The Predictions

  “But I just called the number for the Berlin hotel. The woman who answered spoke German.”

  “Well, if you know where I am, why did you ask?”

  I took a breath. He wasn’t trying to be mean, he was just tired. “How was the concert last night?”

  “We had the night off.”

  “That’s great. I bet you needed it.”

  “It’s a waste of time. I’d rather play. Get this thing over with. Come home.”

  What could I say that would cheer him up? The baby would wake soon. We didn’t have long. “Zachary rolled over on his own today.”

  Lukas didn’t say anything. He was lighting a cigarette.

  “One minute he was on his back, then the next time I looked he had rolled onto his stomach.”

  “Cool.”

  “He was so pleased with himself.”

  “I miss him so much.”

  “He misses you too. We both do.”

  “He probably doesn’t know who I am.” He sounded so morose.

  “Of course he does.” In the next room, a bleat from Zachary, and my breasts needled, the milk letting down. Lukas muffled the receiver while he talked to someone who had come into his hotel room. When they left, he said, “Sorry, that was Fran. We’ve got a radio interview in ten minutes. I haven’t even had a shower yet.”

  “You better find out where you are.”

  “Berlin,” said Lukas. “You were right.”

  “I have to go, anyway. Zachary’s up.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “Two thirty.”

  “You should see a dentist about that.”

  “Har har. Very funny.”

  Tooth hurty was one of his favorite puns, and I felt reassured by it. “I love you,” I said into the phone receiver, an old avocado-­green dial-­up that we had inherited with the flat. I had been meaning to get one with push buttons that would be easier to dial when my hands were full. Lukas hadn’t replied yet. Had the line gone dead? “Are you there, darling? I love you.”

  “I hope so,” he said, then hung up.

  The dial tone wasn’t one I was used to, and even though Zachary’s bleat rose quickly to an angry, high-­pitched cry, I held the phone to my ear for a long time after Lukas had hung up, wondering why he had said that, and none of the reasons I came up with were good. When I tried calling him back, I couldn’t get through.

  I rang a travel agent and booked a flight to Cologne, leaving in three days’ time. The next day, Lukas didn’t call, and the day after that, someone else did. It was Tina, the receptionist at the record company. She was very young, her voice stuck in a chirpy register, no matter the news she delivered. For this reason, I took a while to take on board her message.

  “Wait. Slow down. He did what?”

  “He, um, overdosed!” she said, practically singing.

  “What kind of overdose? Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know. They found him in his room.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I just got told to give you this number.” She had to repeat the number three times. My hand wouldn’t write it down. Dialing it took another three shots. A German man answered. He spoke no English, but even if he had, he would not have understood my gibberish. He fetched his supervisor.

  I finally got Fran on the line, but she had gone into public relations overdrive, and her answers were all smoke and mirrors. “Poppy, relax. He’s fine. It isn’t a real tour unless someone gets hospitalized with exhaustion. This time it was Lukas.”

  “Exhaustion? Is that what you call an overdose?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The girl from the record company—­Tina? Gina? I can’t remember her name.”

  “Fucking Tina,” said Fran. “She can’t even send a fax without screwing it up.”

  “Fran,” I said. “My husband’s in the hospital. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Don’t have a cow, babe. He took one too many prescription tranquilizers—­that’s all.”

  “What was he taking those for?”

  “All the guys do. It helps them wind down after a show.”

  This was news to me.

  “Who found him?”

  “Marlon, Vincent, one of the guys—­does it matter? The main thing is he’s fine.”

  “It matters to me. Can I speak to him?”

  “Not right now,” she said. “He’s sleeping.”

  “When he wakes up, tell him I’ll be there tonight. That I’m on my way.”

  “I don’t know if that’s really . . .” She paused. “Suit yourself. And by the way, if anyone asks, we’re saying exhaustion, brought on by the laryngitis.”

  “Lukas had laryngitis?”

  “No, it’s just what you say.”

  The conversation left a bad taste. What happens on tour stays on tour, and I wasn’t on the tour. To Fran, I was no better than the press, someone to be fobbed off and lied to.

  The last flight to Cologne out of Heathrow left at midnight. Zachary was wired, his eyeballs on stalks, even after the plane took off and the narcotic hum of the aircraft set in. He stared at me, and I stared back, trying not to look as bleak as I felt.

  We arrived at Cologne airport in the middle of the night and took a taxi to the hotel they were staying at, an austere L-­shaped block of concrete and glass. In the lobby bar, a few of the band, plus roadies and hangers-­on, sipped cocktails, their laughter raucous and loud. Fran was there too, in white-­fringed boots, red leather hot pants, and a spangled boob tube, her bloodshot eyes ringed with black. When she saw us, she came over, while the others carried on drinking.

  “It’s been an absolute bloody nightmare,” she said, slurring her words a little. “Reporters on the front step, following us everywhere. It couldn’t have happened in a worse place. They’re royalty here.”

  “How is he?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. Sleeping it off.” She stubbed out her cigarette in a metal bowl filled with sand and her hands butterflied around for something else to do. She was thin and beautiful, her makeup so thick you’d have had to take it off with a chisel. She had always been tough but now she was also hard. “I’ll take you up to his room.”

  “Thanks. Do you know if the hotel has any cots? We’ll need one.”

  “Shit,” said Fran. “Are you all going to sleep in the same room?”

  “Where else can we sleep?”

  “It might not be such a good idea—­not after what happened. Lukas needs to rest. They’re playing tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night? Lukas overdosed and he gets one day off?”

  “Shhhh,” said Fran. “Keep it down. It was laryngitis, remember?”

  “Even if it was that he’d have to rest.”

  “Relax, it’s not that serious.”

  When we reached the room, she came in with us and fussed about, filling a glass of water by the bed, fluffing Lukas’s pillow, checking supplies in the minibar—­I wasn’t sure what he’d need that for. He was dead to the world. Fran leaned against the wall, watching him, watching us settle in.

  “I can take over now,” I said. “Just tell me your room number. In case we need anything.”

  “I’m right next door. But I won’t be there for a while.”

  “Will you be downstairs, in the bar?”

  “We talked about going to a club.”

  “I’ll call reception if we come unstuck.”

  “Sure,” said Fran, finally heading for the door. After she had opened it, she turned and said, “Oh. One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If the phone rings, don’t answer it.” She lowered her voice. “Reporters.”

  Zachary had been red faced and wailing for most of the plane trip but since touching down, perversely, he had conked out. He
didn’t even stir when the cot arrived and he was tucked into the stiff, unfamiliar sheets. He would wake in an hour or two, when he was hungry, but there was no use trying to feed him now.

  I lay down on the bed, next to Lukas. He was in a deep, convalescent sleep, the sort that can go on for days and that you wake from in a sweat, feeling desolate. His hair was damp at the temples, his face pallid. I put my hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He felt cold, slightly clammy.

  On the bedside table, next to the glass of water, were a host of prescription pill bottles. Most of the labels were in German, but I recognized the word “Valium.” I had seen those in his toilet bag before, after a trip, and he had told me they helped him relax. Taking him at his word, I had said, “Just make sure to keep them out of Zachary’s reach.”

  I climbed under the sheets and blanket, and wriggled closer to my husband, then closer still. His breath was stinky, as though he hadn’t cleaned his teeth, even with bourbon, for a week. When I was near enough to hear his breathing, to hear if it stopped, I shut my eyes. If I managed a half-­hour nap before Zachary woke up, I’d be lucky. I had been dozing for a few minutes, maybe ten at the most, when Lukas stirred. I had not been properly asleep and was instantly alert. “Hi,” I said softly, near his ear.

  He sighed, more asleep than awake, and said, “Where have you been?”

  “I got here as quickly as I could but it took ages, I’m sorry.”

  “You were going to come straight back.”

  “I was?”

  “Yeah. You said it wouldn’t take long to get it.”

  “To get what?”

  “Fran, babe, I’m too tired for this.”

  “Lukas?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I could tell, in the few seconds before he spoke, that I was not the person he had been expecting to see—­or the person he had thought he was talking to. “Poppy, my love, when did you get here?”

  “Lukas—­just before—­you said ‘Fran.’ ”

  “Did I?”

  “You thought I was Fran. You were waiting for her.”

  “I meant you,” said Lukas. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Bullshit,” I said, my head spinning with jet lag, confusion, and months of accumulated sleep deprivation. “You wanted her to come back to bed—­not me.”

  “Poppy—­don’t do this. I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I said, getting up from the bed and turning on the bedside lamp. “You’re in Cologne, you’re fucking your manager, and just so you know, your band is a joke.”

  Lukas winced. In the light, he looked worse, his lips chapped and skin yellow. He tried to sit up but he was too weak. “Don’t go,” he croaked. “I can explain.”

  But I had already gathered up my things, and now I reached into the cot for Zachary. He was in a deep sleep and had been sweating so profusely that even the outermost layer of his clothing was damp. I would change him in the lobby, or in the back of a cab. At the door of the hotel room, I hesitated. Was there any point in reminding Lukas that as a ­couple we were doomed? Turning to face him for what I imagined to be the last time, I said, “I thought we could change it but we can’t.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  PART III

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  CHAPTER 15

  Gaialands

  1989

  WE CAUGHT THE FERRY to Coromandel from Auckland, bypassing the roads and landing on the wharf with the fishermen’s catch. It was the beginning of September, that time of year when fierce sunshine can give way to squalls of freezing-­cold rain in a matter of minutes. I had been forever removing layers of Zachary’s clothing, then scrambling to put them back on, then taking them off, and so on. More than once, in the middle of one of these absurd costume changes, I had burst into tears, a reminder, in case I needed it, that I was the walking wounded. If anything, the crying jags had gotten worse since we had touched down in New Zealand, as if I had saved it all up until I reached home soil.

  We had not dallied long in Auckland, half a day, and disembarking from the ferry in Coromandel, my first thought was that we had traveled back in time. The former gold-­rush town, with its gabled storefronts and old-­time saloons, had always been old fashioned. But now, after six years in London, I noticed how dilapidated it was, the once-­quaint buildings falling apart and plastered with ugly signs for beer and fishing tackle. Everything was waterlogged, battened down against the weather, and above the settlement the green-­black hills glowered with the threat of more rain.

  In the town, luck was on our side. Huddled in the Four Square supermarket with Zachary, trying to keep dry, I overheard a man in Swanndri and gumboots talking to the store owner about the state of the 309 Road, which he wanted to drive over.

  “It’s open,” said the store owner, “but I’d take it easy on the corners if I were you, mate.”

  “No worries,” said the man in gumboots. “That sounds about right.”

  I asked him if we could get a lift, and when he saw how young my baby was, he insisted on taking us all the way to the gate of Gaialands. He had heard of the commune, and even had a rough idea where it was.

  “So it’s still there then?”

  “I expect so, love. Coromandel’s the only place left for hippies.”

  The man said he was a farmer. He had come to Coromandel to pick up a part for his tractor. He cleared the passenger seat and buckled us in, renegade style, with Zachary strapped across my chest. The only other option would have been to sit in the back with his dog.

  The ute climbed the steep ridge of bush-­covered hills that formed the backbone of the Coromandel Peninsula. The gravel road was wet and slippery, and I wished we could turn back. I hadn’t been in touch with anyone from the commune since we had taken off all those years ago, and my attempt to reach them from London had drawn a blank—­no listing, no phone number. I had assumed they’d still be there, but what if they weren’t?

  Around the next bend, we came to a section of the road with a bite out of it, where a chunk of asphalt and concrete had crumbled off and washed down the hillside. The stretch of road that remained did not look wide enough to drive over but the farmer kept going, leaning forward in his seat to better see where he was going. As we inched along the narrow section of road, I made the mistake of looking down into the crevasse of dripping punga ferns, which ended somewhere far below in darkness and the roaring sound of water.

  “Poor buggers in Te Aroha,” said the farmer, wiping his brow once he had safely navigated the cutaway road. “House got washed away—­and everyone in it. They found the six-­year-­old up in a tree. She was all right.”

  “And the others?”

  “Still missing.”

  It was like this every year. Parts of the country took turns being victims of biblical flooding, or in really bad years, flooding and earthquakes. There had been a bad one in the Bay of Plenty while we were away—­bad enough to make it to the English newspapers. This year, flooding only. At least the water tanks will be full, we would say.

  We made it through the hills, and the landscape flattened out, shaggy fields interspersed with patches of knotty, unkempt bush. Here and there were clumps of beehives, the drawers painted in pastel colors to attract the bees.

  Around another bend was the tiny shop that marked the entrance to Gaialands. At the sight of the wonky letterbox, the swinging wooden sign with its curly hand-­painted letters, I nearly cried with relief. It was so familiar, so unchanged, exactly as I hoped it would be. On our way down the bumpy driveway, my heart expanded with antici
pation.

  We passed the workshop, where a man in silhouette—­was it Paul?—­tinkered on a tractor engine. He looked up as we drove past, but I couldn’t see his face. The kitchen hut came into view, and a woman was out the back, hanging up washing. When we got closer, I saw it was Katrina. She had hacked off her long, auburn hair, except for a plaited wisp that ran down her back. She scowled at the approaching ute for a moment before her expression changed to one of pure joy.

  By the time we had parked by the meetinghouse, in a patch of overgrown dandelions, she was running down to meet us. She pulled open the passenger door of the ute and leaned in.

  “Poppy! It is you.” She clocked Zachary and squealed with delight. “Oh my goodness! A grandchild!” She reached in and took the baby off me, holding him in the air so she could get a good look at him.

  “Katrina, meet Zachary,” I said.

  She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, then changed her mind and went for a full hug, squashing the baby between us. “Come here, girl. It’s so good to see you.”

  One by one the adults appeared from the fields, orchards, and outbuildings and gathered in a little group around us. Susie, Hunter, Paul, Sigi, Tom, Loretta—­they were all just as delighted to see us as Katrina had been. Zachary was passed around and marveled at, winning each heart with his enthusiastic smile.

  I was taken aback by how warm and open they all were, so different from the yuppies we had left behind in London. If they had ever been miffed about us all abandoning the commune, they didn’t show it—­just as I was confounded by how pleased I was to be back.

  Once we had been hugged by everyone and made to feel welcome beyond any doubt, we all went into the mess hut for herbal tea and a slice of the raw date loaf I had been told was cake as a child. It tasted worse than I remembered—­a dense log of bark and brown goo.

  I had prepared what to say, if they inquired about Lukas, but other than confirming Zachary was his son, they didn’t pry, though there must have been so much they wanted to know. I was surprised to see them all enjoying downtime in the middle of the day—­they had always been so busy, so industrious—­but they were older now, and there weren’t so many mouths to feed, so it made sense they had slowed down.