Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  The entrance to the violet room is blocked by a gladiator on a stepladder. As the tüäpökere sign is unscrewed, Jeremiah listens for the crack of a whip, a muffled scream. He hears nothing. How bad can it be? he wonders. Something so quiet? The ladder is banged shut and the gladiator moves on. Taking a deep breath, Jeremiah steps into the room. Guests have formed into a tight circle which blocks the object of their fascination from his view. Silence. There comes the faint aroma of burned meat. Jeremiah’s heart begins to wallop as he approaches the black circle. He grits his teeth and peers over a shoulder.

  At the centre of the room sits a naked, morbidly obese woman on a low round podium, surrounded by a lavish array of food, including multi-tiered cakes, cornucopias, glazed turkeys and piglets. She sits demurely to one side, supported by a prodigiously baggy arm. The podium is propelled into motion by a guest, and the woman and food around her revolve slowly, like a Lazy Susan. The woman’s many-chinned face comes into view, unmasked and serene in the trembling violet light. She selects a handful of profiteroles from the heaped plates around her, and bites. Cream made violet falls in sticky clumps from her chin, between her pendulous breasts and onto her distended belly. She makes no move to clean herself. Fifty guests cluster around her and stare as she devours a second squirting cream pastry in two bites.

  A touch on Jeremiah’s elbow. Wanda. Rather than curtseying this time, or even making eye contact, she regards the fat woman.

  ‘Those who have eaten sensibly for their entire lives like to see someone indulge without reservation. It fascinates them.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ve been well and truly pranked, Wanda. Thanks for helping Karen with that. You got me.’

  She doesn’t look at him. ‘But yours is the best disguise of all. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You’re like King Arthur,’ she says airily, eyes glued to the fat woman, ‘when he returned to Camelot in rags, disguised as a beggar. Remember? The way his subjects in the court treated him revealed their true character.’ She inclines her head towards his while still looking ahead, and lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I strongly recommend that you preserve your anonymity tonight.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Straightening as she turns to face him, she is no longer his deferential event coordinator but an imperious horned demon. Stabbing a black-taloned finger over his shoulder, she commands him, ‘Get a drinks tray from the kitchen and circulate. Now!’

  He balances a tray of six champagne flutes on the tips of his fingers, as he has just been taught (‘No, no, no! Like this! Oh my God, where do they get these people!’), and returns down the dim hall, moved by his own magnanimity at not having fired everyone in sight. He negotiates the corridor, around the unicyclist and acrobats, bearing his light and fragile load on his tray, bound for the one room he is yet to see: the black chamber. It was previously a large water-damaged basement, so its transformation for the party will be of lasting benefit (perhaps the only one). He’s seeking positives.

  Inside the doorway to the white room, a black-cloaked shoulder shivers. Muscle spasm, Jeremiah thinks. Super-elderly. He sees such tremors occasionally at work, but not often as strong and prolonged as that. Perhaps this Golden dosed up on stimulants for the party? Having stared, he feels obliged to approach.

  ‘Champagne, madam?’

  ‘Oh God, no. Take it away.’

  ‘Is that champagne?’ A distant Phantom of the Opera beckons Jeremiah over to his tight-knit group of three, clustered like penguins in the blizzard light. Beyond the men, one of the white body-painted women in heels offers a tray of coloured cocktails to a group of women, one of whom runs her hand down the woman’s naked snow-white thigh and then examines her fingertips. As Jeremiah draws close to the triad of penguins, he hears one say something about an exciting prospect, before lowering his voice, and all Jeremiah catches is something about a mid-flight innovation, or something like that—the sawing cello is too loud—and upon his arrival the conversation shuts like a trap. The flute is taken and their silence continues until he is out of earshot.

  Standing apart from the guests, he activates his screen stuck to his hip with the voice command: ‘Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone.’ It rumbles in reply. ‘Hearing aid,’ he commands. ‘Directional setting. Separate the music out.’ He moves on, turning his head and listening as he goes.

  ‘She hid her lawyer to be queen bee of the ball. We’re nothing but a bunch of drones until midnight.’

  Jeremiah selects a couple speaking animatedly.

  ‘You don’t understand that economic liberty is the prerequisite for personal liberty. The truly free shouldn’t pay tax because they’re not governed. They contribute through job creation. They’re responsible creators.’

  ‘I do understand that you’re an individualist, with no sense of society. Born into a pile of capital.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then just ungrateful for the public systems that allow wealth to exist at all.’

  Cross-pollination? Jeremiah thinks. He moves on.

  ‘Gas hasn’t been the environmentally sustainable bridge to renewables it was made out to be. It undercut nascent renewables, and supplemented rather than replaced fossil fuels.

  ‘At the end of the day, it’s cleaner than coal and oil. Nine billion people can’t live on renewables in the real world. You have to choose your poison.’

  ‘But we can live on renewables if we conserve energy and waste less.’

  ‘Come on, man. What kind of life would that be!’

  ‘Champagne!’ It’s the woman who ran her fingertips down the white woman’s thigh.

  Jeremiah nods. While making his way to her, he picks up more conversation fragments as if they are clues to true character.

  ‘Well, there’s a fine line between homage and rip-off.’

  ‘… shrouded from head to toe in the habiliments of the grave…’

  ‘Putting advertisements in the alien’s mouth is the absolute height of corporate cynicism—and that’s saying something. Bhopal, for example, doesn’t—’

  ‘What about Monsanto?’

  ‘So, what a surprise: the subsistence-style Islam that attracted the godless Greens in hordes is chewing them up and spitting them out the other side.’

  ‘… particularly delicious when rioters are quelled by means they pay taxes for.’

  ‘… with his muscle-flexing cloaked.’

  Tiroli’s voice—he’s thrilled. The right height, the honey-blond hair. She’s masked as a hawk, standing with two other female birds of prey.

  ‘And the small furry animal expressions he pulls,’ she continues. ‘Like a Disney bunny leaving the burrow for the first time. You know, one of those furry creatures so cutesy and dumb that you hope an eagle swoops down and carries it off.’

  She means him? When he visualises his squirrels? A cold chill runs down his spine. The squirrels were suggested by a workplace psychologist five years ago to communicate vulnerability and emotion, and he has always associated the beginning of his meteoric rise with the squirrel personifications, briefly dropping his guard to emote the tenderness and emotion caged inside the fortress of his body and steel trap of his lawyer brain. No, he thinks, it can’t be me. His face has become very hot. He feels weak. He offers the group a tray. He is dismissed with a beak-shake by one of Tiroli’s amused audience.

  ‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘When he “turns on the charm”, he’s like one of those little bunnies hopping along to classical music, fascinated by a dandelion and frightened by a butterfly. Then it’s back to muscle-flexing and legalese and the “treat” is over.’

  ‘Me? A hot flush replaces the ice chill. It is him. He does that. She’s seen through him. How many others have? Who else finds him ridiculous? That fucking psychologist! He should never have trusted him.

  ‘Champagne!’ The woman with white fingertips is masked as a crow, with a large steely hooked beak. She examines him as she takes the flute and sips. Her eye
s blink. She grabs a handful of the chainmail at his crotch. ‘Aluminium.’

  He nods. Behind him, other speakers talk on.

  ‘… was only ever a six, all along. Fraudulent mitochondria status.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘They’re returning the wedding presents. No children, thank God, which simplifies things.’

  Jeremiah knows who they’re speaking about—the Wysockis, who were married in the Golden Gate only a week ago—but he can’t quite place the speakers. He feels he should be able to. He will have to be systematic, start by separating the fashionistas from the Goldens. The problem will be when the speakers move. Is there a way of marking them? It’s difficult to think straight. The squirrels revelation has shaken him badly. Perhaps if the crow-woman’s locked fingers weren’t almost touching his balls? His ears perk up.

  ‘The thing about Breakthroughs is that only the intersilo communication numbers get properly crunched. Intradepartmental pod-sharing is seen by a significant number of employees as just giving advantages away. How significant is that number? Half of the inputs are misinformation. It’s destructive and we’re on to it, finally.’

  Jeremiah breathes in sharply.

  The chainmail-grasper finally speaks, as if her tongue had been temporarily unresponsive. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘King Arthur, madam.’

  ‘In aluminium beading, of course. I’m waiting for my hand to unclench. Do you mind?’

  Jeremiah shakes his head. Is it Ms Dunlop? New Zealand’s 100-metre bronze medallist at the 1962 Commonwealth Games? Maybe. The thought of being fed misinformation at lawyer-programmer pod-breaks has staggered him. The cynicism of it!

  Two more flutes are lifted from his tray.

  A man asks, ‘The story so far?’

  ‘Oh, this one’s fascinating. King Arthur. I’ve detained him.’

  ‘So I see. On which subjects does he lecture?’

  ‘The ritual function of the United Nations and the demise of the humanities in higher education.’

  Laughter.

  ‘Hold on to that one.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her hand unlocks and he glimpses it, spread wide open, so wide the fingers bend back. ‘Run along now, King Arthur.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘King Arthur?’

  More laughter.

  He descends the old cellar’s black-carpeted steps slowly in his ankle-high felt slippers, the three champagne flutes on his tray balanced as he’s been instructed, dismayed by the realisation that his squirrel expressions have not been loved by all who saw them, for the last five years. They’ve actually been a source of ridicule! Mocked behind my back, he thinks. Another cold chill. He decides to stay in character a little longer, whatever Karen’s motivation is. Foundations have been shaken. Time is needed to regain composure; perhaps considerable time. While some semblance of balance may be regained in an hour or so, he feels there will always be a deeply humiliating scar. He flushes at the thought of the spa pool he’d had installed on the roof for Tiroli’s seduction. It will have to be uninstalled immediately.

  And the moment of revelation must be chosen carefully. There’s no point in creating mere consternation. The right moment when he throws off the waiter costume will be one that affirms he’s been in on the deception all along for a noble reason. He must reveal himself and a higher truth simultaneously, as King Arthur did at the Camelot jousting tournament after unhorsing Mordred. But in this instance, without stepping on any management toes. There can be no righteous homecoming slaughter here in the Golden Gate. He offers this conundrum to his subconscious to wrestle with while he turns his conscious mind to the question of Karen’s deeper purpose, if such a thing exits. To learn, as he has learned from Tiroli? A lesson in humility is a possibility, to be reminded of his roots. Or is Karen protecting him? From what—an initiation ceremony at midnight? It might be that. The Outer made good too fast must pay a high final price for admittance to the inner sanctum.

  The empty black chamber feels subterranean, as if crushed under the suffocating weight of thousands of tons of stone or dark water. No wonder it’s empty, he thinks. The rays projected through the red-paned glass creep like underwater fire across the heavy black drapes, carpet and objects concealed under black covers. It’s the only chamber in which the hue of light and the furnishings it illuminates are different, and the effect is gruesome.

  For a frozen heartbeat Jeremiah believes he is not alone after all, but the imposing cloaked and masked figure staring at him from the shadows is only an ebony grandfather clock with a white face. Tick, tick, tick. It can be heard between cello phrases, and as his eyes adjust, a pendulum can be seen swinging to and fro in the clock’s long, black case, and he perceives black chains and manacles hanging from the crushed black velvet walls behind it. Clunk. The minute hand jumps. It’s only 9.23 pm. He’s reminded of the time bomb that was his father’s car, and the clock’s face seems to crawl with blood.

  Hurrying, cradling the baby, Bill steps off the porch. Pain bites hard. He stops, grits his teeth and begs, prays, for the pain to subside. ‘Hmmmmmmmm.’ He breathes in the fragrant air, spiced with a touch of dew. He wills the pain to burn itself off into the night and be replaced by a flood of the sky’s distant chill. It comes. Only dull pain remains. A careful step doesn’t spike it. Yes, tentative steps are fine. As he hobbles away he hears Simon moving.

  ‘Bill?’

  Gingerly, gently, as quickly as possible, he crosses the gravel.

  From inside, at the back of the house and very faint, ‘Bill?’

  As Bill makes the top of the drive he hears the screen door bang open. Just a few more seconds is all he needs to be out of sight behind the hedge. The temptation to hurry is great. Simon’s heavy steps on the gravel provoke him to it. The knee holds as he makes the cover of the hedge.

  ‘Hey?’

  He swears under his breath. Simon will have caught the most fleeting glimpse of his back, just a shadowy movement. Bill knows he has time to hide, that he will be out of sight for several seconds now. There’s a chink in the drive-side hedge, a shortcut to the gate that will cut 30 metres off the curve and hide him from view as well. Simon will think he was seeing things and look elsewhere.

  The opening in the fat hedge is growing over through lack of use. He shields the baby’s head from stubborn new branches and scrapes through. It’s darker on the other side. He feels the ground with the foot of his good leg. The little track worn in the grass by the previous owners, or more likely their children, is now overgrown. Still, he thinks, it’s only grass. His son is striding closer. Bill freezes, holds his breath. Simon passes.

  ‘Bill?’ He stops a few metres down the drive. ‘Huh?’

  Bill stares at the baby, willing her to remain silent as Simon turns and walks back.

  More guests arrive. Strenuously saluted by the horns, the largest and gayest cohort yet sweeps the fashionistas before them in to the coloured chambers and fuels the gathering with their excitement. Grotesque and marvellously masked guests mingle, and the scenes become dreamlike. Disguise arouses interest and attraction. Whispers are met with whispers, with laughter. Phantasms move from chamber to chamber, transformed by the play of light and born again and again in perfect anonymity. New alliances and intrigues arise with every heartbeat. In the green ballroom there is much excitement as the hands of strangers are gallantly taken for the first waltz. The reasons for selection are sometimes perfectly clear and in some cases fascination is mutual. For some, enchantment begins with the music, and for others, doubts about the nature of their fantastically masked partner linger long after the wild waltz begins.

  Jeremiah serves drinks to those standing around the walls of the ballroom gathering their courage. Not much is said. Dancers’ identities are guessed at by some, either through competence as the result of lessons taken or some grace or peculiarity of movement, some quality of form visible even beneath their cloak and mask. The watchers, it seems, are too intent on imagining themselves
in the next waltz to speak much, and are regretting the brief time they’ve had to learn the steps. While those on the dancefloor become more confident and relaxed as time flies by, those around the wall become more anxious and self-conscious and in need of Jeremiah’s drinks.

  A glass breaks in a guest’s hand. Jeremiah heard it crack, but its bearer, a man, is oblivious as blood drips onto the green carpet. A mask is inclined towards the bleeding man’s head and a friendly hand placed on his shoulder. The man notices his injury. As he makes his way to the door, with his arm raised to stem the flow of blood, the glass stem remains stuck in his clenched fist. Jeremiah is sure that a muscle stimulant is the problem, one taken by the super-elderly in order to waltz the night away on this special occasion. To shine. Another glass shatters.

  Glasses are dropped as well as crushed, and others held on to long after the contents are finished. Jeremiah notes that the masked gladiator bears a silver tray with plastic cups. A young nurse in a very short white dress and a red garter belt enters the room, vivid among the funereal cloaks. Wielding a long-handled brush and shovel, she rather ineptly sweeps up broken glass. Jeremiah feels he knows her. She’s almost unique in that respect. She jumps suddenly and turns, having been pinched on the bum, and flushes deeply from her throat to where her red mask meets her cheeks. The blotchy blush confirms her identity. It’s the young nanny they interviewed, St Tropez, from Carterton. What the hell, he thinks, is she doing here? She’s way too young and naïve! She needs to go home right away. He makes his way towards her.

  Inexplicably, the DJ cuts the waltz dead. His comedy mask becomes the focus of the room’s attention. Its laughter seems provoked by delightful cruelty as a loud ticking fills the chambers. The late arrivals who missed the first marking of the hour look around with an air of bemusement (St Tropez is one of them), while others hurriedly detach themselves from their partners and make for the door. Encircled and protected by his desks, the DJ remains highly amused and deaf to the loudest of questions.