by Black Inc.
But it only took a few days for his body to grow into the work. His hands soon enough hardened. With his shirt off and sun on his back he became absorbed in the task. The undulating pattern of red-grey was interesting in itself; the idea behind it made them merry.
A rivalry began with the men on the other roof to see who could finish first. These men Banerjee knew from the dormitory. In ordinary life some were successful painters of hills and trees – Horace, Arthur, Russell were names Banerjee heard. The picture-framer was apparently known to them. He suggested the artists sign each sheet of iron when they finished. The man with prematurely white eyebrows nodded. ‘That’s the only way you’ll make a killing.’
Banerjee enjoyed this sort of banter, even if he was on the fringe. There was not much of it in the day of a piano-tuner; and it would never occur to him to banter with his wife, Lina, who had anyway become curiously solemn after having their child.
Early one afternoon planes were spotted – three of them, high. Leaning back they shielded their eyes to watch. The officer on the ground had to clap and yell to get them down – ‘For Christ sake!’ – off the roof.
Later that same day they had a grandstand view of the first two planes to land.
And just when the dust had settled, and they were admiring the practised efficiency of the Americans parking the planes, they ran out of paint. There was nothing to do but come down on ladders and sit around in the shade, where it was still hot.
Without effort, Banerjee was a man who kept his thoughts to himself; preferred to stay back than join in. Yet there he was more or less part of the group mumbling and wisecracking. Often they were joined by the camouflage officer. After all, he had nothing much to do either. Close up Banerjee noticed his face was infested with small lines.
The officer looked up from scratching the ground with his stick. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to our paint.’ To Banerjee he added, ‘In war there’s more waiting than shooting. Always was.’ When the talk turned to music Banerjee could have said something, and with real authority; instead he listened while letting his thoughts wander among other things.
On the third or fourth day one of the pilots squatted beside him. After talking about his hometown (St Louis) and his parents, he held out a hand and introduced himself.
*
Banerjee married late. Lina was barely twenty-one. He had taken her away from everybody else; that was how it later felt. All her privacies she transferred to him. The way their habits became one she accepted with busy contentment; while Banerjee composed his face, unable to find his natural state.
He was strong all right, in the sense that he practised a certain distance, the same way he had played the piano. But Lina, she knew more; she always had. It was part of her flow, along with blood.
Whenever he paused and considered his wife he first saw her name, then found he knew very little, virtually nothing, about her; what went on in her mind, the way she came to decisions – no idea. He could not get a firm outline; and he knew only a little more about himself. More than anything else he was aware of her needs, and how he reacted to them. She had a slightly clipped voice.
She had gone to him for piano lessons. When he appeared he said he was no longer taking pupils. But that didn’t stop her. Marriage was a continuation. Later, she explained how she’d heard him playing in the next room, and then his voice, though unable to catch his words. Without seeing him she had turned to her mother, ‘That man is for me. He will do.’
‘Even though you didn’t hear a word I said? I was probably talking nothing but rot.’
But then Lina’s faith in situations invariably impressed him. She could be very solemn, sometimes. She was a woman who couldn’t leave things alone; constantly rearranging things on tables, plates, sideboards. She also had a way of peeling an orange with one hand, which for some reason irritated him. Banerjee knew he should be thinking more about her, his wife; and their own daughter. She complained, as she once put it, he was ‘somewhere else’. Very fond of her pale shape. Her spreading generosity.
*
One afternoon Banerjee and the picture-framer were invited by the pilot and another American for a drive to the nearest town, Katherine, about an hour away. The jeep had a white star on the bonnet; and, unusual for a pilot, he drove one-hand, crashing into bushes and rocks instead of driving around. ‘Know any songs?’ he called out over his shoulder. Both Americans began singing boogie-woogie, banging on the dashboard.
They reached the town – a few bits of glittering tin.
It was here the picture-framer spoke up. ‘I’ve got a wife called Katherine,’ he said. ‘She’s a wonderful woman.’
Leaning over the steering wheel the driver was looking for a place to drink. ‘Well, we’re about to enter Katherine right now. All of us. You mind?’
The other American was smiling.
Some time later Banerjee played the piano. Nobody appeared to be listening. The flow of notes he produced seemed independent of his hands and fingers, almost as if the music played itself.
The pilot and the picture-framer beckoned from a table. Between them were two women, one an ageing redhead. Her friend, Banerjee noticed, had dirty feet.
Both women were looking up at Banerjee.
‘Sit down,’ the pilot pointed. ‘Take the weight off those old feet.’ Leaning against the redhead he said with real seriousness, ‘I’ve got my own aeroplane back at the base.’
‘That beats playing a piano. Any day,’ said the younger one.
The redhead was still looking at Banerjee. ‘Don’t smile, it might crack your face.’
‘Hey, if a plane comes over and waggles its wings, you’ll know it’s me.’ Taking her chin in his hand, the pilot winked at Banerjee. From the bar the tubby American constantly waved, touching base.
The drinking, the reaching out for women; the congestion of words. It was the opposite to his usual way of living. Banerjee went out and stood under the stars. He tried to think clearly. The immense calm enforced by the earth and sky, at least over this small part of it, at that moment. Also, he distinctly felt the coldness of planets.
When it was time to return he found the picture-framer squatting outside with his head in his hands. And in shadow behind the hotel he glimpsed against the wall the tall redhead holding the shoulders of one of the Americans, her pale dress above her hips.
On the way back the pilot kept driving off the track. ‘I need a navigator. Where are the navigators around here?’ He looked around at his friend asleep.
Seated in front Banerjee didn’t know where they were. ‘Keep going,’ he pointed, straight ahead.
On the Thursday both hangars were finished. Everybody assembled on the ground and looked up, shielding their eyes, and were pleased with their work – about eight men, without shirts, splattered in paint. Still to be done were the long walls and ends of the buildings, the vertical surfaces. And there were sheds, the water tank, bits of equipment.
The camouflage officer unlocked one of the sheds. It was stacked with tins of beef and jam. ‘Will you have a look at that? Not a bloody drop of petrol to send a plane up, but plenty of tinned peaches.’
He stood looking at it, shaking his head. He wondered if Banerjee and the picture-framer could fashion a patch of green water and a dead tree out of packing cases and sheets of tin, to be placed at one side of the runway. ‘A nice touch.’ Gradually the pattern was coming together.
*
For Banerjee these counted among his happiest days. The last time he had been as happy was when he had been ill. For days lying in bed at home, barely conscious of his surroundings; it was as if the walls and the door were a mirage. There were no interruptions. Now away from everybody, except a few other men, Banerjee with the sun on his back applied paths of colour with his brush, observed it glisten and begin to dry, while his mind wandered without obstacles. As the sun went down, the pebbles and sticks at his feet each threw a shadow a mile long, and his own shape stretched into a ludic
rous stick-insect, striding the earth – enough to make him wonder about himself.
Since their trip into town Banerjee joined the Americans at tea-breaks or after meals. To squat down without a word emphasised any familiarity. The Americans were relaxed about everything, including a world war. Their talk and attitudes were so easy Banerjee found himself only half listening, in fact hardly at all. Without a word the pilot would get into the jeep, just for the hell of it, and chase kangaroos around the perimeter. A few times Banerjee and the pilot sat in the warm plane parked in the open hangar. When asked what exactly the plane was to be used for, the lanky American, who was flicking switches and tapping instruments shrugged. ‘Search me, my friend.’
In the few weeks that remained Banerjee formed a habit of strolling down the runway after dark, joined by the camouflage officer, who came alongside in his carpet slippers. With hands clasped behind his back the officer recalled performances at the Town Hall, the merits of different conductors and pianists, but invariably turned to his wife and three teenage daughters in Adelaide. ‘Imagine,’ he said, in mournful affection, ‘four women, under one roof.’
Banerjee had been receiving regular letters. Here were trust and concern he could hold in his hand – words of almost childlike roundness, beginning with the envelope. Willingly his wife expressed more than he could ever manage. For her it was like breathing. In reply he found there was little he could say. Months apparently had passed. It came as a surprise or at least was something to consider: what about him did she miss?
He mentioned to the officer, an older man, ‘My wife, she has written a letter—’
‘Not bad news, I trust?’
‘She tells me the front gate has come off its hinges. A little thing. I mean, my wife would like me to be there now, this minute, to fix it.’
The officer put his hand on Banerjee’s shoulder. ‘A woman who misses you. The warmth in bed. There was symmetry, it has been broken.’ He coughed. ‘The symmetry we enjoy so much in music is illusion. That’s my opinion.’
In the dark Banerjee found himself nodding. More and more he was conscious of a slowness within, a holding-back, as if he saw other people, even his own family, through pale blue eyes, whereas his were green-brown. Even if he wanted, Banerjee could not be close. Not only to his wife but to all other people, to things and events as well. It was as if the air was bent, holding him just away.
*
On the day in question the officer inspected the paint job from all angles, as the men waited. It took more than an hour. He came back, rubbing his hands. ‘Well done. That should do the trick. Tomorrow we go onto the next.’
The Americans looking on had their arms folded.
‘Only one way to test it.’ The pilot put on his hat. ‘You with me?’
Banerjee hadn’t flown in a plane before. Soon the earth grew larger and the details smaller, reduced to casual marks, old worn patches, blobs of shadow. He twisted around to see the aerodrome. At this point the pilot tilted away and began diving; just for fun. He went low, then rose in a curve; Banerjee’s stomach twisted and contracted. As always he composed his face.
Levelling out, the pilot now looked around for the aerodrome.
He gave a brief laugh. ‘You sure as hell have done a job on the ground.’
Banerjee thought he saw wheel marks but it was nothing. The earth everywhere was the same – the same extensive dryness, one thing flowing into the next. When Banerjee turned and looked behind it was the same.
Climbing, the plane reached a point where it appeared to be staying in one spot, not making any progress. It was as if he was suspended above his own life. Looking down, as it were, he found he could not distinguish his life from the solid fact of the earth, which remained always below. He could not see what he had been doing there, moving about on it. Knees together, the dark hairs curving on the back of his hands.
Everything was clearer, yet not really. Plane’s shadow: fleeting, religious. In the silence he was aware of his heartbeats, as if he hadn’t noticed them before.
Now the earth in all its hardness and boulder unevenness came forward in a rush.
Briefly he wondered whether he – his life – could have turned out differently. Its many parts appeared to converge, in visibility later described as ‘near perfect’.
CHINA
TONY BIRCH
I never stopped loving China. We got together in the summer we turned seventeen and spent warm nights under the pier drinking cider and smoking weed. Some nights we walked the back roads to the ocean and lay naked in the dunes looking up at the stars. One night China rolled her salty skin onto me, dropped warm tears on my shoulder and asked that we pray that our love would last. I told her there was no need for prayers. As it was, I didn’t believe in any god, but swore we’d always be together.
I really did believe we could make it, as long as I could stay out of trouble, which wouldn’t be easy. I’d been fucking up since I started high school, and was forever deep in shit, with teachers and the local police.
When word got out that we were together, China’s family and friends both warned her off me. The town was small enough that we couldn’t be together without word quickly getting back to her father, a sheep farmer and champion shooter. He went after me like I was a bush dog that had crept up on and torn the throat out of one of his sheep in the night. We were left to meet under the pier of a night and disappear into the shadows, where China would whisper against my skin that she loved me and trusted me and was ready to take a chance on me. For most of the year we were together I did stay out of trouble, not counting a fight here and there, which was no more than most local boys got up to on a drunken Saturday night.
China came to hate our hometown, the whispers and the gossip. She decided our future lay in escape. She took me by the hand down at the beach one night and told me that if I could land a job in the city she was ready to follow me. I didn’t mind the town myself. I’d never been anywhere else and the idea of packing up for good didn’t appeal to me.
‘We could get jobs here, China.’
‘Yeah, we could. A shit job for you. Maybe labouring on a farm. And the supermarket for me. I want more than that.’ She let go of my hand. ‘You can stay if you like, but I’m getting out of here by the end of the year.’
She walked off in her red bikini with a t-shirt slung over her shoulder. I’d never had much ambition but right then I’d have done anything to keep her. I chased after her, grabbed her around the waist and swore that we’d leave together and never return.
‘Promise?’ She laughed.
‘I promise. I’m ready to go whenever you want.’
She hung her arms around my neck and dragged me into the dunes.
It took about two months for our plan to fall apart. I found myself on remand after a bad fight with Bulle Hughes outside the Pioneer hotel. We were both drunk and Bulle was just as willing as I was. But seeing as he won himself a broken nose and a cracked eye socket and coughed up a couple of his own teeth, I ended up in court facing a rack of charges. My mother couldn’t come up with the bail money and I spent six weeks before the trial in lockup. China didn’t visit once.
When my mother came to see me a couple of days before the trial, carrying a second-hand suit she’d picked up at the Salvos, she broke the news that China had left town and nobody’d heard a word from her. Although her parents reported her missing, and apparently looked sad and sorry enough when they sat in the front pew at church on Sundays, the word was out that her old man had given her money to get away from both me and the town.
As my mother broke the news to me, sighing here and there, I looked down at my hands and realised I’d let a jewel slip from my grip.
*
With luck I wasn’t accustomed to, I beat the assault charges on account of the CCTV footage from the pub showing Bulle whacking me over the head with a billiard cue and trying to gnaw my ear off. Fortunately, there was no footage of me beating him senseless once we’d taken the
fight to the street. I found myself free to walk the streets of the town again, which left Bulle a little nervous. He avoided me for weeks. By the time I caught up with him I didn’t have the anger to break wind. We passed each other on the street out front of the post office. I nodded, he nodded, and that was it.
I asked around about China. Nobody’d sighted her or heard a peep. She’d done a serious runner. Maybe interstate. I would sometimes think of her, mostly when I was near the ocean, and could smell the sea and salt air. By the time I went inside again, two years later, for a handful of smash-and-grabs on servos, I’d been shacked up with three or four local girls, and moved about myself, chasing whatever dollar I could get my hands on. Clean or dirty, it made no difference to me, although if I were pushed I’d have to say dirty money smelt a little better.
All that time I never stopped thinking about China.
My first night alone in the narrow cell I was kept awake by a sad moaning calling me from across the yard. I didn’t sleep that night, or many of the nights that followed. I kept to myself in prison and wasn’t troubled at all, but it didn’t stop me hitting the mattress full of a fear I couldn’t recognise. Some nights I wouldn’t sleep at all, but when I did I would dream about China. We were together again, under the pier, wet and in love and happy.
I left prison a year and a half later with a travel pass and fifty dollars in my pocket and a knitted red rug that I’d made in the tapestry shop tucked under my arm. A gift for my mother. I looked out of the window of the bus at the dots of sheep on the side of a rich green hill, knowing I had fuck-all to return to. I didn’t have a place to live and my mother was uneasy about me moving in with her. While I was away she’d finally shacked up with her long-time boyfriend, Bob Cummings, a weed of a fella who ran the supermarket. They weren’t married, which even in this day is enough to cause scandal in a town with more churches than pubs. The talk around the town worried him and he suggested they get married. My mother wouldn’t hear of it.