Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  ‘My pass requests came through today,’ she says. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Great,’ he says thickly. He means it. If it makes her happy, fine. His party is scheduled the week after.

  ‘The Chef is going to do a live show here.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He lifts her T-shirt and she holds her arms straight up to be free of it. As he hangs it on the telescope, he thinks, Hang on. ‘A show?’

  She smiles brightly at him over her bare shoulder. ‘He’s going to perform. You know, cook and dance.’

  ‘Do that satire thing?’

  ‘It’s harmless.’

  ‘But he’s… um… He won’t be admitted, Karen. His kind of thing is barely tolerated, let alone encouraged. Sorry to break it to you, baby.’ He’s not one bit sorry. One of the positives of the Golden Gate is that it keeps out people like the Chef.

  She stands and steps back, out of reach, the bar stool between them, and glares at him. She’s brown all over. ‘His pass came through.’

  And then she’s slipping away in her white T-shirt.

  26

  All of the Mystic Optimisation concepts that were not fully realised at Venture Group Tower on Lambton Quay due to space and resource limitations are given full expression at Sky Park in the Golden Gate. Jeremiah’s new work environment is primarily a recreational one, or it appears that way. Sky Park is like a vast, luxurious, manicured Amazonian garden bar, dotted with various sensory areas such as scented gardens and dynamic water features, through which Goldens move at portable work stations. Jeremiah, being a lawyer-programmer, stands opposite his podmate, Reveille, a programmer-lawyer. Yin yang. Dynamic interplay. They invade problems on two fronts. They think with both hemispheres. They build contracts with two safe pairs of hands. Reveille is typically head-centred and mathematical, lacking passion for physical fitness on one hand, and having superior ability with the computer-to-brain interface on the other. Jeremiah always has to discard his headpiece and work the keyboard manually to keep up. Recreation and Interests time is effortless. Jeremiah takes him cycling and regularly stops to wait while the red-faced Reveille catches up. Reveille watches King Arthur and Jeremiah plugs into the urban cyberworld of Alley Cat. Their work rhythm is excellent. They simultaneously slide their screens around on the portable plinth they share and stand side by side when the situation demands. Today, their pod is next to the goldfish pond. Yesterday, they worked in bare feet in the sandpit (and made a sandcastle Camelot at lunchbreak). At Breakthroughs, pods separate and rotate through sitting circles, often with members of other teams and departments, channelling their energies with the aid of systemised positive interactions. Sky Park is a fun place to work hard and play hard, and they’re meant to enjoy it. Pod partners high-five when they catch each other out, and when one pod catches out another there are high-fives all around. Birds can be heard singing and fluttering in the high green canopy overheard. Jeremiah suspects speakers for the most part, because very little ‘good luck’ falls into the environment.

  Take ten, J-man?

  Reveille doesn’t need to type for conversational English, so Jeremiah concentrates hard, as his podmate has taught him for brain–computer interfacing, and replies in kind: eyes. Close!

  They remove their headsets and high-five as they separate. Podmates don’t break together during Breakthroughs.

  What a place to work, Jeremiah thinks as he passes by pods in the sound and sculpture gardens, in which the partners shoulder-slap each other or have swung their screens around to be side by side for a Confirmation.

  His enthusiasm abruptly wanes upon reaching his Breakthrough Circle. It’s all lawyer-programmers like himself for this session, only more experienced. Older. He can’t help feeling they resent him. He approaches the juice bar, looking to delay another awkward session.

  ‘I’ll take a berry smoothie, thanks Helios.’

  ‘Coming right up, J-man.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful mango. May I?’

  ‘Sure. Can you guess where that bad boy’s from?’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  To his left, the four lawyer-programmers he is about to join crowd the little round table, cradling full smoothies. They’re talking about cricket, something Jeremiah has no genuine interest in. Neither do they; the conversation is listless. Despite regular exhortation, LPs are notoriously reluctant to share insights with each other for fear of giving away an advantage to other pods. Interdepartmental Breakthroughs with engineers, technicians and financiers prove consistently convivial and constructive for Jeremiah, whereas even leisure discussions with LPs are clipped. They’re reluctant to give anything away, including even the season they’re up to in King Arthur. It’s always, ‘Ah, um, season one or two?’ and yet when a scene is mentioned from season five or six, they’ll know it. But then they’ll get the names of the knights wrong and claim they can’t tell the horses apart (‘Are horses a thing in that show?’), preferring to move on to another wooden deconstruction of a sporting event. They are the only cohort he struggles with in Sky Park. It’s as if they’re trying to freeze him out, knock him off balance, in an altogether crude and individualistic manner unbecoming of the Golden Gate community.

  He hands the mango back to Helios. ‘Kaitaia?’

  ‘Hey!’

  They high-five.

  Jeremiah’s hand falls into the crush of a handshake. Michael Klotch. It’s like a visitation from an angel, inspiring gratitude, awe and terror.

  ‘I want to thank you and praise you, Jeremiah. Thank you for agreeing to join us here in the Golden Gate, and praise you for hosting your special party next week and inviting us all into your home.’ Such is Klotch’s power he bestows biblical significance on the simplest of observations.

  ‘You’re welcome, sir.’

  Klotch is 87 but looks a radiantly healthy, seven-point 60, with a mane of thick blond hair. He’s fit enough to lead a whizzing pack of Lycra-clad Golden Gators on cycle tours around the Wairarapa and get work done in the breaks as well. Looking up at the kindly wrinkles around Klotch’s blue eyes, it is clear to Jeremiah he has access to esoteric practices.

  ‘Your home is wonderful and it will be filled with happy people.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You have opened the hand of friendship to those who might be expected to be less than cordial to us because of their beliefs.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Scheduling problems with several Golden senior executives has concertinaed the work and fashion parties into one inevitably disastrous mix. The original date must stand, which is the date of Karen’s party, meaning the parties will be combined even though she has scheduled a theatrical event with the subversive Australian TV chef and invited a raft of Outers from the fashion world. To make matters much worse, the party will be masked. Golden management seems happy with the arrangement, with the sole proviso that some additional security be present ‘as a formality’. Their laissez-faire attitude to Karen’s foreign elements has been an extremely unpleasant surprise for Jeremiah. He seems to be the only person not excited by the prospect. Yet all his long-held, serious doubts are now immediately and emphatically dispelled by Klotch’s praise.

  ‘This party of yours is proof of the openness of our diverse society. I want to thank you for that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘In due course,’ Klotch’s wonderful smile breaks out, ‘our new friends will communicate their ideas by way of a satirical performance in your kitchen. And we’ll take a look,’ he scans his open palms as if they were an open book, ‘at the concepts they’ve raised.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I relish that opportunity.’

  My balls, Jeremiah thinks. They’re tingling. ‘Me too, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Thank you, Jeremiah, for curating this dialogue at your housewarming at a time when it might be expected that a celebration of your considerable achievements would be the evening’s focus. Yes, I commend you for your generosity. And once again, I welc
ome you from the bottom of my heart to this special community known as the Golden Gate. It’s a privilege to have you here. Young people like yourself and your wonderful wife, Karen, whom I’m yet to have the pleasure of meeting, are the future of this company.’ Both of Klotch’s big hands encircle Jeremiah’s.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  A final squeeze and Klotch has gone.

  But his warmth, power and generosity linger around the juice bar, and Jeremiah’s soul chimes like a bell and something like new love leaps through him.

  Over the next few hours, while working with Reveille, Jeremiah’s joy settles into a profound satisfaction which can soar at any moment like a bird into the canopy. Days later, the boss’s praise has become part of him, a reserve of comfort and sustenance to be drawn upon.

  But for now, Jeremiah has fish to fry.

  ‘Bro, wow,’ Helios says. ‘Unreal,’ as he hands over the berry smoothie.

  The jaws of the four LPs hang open at the unprecedented extent of individual public time and contact Klotch has bestowed upon this young newcomer.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Jeremiah says, as he joins them at the round seat, ‘how are you?’

  They all reply ‘Excited’, as is recommended.

  The standard question comes back. ‘What are your goals today, Jeremiah?’

  ‘I want to learn,’ he replies, ‘the names of King Arthur’s horses.’

  Reti catches an invisible object one-handed over his shoulder.

  ‘Gotcha! He has two horses. Llamrei is one. Kapel may be able to help you further with that goal?’

  Kapel catches the invisible object one-handed.

  ‘Gotcha! Yes, Llamrei’s the mare. The stallion is Hengroen.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As Jeremiah mimes the unboxing of his attained goal and releases it skywards, the LPs applaud and chatter excitedly.

  ‘Quite different, they are, as horses.’

  ‘A king should have two quite different horses.’

  ‘A battle horse is not for everyday commuting.’

  27

  Simon carries Solangia in the drawer she fitfully slept in.

  ‘Watch yourself here,’ Bill warns, directing the miner’s torch on his head at the steps behind the house. Simon wears a miner’s torch as well. It’s 4 am.

  By the time they get to the gate at the bottom of the vineyard, Simon is puffing.

  ‘I’ll take her.’

  ‘Thanks. Sheesh.’

  The drawer, with its pillow and blankets and six-month-old baby, feels heavier than its weight. Bill runs the beam of his miner’s torch onto the dry grass at his feet and sees in the residual light that Solangia is wide awake, blinking and staring.

  ‘Ah,’ she says.

  Simon lurches forward. ‘Morning, baby!’ and dazzles her with his miner’s torch. Her hands fly up and she coughs and begins to cry. Simon is so addled by the early start that he dazzles her again and again while untacking the mosquito netting strung over the top of the drawer.

  Bill places the drawer on the grass, removes Simon’s light from his head for him and places it on the grass.

  ‘You’ve got the thermos and bottles there, Bill?’

  Bill sighs, ‘Yes,’ and removes his backpack. A break before we even get to the vines, he thinks. Folly, pure folly.

  He looks towards the small shed, concealed behind the wall of darkness thrown up by their torches, in which awaits the gear needed for the morning’s weeding and pesticide application. Bill knows he must press on, unpack, get started and set the pattern of hard work carried out quickly and efficiently on this first morning. While not a superstitious man, it seems to Bill that the spirit of the first hour or so in the dark vineyard together will seed the future in important ways. It will establish their work routine and set Simon on his road to recovery and independence.

  Bill hands his son the thermos and a bottle. ‘I’ll get started then and get the gear ready. The small shed’s about 50 metres that way. Watch out for my light. I’ll blink it three times when I get there. Simon?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘The shed’s that way. I’ll blink my torch three times when I get there.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  A few metres and Bill feels almost alone. A rabbit bobs in his torchlight. The last batch of poison has also failed. Eyes gleam only briefly; they’ve learned not to sit still in the beam. He had planned to shoot a couple every morning with Simon, for stews, but with a sleeping baby to deal with that will not be possible.

  The scuttle of vermin accompanies the opening of the small shed. A thick tail disappears behind stacked crates of poison as the light comes on. The gardening frame and cushion he brought for Simon are already set out, along with his gardening gloves and rake. All Simon has to do on this first morning is pull out dead weeds and lay them on a tarp. Given the length of the dead weeds, he should be able to do it from a standing position with the rake. As a kind of celebration to mark Simon’s first day of work, Bill has planned a weed bonfire for tonight. For himself, he mixes a 100-litre batch of pesticide and fills the 25-litre bottle backpack. He goes outside and looks down the hill. The eastern sky is paling and there is no sign of Simon or the drawer.

  ‘I bet the first vintage,’ he says to himself, ‘that he knocked the thermos over and spilled all the milk.’

  It’s past 10 am and uncomfortably hot outside when the nanny interviews are over. It falls to Jeremiah to give the successful candidate a tour of the dead garden. Mandela runs ahead down the east path to show his new nanny, Pastels, the fountain, which is not running due to water restrictions. The low layer of grey cloud is like a lead lid. It will get insufferably hot and the entire Saturday will be spent inside with Karen, planning ‘their’ party. The prospect riles him.

  Pastels senses his annoyance. ‘I’ll run on after the wee chap.’

  ‘Please.’

  Jeremiah eyes her solid form as she pulls away. She waddles and is at least 10 years older than her CV photo. The skinny 18-year-old, St Tropez from Carterton, was his choice, but after a furious whispered conference in the laundry—while Pastels, the final candidate to be interviewed, waited in the lounge—Karen prevailed. St Tropez, she insisted, would be unable to pop toast, whereas Pastels was vastly experienced and would not require the extensive training and supervision that she, Karen, did not have time to provide.

  Watching Mandela cavort in front of the middle-aged woman and point out features of the dead garden, which has ‘largely succumbed’, according to their garden consultant, Jeremiah concedes to himself that Pastels does seem to have a way with the boy.

  Mandela’s excited voice reaches him. ‘Those used to be spider flowers. And all those were old roses. Mummy says we’ll get Rock Roses next. Smell this, Pastels. It’s still a little bit nice. It’s old lavender.’

  Pastels plants a trunk-like leg forward as she leans down to offer her nose. ‘Good boy, Mandela. That is lavender. It doesn’t look much like lavender anymore, but it still smells like it.’

  ‘Yes! I like it. We’ll rip up these dead things and plant some more.’

  ‘And what were those plants over there, Manny?’

  Jeremiah raises his voice to be heard and finds a bellow rather than a call filling the semi-rural silence. ‘HIS NAME IS MANDELA, NOT MANNY!’ The heat and power in his voice surprises everyone, not least of all him. Pastels stops and turns red. Mandela stops in his tracks as well. Jeremiah realises that he’d been forgotten by the pair, which has made his outburst all the more startling. ‘Ah, sorry guys,’ he says, presenting sheepish squirrel, ‘that came out a bit loud. It’s seeing the garden like this, I guess. It gets to me.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful shame, Mr Broderick. I don’t know why someone would take out their anger on a garden, particularly a beautiful one like this.’ They fall into step. ‘It’s wrong, like mistreating a pet.’

  Jeremiah moved the cat out of the way pretty vigorously with his foot this morning. He wonders if Pastels would call it a k
ick? Will he have to curb his behaviour? No, he’s a Golden now, and Goldens are never wrong. In fact, he shouldn’t have apologised for speaking loudly. There’ll be no more apologies.

  Pastels has subsided into silence. He prompts her out of it. ‘Did you know the previous owners?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Mr Broderick. And I’m not sure I’d want to meet someone who would do this to a garden. It’s spiteful.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They stop before the dry fountain. Mandela has climbed inside and is running around the centre. He stops and holds his hand against his hip. ‘Look, Daddy. The water would be up to here.’ He lifts his hand to his chest. ‘When I was three it would’ve been up to here, eh, Daddy?’

  Jeremiah is gratified that he and not Pastels is the recipient of this information. Making his voice cheerful, he calls, ‘You’re getting much taller, Manny!’

  They move into the shelter of the big shed at 10 am rather than 11 am, as Bill usually does, to avoid the heat. Simon is red-faced and stiff; Solangia fractious. Simon groans as he collapses in a chair with her. A cloud of midges hovered over the drawer all morning and would not be shaken. They, or some other bloodsucker, got through the mosquito netting and have raised more than a dozen red spots on her face. Bill has been seeing bugs all over the vines this morning as a result of her midge cloud. Her presence has served up a plague.