Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  ‘Smashing!’ I say, and it comes out sounding more sarcastic than I intended.

  Tony comes over. ‘You deserve a break,’ he says to Mum. ‘How about I take you out for lunch?’

  ‘But what about the shop?’ asks Mum.

  Tony waves his hands dismissively. ‘You can handle it, can’t you, Campbell?’

  Campbell nods.

  ‘Well, I suppose I am getting hungry,’ says Mum and starts to take off her apron. ‘Will you come too, Clara?’

  ‘No thanks.’ This is ridiculous, we only just arrived. So much for coming here to work.

  Mum and Tony walk out together. As they go through the doorway Tony puts his hand on Mum’s lower back to shepherd her through. I glance at Campbell and he’s looking at them too.

  ‘Wow, Tony must be really into your mom,’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen him leave this place when it’s open. He’s a workaholic.’

  This is all I need. Another middle-aged romance for Mum. She’s had more boyfriends than I’ve done practice exams.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work,’ says Campbell. ‘Do you want a fresh coffee?’

  ‘Are you using the new beans?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Sure, that’d be great then.’

  I choose a table near the window. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring anything to read, and I don’t think you’re supposed to take the books from the shop into the cafe area. I try not to look at Campbell, but it’s hard. My eyes seem magnetically attracted to him. Every time I glance across at him a little electric pulse goes through my brain and then I have to look away quickly because it feels like I’m staring.

  Campbell brings the coffee over and stands expectantly beside me while I try it.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ I say. Actually it’s not that good, the one I tried before was better.

  ‘Great!’ he says. ‘Because I want to get better at this.’

  I take another sip and it takes all my concentration not to make a face. It’s not the worst coffee I’ve ever had, but it’s not particularly good.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I’ve got to get back to it, but I’m finishing at two. Do you want to hang out then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Campbell walks away to the counter. I can’t understand why Campbell wants to spend time with me. Surely he’d rather be with people who can discuss anarchist theory and get away with interesting hats.

  There’s still an hour until Campbell finishes work. I can’t keep sitting here trying not to stare at him. I gulp down the coffee then go back to the bookshop, where I’m drawn back to the Audacity of Hope table. I open the book to the chapter called ‘The World Beyond Our Borders’, sit down in an armchair and read. Obama writes about spending time in Indonesia while he was growing up. I still can’t quite believe Obama will be the American president. George W. Bush has been around so long I can barely remember a time before him. I’ve got used to everyone complaining about how dumb the American president is, and how the US is stuffing up the world. I didn’t think it would change.

  I guess that’s what made the election day at Liam’s house so special. After he invited me on Melbourne Cup Day I really wanted to go, but I still needed reassurance. I called Yingmei to ask her opinion.

  ‘Go!’ she said. ‘Seriously, Clara, how long have you been going on about this guy? This could be your chance.’

  ‘He doesn’t see me like that,’ I said, madly hoping that she would contradict me.

  ‘Well, why has he invited you to his house?’

  Yingmei thought he liked me too. I felt a thrill of excitement – maybe it was true! ‘But what about my exams?

  ‘Do you have one tomorrow?’

  ‘No. But I should study for specialist maths.’

  ‘You can only study so much. What exactly were you planning to do?’

  ‘A practice exam.’

  ‘But last week you said you’d done them all!’

  ‘Yeah, but I did some of them so long ago that I could do them again.’

  In the end, I got up early in the morning and re-did the 2003 specialist maths exam and then went to Liam’s.

  A girl answered the door.

  ‘Hi. I’m a friend of Liam’s,’ I said.

  ‘Liam!’ she shouted.

  I heard him yell, ‘Coming!’

  ‘He’s coming,’ she said, but didn’t invite me in. Instead, she left the door slightly open and walked off. I wondered if I had the wrong day.

  But then I heard loud, pounding footsteps and Liam flung the door wide open and hugged me exuberantly.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Sorry about Zoe. She’s in a bit of a shitty mood because I’m having people over today and she’s trying to write her honours thesis.’

  Zoe’s voice called out from one of the rooms along the corridor, ‘And you don’t actually live here!’

  Liam pulled a face. ‘She’ll cheer up later,’ he said. ‘Do you want a drink? How about a Bloody Mary?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course, how could I forget?’

  Liam swung open the door to the lounge room. Several people were sitting around the television.

  ‘Everyone, this is Clara,’ said Liam.

  People raised their glasses and said cheers.

  A guy in a pale blue T-shirt moved over a little on the couch. ‘You can sit here.’

  Everyone else knew so much about politics. They had opinions on which states were the most important and which way they would vote. By eleven o’clock everyone was fairly sure that Obama would win. Every time the election map came on the television we’d all cheer. I had four glasses of lemonade so even though I wasn’t drunk, I felt like I was, just from all the sugar.

  When Obama made his victory speech the room went quiet and the people who’d been smoking outside or talking in the kitchen came back into the lounge room. Even Zoe came out of her room.

  It started to sink in. The US had elected a president who was clearly very smart, and had lived all over the world, and believed in global warming. Maybe things could be different. At one stage I felt tears come into my eyes. Liam was sitting on the arm of the chair next to me. He noticed me surreptitiously wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  I left Liam’s house that day feeling like the world was brand new and anything could happen.

  Reading Obama’s book now I remember what Campbell said, that electing Obama won’t make any difference.

  I put the book down. I don’t want Campbell to see me looking at it. I don’t want him to think I’m an idiot who believes that one man can change everything.

  Mum and Tony return with a great commotion. As they crash through the doors the sound of the madly tinkling bell and their giggling invades the shop. They are walking arm in arm. I quickly duck behind a shelf in case they come bounding over to involve me in their inappropriate and disruptive behaviour.

  ‘Tony, you’re a scream,’ says Mum.

  ‘Is that a good thing?’ asks Tony.

  ‘Well a scream is the sign of a good time,’ says Mum.

  Tony and Mum roar with laughter.

  I can’t believe Mum is making lewd remarks in a bookshop. Particularly in such an intellectual bookshop. The atmosphere of quiet, companionable concentration has been shattered. People are looking up from their books and staring. One guy shakes his head and I’m surprised that no one says tsk.

  ‘Shhhh,’ says Tony exaggeratedly as he notices the annoyed looks of the customers. ‘We mustn’t disturb people.’

  Tony and Mum tiptoe ostentatiously through the shop. When they reach the door to the cafe, Tony turns around and says, ‘It’s okay. I do own the place,’ which sends him and Mum into further fit
s of giggles. I assume they had some wine with lunch.

  I peer through the doorway into the cafe and see Tony talking to Campbell at the counter. Campbell is taking off his apron. I can’t hear what Mum’s saying but it must be funny because Campbell is laughing.

  He walks over to me.

  ‘I’m sorry about my mother,’ I say. ‘She might be a bit drunk.’

  ‘Your mom is quite something,’ he says.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Well, I’m finished for today, shall we go?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell Mum.’

  Reluctantly I go to the cafe to let Mum know what I’m doing. She’s leaning against the coffee counter, still talking to Tony, distracting him and doing nothing useful. I can’t believe the whole premise of this visit was that Mum was supposed to be working. And I also can’t believe that this was supposed to be a mother–daughter day to deal with my problems. Of course, I don’t really have any problems, but Mum doesn’t know that.

  ‘I’m going out with Campbell.’

  Mum stands up straight. ‘How exciting! Where to?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘What time will you be home?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  Mum and Tony roll their eyes at each other, as if I’m the unpredictable, irresponsible one.

  ‘Anyway, I’m leaving,’ I say and turn around.

  ‘Byeee,’ trills Mum.

  Chapter Eight

  Anarchy is order, whereas government is civil war.

  Anselme Bellegarrigue, French individualist anarchist

  Campbell and I don’t speak for a couple of blocks after we leave the bookshop. It seems weird that we’re not talking. I could ask him some questions but I don’t want him to think I’m labelling again. The only other thing I can think of is the weather. The longer the silence goes on, the more stupid it seems to chime in with a comment about the temperature.

  Campbell finally says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m actually meeting with someone this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘If you’re busy I can go home.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I thought you might be interested, if you want to come.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, relieved that he’s not trying to get rid of me.

  ‘You don’t even know who it is yet,’ says Campbell.

  ‘The highlight of my week is watching West Wing reruns, I’m not too fussy.’ I regret saying that as soon as the words leave my mouth. Campbell is an anarchist; he’s unlikely to be a fan of a show about well-intentioned people negotiating the quagmire of politics to strive for a better United States of America. I add, ‘I mean, I’ve only watched it a few times.’

  ‘It’s a good show,’ he says. ‘Good writing.’

  ‘But it has elections in it,’ I say.

  ‘Sure, and the premise that a centralised government can be a force for good is a load of crap.’

  ‘But you still watch it?’

  ‘There aren’t many anarchist shows on TV.’

  ‘Who are we meeting?’ I ask.

  ‘Eric.’

  ‘Eric from Reading Beyond Bars?’

  ‘That’s right. He wants to talk about the collective.’

  I’m not so sure about this now. I don’t think Eric will be pleased to see me. I say cautiously, ‘Yeah, he didn’t seem too happy at the meeting. He was a bit upset about all those people voting.’

  ‘That’s part of it. Also, Eric wants to take action on Inauguration Day.’

  ‘What sort of action?’

  ‘A protest.’

  ‘What does he want to protest?’

  ‘The whole thing. He wants to make people realise that having a new president won’t solve all their problems.’

  ‘But don’t you think . . .’ I pull myself up, remembering that Campbell knows a lot more about this stuff than I do.

  ‘Don’t I think what?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’ Campbell is insistent.

  ‘It’s just that, I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of nice to have one day to celebrate the fact that the American president can read without moving his lips?’

  Campbell laughs, and I relax a little. ‘I guess it will be kind of nice,’ he says.

  ‘So, how long have you been an anarchist for?’

  ‘Since I was fifteen.’

  ‘How did you get into it? Are your parents anarchists?’

  Campbell laughs. ‘No! They’re lawyers. I read a book on anarchism, and it made sense to me.’

  ‘What type of anarchist are you?’

  ‘What do you mean what type?’

  ‘Well, aren’t there heaps of types?’ I ask, my Wikipedia research coming into its own. ‘Like, anarcho-syndicalism, anarcho-communism, anarcho-feminism.’

  ‘That’s true but I don’t like to box myself into a type. Not all anarchists do. We call ourselves “anarchists without adjectives”.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m labelling you again.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Lots of anarchists do label themselves.’

  ‘Does Eric have an adjective?’

  ‘He’s a collectivist anarchist.’

  ‘So he doesn’t believe in private ownership of property?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Campbell sounds impressed. ‘You know a lot about this.’

  ‘I’ve read a bit,’ I say, hoping I won’t have to admit it was all on Wikipedia. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Meridian Hill Park. It’s only a block from here.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit cold?’ I ask.

  ‘You get used to it.’

  The trees in the park are bare and the ground is covered in dead clumps of brown soggy straw where the grass has died. The snow has almost completely melted except for a smattering of ugly brown mounds. There are a few people walking their dogs but no children are on the play equipment. The clouds are low and grey and the air is very still. I wonder if it will snow.

  We sit on a bench. My time with Campbell is slipping away. Soon Eric will be here and they’ll be caught up in a tide of talk that I won’t be able to contribute to. I blurt out, ‘I’m not an anarchist.’

  Campbell doesn’t seem too shocked. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I like train timetables and I think the government should be in charge of education and hospitals.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because we can’t do it without them. It’s very complicated.’

  ‘So complicated things can’t be self-organising?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about a flock of birds?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, some birds fly in a flock in a V-shaped formation, which is the best thing for the aerodynamics of the group. People often assume that the birds follow a leader. But they don’t. They each follow a set of rules related to the birds flying next to them and they end up flying in a particular pattern. But no one tells each bird what to do. No one organises them into that formation.’

  I’d never thought about it like that before. Well, I hadn’t thought about it at all before. Birds aren’t my thing.

  ‘It’s the same with people,’ continues Campbell. ‘Everyone assumes we need a central coordinating body to make anything happen. But we don’t. If people were allowed to run their own lives we’d form our own systems and make our own decisions without having them imposed on us.’

  ‘But not having anyone in charge is scary.’

  ‘That’s what they’ve made you believe. They’ve made you afraid, so that you think you need someone to take control. But the truth is, you don’t need that. What humans really need is freedom, equal
ity and solidarity.’

  ‘But what about people who hurt other people? What about murderers?’

  ‘Crime is caused by social injustice, mental illness or a combination of both. All the criminal system does is perpetuate the criminal classes and punish people who actually need help.’

  ‘Is that why you volunteer at Reading Beyond Bars?’

  ‘Well, that’s part of it,’ says Campbell. ‘And to meet hot girls.’

  Is he talking about me? That doesn’t seem right. I don’t know how to respond.

  Then I see a figure stomping across the dead grass towards us. He has his head down, but I recognise the hat.

  When he reaches us, Eric stops. ‘Why is she here?’ he says to Campbell. His forthrightness is so rude that I laugh in shock. The laugh catches in my throat as Eric turns and glares at me.

  ‘Eric! Don’t be like that,’ Campbell says. ‘I invited Clara to come along because I thought she might have an interesting perspective.’

  ‘I can leave?’ I say, standing up.

  Campbell turns to me and puts a hand on my arm. ‘No, no, I want you to stay.’

  I sit down.

  ‘I told you I need to speak to you alone,’ says Eric.

  ‘You can talk in front of Clara.’

  There’s a long pause before Eric says meaningfully, ‘Can I?’

  Campbell looks exasperated. ‘Why don’t we start talking and if there’s something you don’t want to say in front of Clara we’ll ask her to step over to the drinking fountain for a moment.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Eric, but it’s clearly not fine with him at all. He sits on the bench next to Campbell. ‘We need to talk about the principles behind the collective.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ says Campbell.

  ‘Could Clara please step away to the drinking fountain?’ says Eric in a mock polite tone.

  ‘You haven’t even started!’ exclaims Campbell, laughing.

  Eric doesn’t find it funny. ‘Fine, I won’t say anything.’

  I leap up. ‘I’m thirsty anyway,’ I say and walk quickly towards the fountain.

  I press the drinking fountain button, but no water comes out. I look back over at Eric and Campbell. Eric is becoming overexcited and waving his arms. Eric’s voice rises as he talks, and I catch snatches of some of the words but I can’t make out what he’s saying.