Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  Campbell walks down the corridor towards the front yard. His shoulders are slumped and he runs his hands through his hair. I want to hug him and make him feel better. It’s not his fault. Derek is an incompetent idiot.

  There’s a stunned silence in the room and then Bernard says, ‘I am not going to their lame-ass reading. They’re a bunch of Marxists anyway.’

  There is resounding agreement around the room and Bernard turns the volume on the television back up.

  I get up and walk down the corridor to the front yard. I open the door and stand on the porch. Eric and Belle have set up a table on the front lawn. A big cardboard sign reads: If Obama is the answer, you’re asking the wrong question. Campbell is talking to Eric who is shaking his head in disbelief. Eric keeps saying, ‘That’s bullshit. That’s bullshit.’

  A lady walks past with a small white dog.

  Belle says, ‘Obama is not the answer,’ and holds out one of Eric’s pamphlets.

  The lady waves the flyer away and says, ‘I know that, dear, but this is a democracy. We have to accept that McCain lost.’

  Belle seems lost for words. Eric snorts a small sarcastic laugh.

  The lady pats Belle’s hand and says, ‘Never mind, dear, it’s only four years.’

  It’s too cold outside, so I go back to the lounge room. The television screen is filled with the happy and expectant faces of the crowd. I know that they’re all delusional, that electing Obama won’t fix the problems and that having one black president doesn’t mean no one is racist anymore. But at least they’re having a good day out.

  When Obama is about to make his speech, I say to Bernard, ‘Should I tell the others?’

  ‘If you want.’

  Outside on the veranda Eric is in the middle of a loud argument with a man wearing a big fur hat. I call out, ‘Guys, Obama’s about to make his speech.’

  The man with the fur hat looks startled. ‘I’d better go home,’ he says and heads towards the house over the road.

  Eric scowls. ‘Thanks. But we don’t care.’

  I look towards Campbell. He shrugs. ‘I guess I’ll come in.’ Belle comes too, leaving Eric by himself outside.

  Obama is stepping up to take his oath when we come back in. He and his wife seem like the perfect couple, so well-dressed and happy. The chief justice mucks up the oath and Obama corrects him. This causes the whole room to erupt with laughter.

  ‘Well that bit was good,’ says Campbell.

  Obama begins his speech by thanking George Bush for his service to the nation. All the wasabi peas are gone so Bernard throws the bowl at the screen. There are jeers from all around the room and someone blows a whistle.

  I hope they don’t shout through the rest of the speech. I want to hear it.

  Luckily everyone quietens down as Obama starts talking about how much work there is to be done.

  ‘He’s trying to lower people’s expectations,’ snorts Bernard.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Campbell. ‘Because nothing will change, and he knows it.’

  Obama says the market has the power to generate freedom. Everyone starts yelling again.

  The next thing Obama says that I can actually hear is: ‘. . . as for our common defence, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.’

  I don’t think George Bush would have said that. So surely Obama is a bit different? I don’t say that out loud but I’m glad that no one snorts cynically or shouts.

  Then Obama talks about how great America and Americans are and how they have to lead the rest of the world through the economic crisis. This sets everyone off again.

  Mum is sitting at the kitchen table typing on her laptop when I arrive home.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘How was your potluck?’ I say quickly before she can start asking me questions.

  ‘Quite nice. Pete made some lovely guacamole. He’s given me the recipe.’

  Mum collects recipes. She never actually cooks anything, but she has a folder with plastic pockets jammed with recipes on scraps of paper.

  ‘I have to admit,’ Mum goes on, ‘I did feel a bit teary when I was watching the speech. Obama is inspiring. I’m so pleased I got to be here while it’s happening.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I mutter.

  ‘So how was the protest?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t see you on the news.’

  ‘It was pretty low-key.’ So low-key it was non-existent. ‘I told you it would be.’

  I go to my room and lie down. I put out my arm across the pillow beside me and try to imagine that Campbell is lying next to me. I don’t know if that will ever happen again.

  When I left today Campbell and Eric were both working on a new pamphlet in the kitchen. I offered to help. Campbell hardly looked up when I sat at the table, and Eric gave me one of his death stares.

  I wanted to tell Campbell that even though the protest didn’t happen, at least he made me think about things differently. But I didn’t say anything because Eric was there, and Campbell seemed so engrossed in what they were doing. So I said I was leaving and Campbell barely noticed.

  What is Property? is sitting beside my bed. I haven’t read past the first five pages. If I can show Campbell that I can be serious about anarchism, maybe he’ll be interested in me again. I pick up What is Property? and start the preface.

  I know I promised myself I would research university courses once the inauguration was over, but this is more important. I’m only in DC for a few more weeks. I can’t bear the idea that I’ll never be with Campbell again, that he doesn’t care about me, that it’s over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To be governed is to be watched over, inspected, spied on, directed, legislated, regimented, closed in, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, assessed, evaluated, censored, commanded; all by creatures that have neither the right, nor wisdom, nor virtue . . . To be governed means that at every move, operation or transaction one is noted, registered, entered in a census, taxed, stamped, priced, assessed, patented, licensed, authorised, recommended, admonished, prevented, reformed, set right, corrected. Government means to be subjected to tribute, trained, ransomed, exploited, monopolised, extorted, pressured, mystified, robbed; all in the name of public utility and the general good. Then, at the first sign of resistance or word of complaint, one is repressed, fined, despised, vexed, pursued, hustled, beaten up, garrotted, imprisoned, shot, machine-gunned, judged, sentenced, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed, and to cap it all, ridiculed, mocked, outraged, and dishonoured. That is government, that is its justice and morality!

  Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, French politician and socialist

  In the art gallery I am resolute. I am not going to the gift shop, I am not looking at art. I am here to work. I walk straight through to the courtyard filled with lush green plants and sit on one of the white seats. I take out What is Property? and open it to the bookmarked page. I take out my notebook and pen and start reading.

  When I come to a key point I note it down along with the page number. Sometimes I write down a whole quote if it seems particularly relevant.

  When I finish a chapter I take out a packet of highlighters and colour code my notes in terms of themes – justice, labour and equality.

  I still find What is Property? dull, but I get into a rhythm with my work. I particularly like highlighting, feeling the swoosh of ink sweeping across the paper. I also like seeing the pages to the left of where I’m up to getting larger as I read more.

  I’m up to the final chapter. The main thing I’ve got out of the book is that Proudhon is very big on equality. I feel guilty because I have heaps more than some people. Also, Mum owns a couple of investment properties in Kilmore. Proudhon would say she is taking money for doing nothing, and that is effectively stealing from her renters.

  I turn back to my
book to read a footnote. ‘What!’ I yell. The woman sitting on the lounge chair next to me looks up startled.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  I read the footnote again, just to make sure I understood it right. Proudhon writes, ‘Far from advocating what is now called the emancipation of woman, I should incline rather, to exclude her from society’.

  How could he go on and on about equality and then write that? I suppose What is Property? was published in 1840 but I’m not sure that’s a complete defence.

  After three hours, though, I’ve had enough. It’s almost five o’ clock and I’m getting hungry. I stand up. My knees crack and my back aches as I straighten it from hunching over. I don’t think these chairs are very good for my posture. At least it was a change of scenery. I get bored studying at home all the time.

  I will reward my hard work with a trip to the Vermeers before the gallery shuts. Then I will go home, type up my notes and write a summary paragraph of each chapter.

  If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s study.

  When I call Campbell’s mobile, a male voice says, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Campbell?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says the man.

  ‘Is this Campbell’s phone?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  Then I realise who this bizarrely uncommunicative person must be. ‘Is this Eric?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Campbell there?’

  ‘No. He’s taking a crap.’

  I laugh. ‘That’s a bit direct.’

  ‘What would you prefer me to say?’

  ‘You could say he’s in the toilet.’

  ‘I have no interest in perpetuating euphemisms to distance the bourgeoisie from the true nature of human existence.’

  ‘Okay. Fine.’ Why does he have to make everything so complicated? ‘Could you ask him to call me back?’

  ‘He’ll be busy all day.’

  I wonder if Campbell is using Eric to fob me off. ‘Could you take a message?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you tell him to meet me at Meridian Hill Park at three o’clock tomorrow? We were supposed to meet in the cafe but I’ve changed my mind. Would that be okay? Could you tell him that?’ The dead silence from the other end of the phone is making me babble.

  ‘Fine,’ says Eric. I hear him call out, ‘Campbell! Clara says you should meet at Meridian Hill Park tomorrow, not at the cafe.’ He speaks into the phone again. ‘He says that’s okay.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I say, but he’s already hung up.

  Walking from the train station to the park I’m worried it might rain. Although it’s mid-afternoon the low dark clouds give the impression that dusk is falling.

  I’m walking towards a turning point. Depending on what happens in the next half-hour, I will either be ecstatic or steeped in gloom.

  I haven’t seen Campbell since the inauguration, five days ago. In that time I’ve read What is Property? and formulated a set of questions and discussion points. I told Campbell that I wanted to meet to give him his book back and to talk about it. I’m a long way behind Eric but if I can show him that I am trying to learn, maybe he won’t give up on me.

  At the park, I sit on the bench to wait. It’s the same spot where Campbell and I talked about flocks of birds. Everything was going so well then. I remember how patient he was in explaining things to me. He looked at me like he thought I was interesting, like he wanted to hear what I had to say. Then I remember how he waved his hand absent-mindedly at me and said, ‘See you around,’ when I left the kitchen on Inauguration Day.

  It’s five past three. It’s cold sitting on the bench and I’m impatient for Campbell to arrive. I take out my page of discussion points and read them again. I don’t want to blather, so I practised talking by myself. I have to be careful not to sound as if I’ve memorised my arguments though.

  Campbell is now properly late. Maybe Tony held him back? Maybe we should have met in the cafe, but I don’t want to see Tony again.

  Maybe Campbell is waiting on the other side of the park. I stand up and walk across the dead grass. But he’s not there either. On the way back to my bench I pass the water fountain where Eric banished me the last time I was here. I bet Campbell’s with Eric now. I bet he’s late because Eric came around to the cafe and Campbell couldn’t bear to drag himself away.

  And then all the breath is knocked out of me. There is a blazing pain in my side where I hit the concrete. My face is being pressed into the ground and there’s a huge pressure between my shoulder blades pinning me to the ground.

  A man yells, ‘Get the bag!’

  My arm is wrenched as someone grabs the bag from over my shoulder. I feel a massive blow to my side and it hurts more than anything I have felt before. But I can’t move. I’m pinned to the ground. Where is Campbell? He should be here.

  ‘Don’t move until we’re gone,’ says a man. ‘Or I’ll shoot you. I’m not kidding. I’ll do it.’

  Then the weight is released from my back, which oddly makes the pain worse, and I hear them running away.

  I lie on the ground too scared to stand up. Anyway, when I try to move a biting pain goes through my side. Surely Campbell will find me soon. But what if he doesn’t come? There’s something I’m supposed to do in this situation. That’s right, I’m supposed to shout something, but I can’t remember what it is. I try to yell. I am yelling. I yell and yell. It hurts.

  I hear footsteps running towards me. For a second I think they might be coming back. But it’s a woman’s voice. ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  In the hospital everyone is so nice to me. And they keep telling me I’m brave. I’m not sure what’s brave about lying face-down in the dirt for ten minutes. Maybe they mean I’m being brave about the pain, but I’m not. The only reason I don’t cry is because it hurts too much.

  I speak to Dad on the phone, and he sounds like he might cry. He keeps saying he wants to ‘thrash those thugs’, which is very hard to imagine.

  ‘You did so well,’ says Mum. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘I did nothing. I just lay there.’

  ‘That was exactly the right thing to do,’ she says. ‘And you shouted for help.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. The lady who found you said you were shouting, “A dingo. A dingo.” It’s a bit weird, but whatever works.’

  I spent the night in hospital then Mum brought me home. She has stayed home from work to look after me. Pete is covering her meetings and has told the Belgians that the report won’t be ready until next week and they’ll have to get over it.

  ‘I like Pete,’ I say.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘He’s single, isn’t he?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘He sounds nice.’

  ‘Clara,’ says Mum warningly.

  ‘I’m just saying that he sounds nice.’

  Mum picks up the television remote. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she says. ‘Let’s watch television to avoid discussing our emotions.’

  There’s an episode of The West Wing starting. Santos is outmanoeuvring the Republicans to allow a stem-cell research bill to be passed. It’s quite exciting and uplifting.

  The end credits roll and for some reason that makes me think of the Women’s Centre. ‘Oh no,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot to tell the centre that I couldn’t come in.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I already called them.’ Mum gets up. ‘I’ll make us some lunch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I’m tired all of a sudden. Watching television has exhausted me. I’ll rest my eyes for a moment.

  I’m woken by the sound of the doorbell. Mum lets a delivery m
an up. He’s carrying a bunch of flowers from the Women’s Centre. Tiffany, Brad and Emily have signed the card.

  I want to cry but it hurts.

  When the phone rings I say, ‘I would get up, it’s just that I have three cracked ribs.’

  Mum answers it and I hear her say, ‘Hello, Camille speaking.’ Then her tone becomes cold. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’m not sure. She’s very tired.’

  I call out, ‘Bring the phone, Mum. I’m fine.’

  Mum walks into the room and reluctantly hands me the phone.

  ‘It’s Campbell.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m alright. How did you get this number?’

  ‘Tony gave it to me. He told me what happened.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  ‘Your mom got him to tell me. Her message was pretty rude actually.’ He’s offended, and I’m a bit pleased. ‘Anyway, I’d like to see you,’ he continues.

  ‘Yes, well, I would have liked to see you at three o’clock on Monday but you weren’t there.’

  ‘I can explain,’ he says.

  ‘When do you want to come?’

  ‘I’m in the neighbourhood now.’

  ‘I suppose that’s okay.’

  ‘Is your mom there?’

  ‘Yeah, why?

  ‘She’s super mad at me.

  ‘I’ll try to get rid of her.’

  Mum doesn’t want to, but she eventually agrees to go to the deli to buy some pastries. She puts the home phone on the arm of my chair. ‘I’ve got my mobile,’ she says. ‘You call me if anything happens.’

  ‘It wasn’t Campbell who attacked me!’ I said.

  ‘Maybe not. But he should have been there.’

  ‘It’s not like he could have done anything. They had a gun.’

  Mum has no answer to this but she continues to mutter self-righteously as she puts on her scarf and gloves.

  Almost as soon as she’s gone the bell rings. I have to hobble across the room to press the intercom.

  ‘It’s me,’ says Campbell. I press the buzzer to let him in and then shuffle to the apartment door.