty seconds. She grimaces at the injustice of it.
Feeling a little stronger, she lifts herself from the bench and starts to walk out of the room, past Noriaki.
His chin is high, and he has a satisfied smile. ‘I think I’ve finally found your match.’
She shakes her head.
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ Noriaki says. ‘His moth
er was killed in an armed robbery when he was eleven. He’s turned out well considering all he’s been through.’
She stares at her feet as she walks down the stairs. ‘I’ll see you in the evening class next time.’
‘Hey, besides, you needed the competition,’ Noriaki calls out after her. ‘Lukas is the best I’ve got. He’s competing in German nationals later this year.’
‘Good for him.’
‘You should too. You’d excel.’
‘Maybe next year.’ With that she continues down the steps.
In the reception area she stops at the vending machine, plugs in two coins and presses for a sports drink. She normally wouldn’t touch the stuff, only when she has done some sparring with Kolya and she doesn’t have a banana. The electrolytes re-energise her more quickly than water. She twists the lid and downs a third of the bright liquid.
There is the flat, dull sound of bare feet pattering against the hardwood stairs. The fast footsteps grow closer. She turns and looks up. Lukas stops halfway down. His expression is almost one of surprise. She sips her drink and wonders why he looks surprised.
He looks at her, concern in his eyes. ‘Someone’s picking you up?’
He’s a real cop. A tenacious one.
Amira nods. ‘My boyfriend. He’ll be here any minute.’
He pauses, his eyes scanning her, up and down, seeming to debate the truthfulness of her answer.
She looks out the window, and there is a young man pulling up to the kerb in a BMW. Perfect timing.
‘Here he is now.’
Lukas looks down, spots the man. ‘See you next time.’ He runs back up the steps.
She gulps down the rest of the drink, chucks the container into a bin and leaves, walking down the lane, into the labyrinth of streets that suck her in, the yellow spring sunshine filtering through the gabled roofs.
6
11–12 MAY
The next afternoon Amira walks to an internet cafe on Neumarkt. Amelia is still on her mind. Where did she come from? She is determined to begin the search for her birth parents and needs a secure location where Laith and Oscar, always the computer geeks, the Movement’s number one hackers, would be unable to track her computer activity.
The usual avenues for discovering her birth parents after a closed adoption are unavailable to her – she knows Henry is too well connected and would be tipped off. She doesn’t have much information to start with – just what she knows about herself, and she can’t even be sure of this. She searches an Australian online adoption registry for an unknown birth mother, father and brother, but finds nothing that matches her birthday or name. Of course, she can’t post her own details because Laith and Oscar will be sure to find out and report her. Also, she can’t ask for the help of the New South Wales Community Services Adoption Information Unit, a non-government organisation, or a private investigator who might pry into the Movement. Imagine:
Amira Knox, child of Henry and Edith Knox, otherwise known as the leaders of the Authenticity Movement. Raised in Kangaroo Valley on a diet of Molotov cocktails, nitric acid, nitroethane, lead azide – could she be your child?
The takers would clog up her inbox.
One possibility is that Mother has more information, details she has forgotten to pass on over the years, which could be teased out with some questioning. Amira is only permitted to call her in the case of an absolute emergency, and this will cause her trouble if Father finds out. Given an eight-hour time difference, it will be 11 pm in Australia.
She sits still for a moment, staring at the computer screen, then makes up her mind. She goes into one of the five empty telephone booths and makes the call.
The phone rings several times as she rolls her shoulders and neck. Finally, Mother answers.
‘Yes?’ Her voice is anxious, presumably because of the late hour.
‘It’s me, Mum.’
There is a pause. ‘You’re okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I should go.’
‘Is he there?’
‘No. But you know the rules.’
‘Mum, wait,’ Amira’s voice is choking. ‘I miss your cooking.’
She laughs heartily. ‘What rubbish! I always had to make you eat my food and now you miss it? It must be the lamb’s fry you yearn for.’
Amira chuckles. ‘Um, no.’
Mother stops laughing. ‘I have to go.’
‘Do you know anything about my birth parents? Maybe the adoption agency you used?’ The words tumble out in a rush.
There is a moment of silence. Outside the window, the sun hides behind a white glare of clouds.
‘No, I don’t know anything. Your father handled it; I just signed the papers.’
Amira’s shoulders sink, and in the background Amelia cries. Her sister has gas, Mother explains, and she isn’t sleeping well. Last night she woke every hour. She is testing different formulas to find one that doesn’t cause pain. If only she could breastfeed. She feels guilty. She wants to ask Amira something. Her breathing is heavy through the mouthpiece.
‘I want you to look after her, if anything happens to me.’
Amira pauses, her head light. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I’m getting old, that’s all. I’ll sleep better if I know that you’ll always be here for her.’
‘Of course I will.’
She thanks Amira needlessly, murmuring how she loves her and promises not to speak of their phone call to anyone. Before Amira can return her affection, Mother hangs up.
She puts the receiver in its cradle and pictures her mother at home on the rocking chair before the fire, singing a lullaby to Amelia, snug from the darkness outside. When Mother rises from her bed in the morning the house will be dark, the wooden floorboards cold on her feet. A cup of tea will warm her. Milk, no sugar. When Amira was young Mother would make her a cup with a sugar cube and they would sit together with their steaming mugs, watching the boys jump on the trampoline through the dining room window. Amira had felt like such a big girl.
She pays the bored-looking youth behind the counter for the time she has used the computer and phone, then notices a newspaper on top of the bench. On the first page is a photo of young Britta and her mother leaving Jonas Baumann’s newly set grave. The mother wears oversized black sunglasses. She walks with her back bent, holding her daughter’s hand. Britta’s countenance is blank, her lips loose, eyes focusing down on her feet. Her fair hair clings to her face.
The article below the photograph reads:
Ten-year-old Britta Baumann was the first person to find Jonas Baumann dead in his greenhouse last week. She has not spoken since and is undertaking grief counselling with a psychologist. Her father died of cancer when she was four. A family friend told reporters: ‘Jonas was like a father to her, taking her to the markets, teaching her about football. Britta adored him.’
Amira thinks of all the news cameras that must have been at the funeral, snapping away at Britta. The child embodies emptiness: life without love. This is how one exists, Amira thinks, when life has hollowed you out. She glances up, checks that no-one is looking, swiftly folds the newspaper and tucks it inside her backpack. Then she runs.
Her legs slice through the air, past the cathedral, the Rhine ahead of her.
The seven defining principles of the Authenticity Movement are:
1. All individuals have an Authentic core.
2. The Movement’s role is to protect this core.
She sucks the warm air in and dodges a cyclist along the river. The sunshine is on her face, a cool breeze has picked up and, although she tries to continue reciting the principles, her mind is distracted by a cracked bird’s egg lying on the path. She stops and can’t help looking at the half-formed baby bird inside. Thick blood mixed with clear liquid leaking onto the concrete. The creature’s feathers are wet, stiff. In the tree above there is an empty nest. It is a sign of something dreadful to come, but she doesn’t know what.
Run.
Father calls on her home line late that night.
‘Order the cake,’ he says. She detects a firm, almost irritated, quality to his speech. ‘The baker is an expert and will do a fine job. His prices are fair. You have enough money. Get some balloons and streamers, too.’
It’s his way of saying that her presence will be required at the meeting in the north tomorrow – just as Wilhelm had said.
Before her trip she researches Eckernförde, the public transportation systems, the entrances and exits, the police stations and especially the home where she will meet the Internationals. On Wednesday, shortly after noon, she is on the train heading north. She sits by a window, gazing out at the Rhine, and the drizzle. The journey takes approximately six hours with changeovers at Hamburg and Kiel.
She remembers when she first travelled overseas at eighteen and how excited she had been. People didn’t eat Vegemite in Europe and they drove on the wrong side of the road. Everything seemed just as Father and Mother had taught her: the spread of infection was taking over people’s lives; they lived for money, for power, not for Authenticity. The realisation that she could influence change had excited her. She was seeing the world as it was, but soon would no longer be.
But now, sitting on the train to Eckernförde, her head rests on her hand. The Rhine vanishes and an industrial area commences. Calls blare through the speaker for Solingen, Wuppertal, Hagen, Dortmund. Then the green fields that remind her of home, and the rain falling in layers. Münster West. Two children play in the aisle with toy cars. What would it have been like to grow up like them, without weapons? Twenty-two, exhausted to the bone, like a woman three times her age, where curling up in bed wearing a pair of woolly socks was a thrill. Osnabrück. Bremen. The further north the train goes the more black and white Holstein cows there are, and horses the colour of milky coffee.
At Hamburg and Kiel she switches trains and then there are two more stops at rural villages before she arrives in Eckernförde, a small town on the Baltic Sea in Schleswig-Holstein, home to German submarines and a torpedo research facility. Posters advertise Flensburger beer. She walks through the octagonal train station past the DB Service Store and out into the day; the rain is fierce against her open umbrella. The hood of her parka is pulled over her head and a scarf covers her neck and lower face. The seaside town is glum under the grey midafternoon sky. People in coats wait to cross the road at the traffic lights and wander the footpaths; their chatter is laced mostly with a pert northern German dialect, although there are other regional strands from disappointed tourists who have risked coming early, before the summer tourism season has started. Wherever they come from, they are wearing jumpers, jackets, jeans and long pants, despite it being spring. Pink roses grow wild, unpruned for some time, their petals heavy, damp and fallen, scattered on paths and in garden beds. She passes a giant millstone, a taxi rank, a public phone booth, a chemist, and walks on the right side of the path looking out for zooming bicycles on the left. A postman on a pushbike delivers mail the old-fashioned way. At the 20B bus stop right in front of the train station, cigarette butts float in the puddles.