Later that evening, from the backyard, I noted the glaring white eye trailing a convoluted funnel of grey clouds.
In my room, I opened up my diary, eyed the date: fifth week starts Wednesday.
Window – open.
He was running – unable to control his overwhelming zest for the wood, this day’s youth before him, when he fell, arms and legs no longer coordinated, and slammed straight into a tree. He was winded badly and the pain in his elbow was intense, no more than a pinpoint, yet fierce; his thought focused resoundingly on the pain. He rocked to and fro, hoping it would alleviate the trauma. He heard the same river babbling before him, though this stretch of the river was cleaner, the wood not as overrun with shooters, trappers, cartridges and bird wings. The seductive descent of the shallow stream gurgling and eddying …
Ludovico looked around him and saw nothing, no-one, the shallow stream piped its way to the forest below. His palm stung. He looked at it, smeared with mud and a residue of gravel. The dark mud turned inky, thickened with life, turned red. He was grazed. The air prickled his nostrils and his nostrils were not numb, but alive. He was able to smell, a vital thread of his olfactory still intact. He smelled oleander, pine as tangy as citrus to the tongue; the smells awakened what he liked best: presence. Alone, he realised that the wood was filled with presence.
A corona diffracted through the canopy of leaves illuminating all that it touched. He thought of Zlatko, even though he hadn’t seen him for months. The sun’s light fell in long veils, golden. Ludovico sat with his back against the trunk. He caught the light in his bleeding hands – resting palm up. Or rather, the light cradled his hands. Roused by the dappled stirring of the thinly leaved beech he glanced upwards. Nearby, the wind ruffled the sweet chestnut alighting kaleidoscopic forms. The silver backed leaves parted as if synchronised. The wood was lush, varied and at ground level sprouting with colours. The flowers were minuscule, creating a dazzling variance for a scrutinising eye.
I tried to recall the images of the dream. They scattered immediately among recollected sounds. I tried to gravitate to the bank, the very edge, to entice the persistent birdcalls, the rush of the recent thaw, but the river swept dimly. The palm tapped the open window above my bed. My view of the river was cut off. (I wore earplugs, so sounds rarely disturbed me, unless they were close.) The leaves were as large as the entire second storey and tapped repetitively, a vibrant tap-tap against the thin panes.
I pulled the earplugs out and switched on the light. It was pouring. The rain’s scent filled the room. At last all this humidity would be swept away, I thought. I pulled off the blankets and closed the window. The room was noticeably cooler. I looked at the time. It was almost two o’clock. On my desk were the discarded leaflets on the baccalaureate diploma I had skimmed. I was thirsty, and hungry for a slice of the melon I had bought earlier that day.
The stairs creaked and splintered loudly. Through the landing window I noticed the light in the gazebo was on.
Nancy had just taken her seat.
The cantaloupe was ripe. I sliced it in half then sliced this into thin strips. The ice-cream was rock hard. In the kitchen, the light from the gazebo was dim but sufficient. I scooped a thin layer, which rolled over itself and released the ball into the middle of the bowl. Without the hard rind the melon curled around the inside edge of the white soup plates, an orange frill. I stuck a wafer in each and ducked through the rain, crossing the tiger print of freshly mown lawn.
‘Ah! What do you have there?’ Nancy asked, placing Utopia on the side table by the lamp.
‘Something sweet.’ I handed her a plate.
Her face lit up, even if it was just for an instant. ‘You should leave the door open an inch or two,’ she advised.
‘What about Igor?’ I asked, looking up at the empty bird cage hanging from the rafter.
‘Oh, I let him go,’ then pointing to the door. ‘This will help.’ Nancy gestured to the statue beside her. The door anchored neatly between Altas’s shoulderblades. The rain spattered lightly through the open crevice. She leaned back, balancing the plate carefully on her lap. ‘Love the smell of the rain, the grass.’
Ludovico was asleep by his water dish. I sank onto the mat beside him, the cage hanging directly above me. I was going to ask if it was for Igor, but my mouth was nicely stuffed.
Nancy had a bite, then two. She closed her eyes and so did I.
When Ludovico awoke, he found himself sprawled on the ground in the middle of the giant spider’s web, a blanket of sunburnt petals sprinkled over him, the sun splintered through the branches above. He lay there squinting and as he rose, petals of various colours rolled across his lap. His shirt hung loosely on his shoulders. He propped himself assuredly into a seated position with his good arm. He needed the help of an orthopaedic surgeon; his left arm was bent and nearly numb. The wood sprawled around him. He sat centred by the fall. Paths diverged through the trees and the glassy tips of branches all beckoned at once. He was still dazed; his vision blurred so that the radiance around him was terraced, like a Picasso painting of a descending nude. The converging planes winked as he tried to focus. Then the planes diverged. Through the fractured light he saw a corridor of entrances, as though a hall of mirrors had been splayed in a circle through the green around him.
Ludovico caught sight of a finch and lured it with his birdsong. It fluttered its crimson-grey wings in rapid succession just by his left ear. The sound reminded him of a ream of paper thumbed by an expert hand; money. He positioned his weight on the small of his back and with a deft move attempted to catch it. Less dextrous with his right, he missed, only slightly, and within seconds it was a speck, barely visible, its radiance camouflaged. Another bird approached from another entrance, a garden sparrow. With his left arm anchored behind him, he aimed again. He succeeded, and using his canine teeth ripped off its head with one bite. He spat it out onto the grass and swallowed the body whole. The garden sparrow was the staple of his diet. The others, the rarer species, he tried to save.
After walking out of the net’s web he heard a voice that he had not heard before. The singer was a soprano; a luscious aria di coloratura wrung his ear. The effect was somewhat like honey on the tongue. He was attracted to the woman, who would sing a fragment and then, as if just to tease him, stop, modulate, and let her accompanist repeat the same phrase with a flute an octave or so removed, so that the two were in rapturous communion with one another. He took the path of the voice. The soprano trilled and he stopped for a second to relish the sound. The path ascended further and became dense, darker; birdcalls shrilled in abundance and he had to wonder, just for a minute, whether he was being lured by some elaborate decoy only to be killed, or maimed, by the savagery lurking there around him. As the corridor became tighter, leaves brushed his face. He wondered whether he would have to assume a snake’s pose. Indeed, the path did twist back on itself and out again; he thought of the meandering river. Had he stumbled onto some path forged on the Greek key? The trickling of water in a forest familiar seemed way out of reach.
He pushed through and the maze gave way to a glassy space. The singing was loud and unashamedly rich; parakeets whistled lewdly, entranced by the song. He had to shield his eyes because of the blaring light. He saw a cleared circular field, depths of untouched shrubbery, and in the centre a woman holding a flute. There was only one, both vocalist and flautist. She stood, somewhat precariously, on the jagged edge of a large rock. Her blond hair was crimped, thick, and pulled to one side. Her fringe fell across her forehead in kisses. She was older than he had expected. She stood there with her flute inches away from her mouth, her elbows evenly spaced, her eyes all questions, poised and aware of the onlooker.
‘Hello,’ he chanced.
‘Hello,’ the woman responded, in an accent that was notably learned.
‘I …’ He didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I’m a great admirer of music.’ He pressed his shoulders backwards and carelessly pressed the tips of his finger
s together just below his crotch. The fingers of his left hand were lifeless.
‘What do you play?’
‘I don’t, that’s why I admire,’ and as if there were a connection, he looked towards his elbow.
Her eyes widened slightly and fixed momentarily on his elbow, before settling on her flute. She wore a translucent floral dress, held up with yellow ribbons tied into bows. They fluttered like a pair of butterflies that had alighted on each shoulder. Her cream high-heeled shoes were a type of sandal and she used them to anchor her sheet music.
She remained on the rock, barefoot.
‘I would like to listen, if that’s OK?’
To this the woman elegantly acquiesced with a slight nod and an ‘Oh’ in acknowledgement and continued with her two-part rendition.
A breeze flirted around her sun-warmed shoulders, her full-length skirt. The woman was a good twenty years older than he was. He was about to turn thirty. She wore green nail polish and her make-up was heavily applied, with a bold line of eyeliner that curved out and up. Her eyes on first glance seemed blue, but he realised that it was a trick of her eye shadow and the frosty play of light. As his pupils narrowed he saw that her eyes were a tea-milk brown, youthful and alert. Her expression came through her body, the elastic interplay of movement and poise. And after a repetitive trill of notes that signified the end, she froze, removing the flute from her puckered mouth a good few seconds after she had finished.
Despite the pain in his left elbow, Ludovico applauded.
The woman crouched, swivelled forward and stepped off the rock. With an outstretched arm, she held the flute towards him.
‘I can’t,’ Ludovico answered. ‘I don’t play.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Perhaps one day you will learn.’
‘I couldn’t, it’s yours!’ he said, punctuating his words with a light cough.
‘Oh, I have others.’
After a few moments of intense prevarication, looking at how the lacquered flute evanesced slightly in the strong sunlight, he accepted with a bow, placing his right hand on his heart.
Without turning her back towards him she climbed back onto the rock. She shifted her feet to a slightly different position and folding her hands before her she began to sing. The leaves on the trees outside the cleared circle shimmered in the slight breeze. Ludovico felt compelled to hum along to the tune, but the sharp sting in his elbow persisted and his thoughts snagged on the image of the woman who had abandoned him.
The phone rang, stirring me from the reclusion of a leafy perch. Before me, a red-stained wineglass, empty. I ran to the house as if to rip the door from its hinges. The door to Nancy’s bedroom was walled shut.
‘Where did you get to?’ I asked, staring straight into the reflection of my empty surroundings. Downstairs was tiled, plastered, dark and quiet. I stood framed by the mirror’s burnished wings, an ornate gold, and traced the near shape of a love heart, one of Henry’s findings.
‘Nowhere – why?’ The voice was unmistakably male.
‘I need to see you.’
The silence indicated that it was not quite the right thing to say.
‘Meet me at three and we’ll go to my place.’
‘What time is it now?’ I asked as I looked at the grandfather clock. Usually he invited me for lunch.
‘Eleven, past.’
‘That late … God. OK. I’ll be there.’
I showered, I changed my underclothes, I made my bed and I crossed another day off the calendar. I saw the time marked for my interview, 1 p.m. ‘God.’ I held on to the polished top of the bedpost, a large cool knob, to steady myself. Unreal, I thought to myself. I was positively unreal.
I dressed in my suit, slipped on my silver ring and got ready.
So I was back in Melbourne without a job, and despite all the applications I sent off each week, I was hesitant about giving up all of my free time. Nancy’s rent was modest enough for me to pay without having to dip too deeply into my savings – or to go onto the dole. Still, I would spend five minutes or so with my pink highlighter pen marking jobs in Saturday’s Age.
One prestigious school on the other side of Melbourne responded immediately. I had an interview a few days after writing. It took a few appointments, a few random years overseas and the phone finally rang.
I went to this school in Brighton, St Mercredi (often disparaged as St Mercedes), and in spite of all my rushing had to wait more than half an hour for the head of English to make her appearance. I was offered tea, biscuits (Scottish shortbread) and a newspaper to dally away the time in the guest lounge, complete with mantelpiece.
A youngish woman with a mane of straight black hair offered a casual introduction. ‘I’m Anne.’ She seemed out of breath. I noted her fitted brown cotton pants. I conjured a giant chestnut mare tied to the cast-iron railings bordering the front steps. She managed a friendly smile, ‘Silvio, I believe,’ but her hazel eyes were curious.
‘Your particulars!’ she said, giving the envelope a good crinkle. She placed the envelope beside her. We sat at right angles to each other, occupying the corners of separate lounges. She was surprisingly chatty and eager to know all about my experiences abroad: Pall Mall, Marlborough Street, Piccadilly. I had considered all this background information about the international baccalaureate for the interview and revised the program, but the questions were not at all curriculum-based.
She brought her straight-cut nails down on the industrial envelope that rested beside her. ‘I have to admit, this is good,’ she conceded with an unreserved sigh. She pulled my CV out. Her eyelids fluttered in vain pretence as she skimmed the first page. ‘Essendon. How will you make it to Brighton?’
‘I’ll move.’
‘Really?’ Her brow furrowed deeply.
‘I relocate all the time.’
She looked at me wearily, as if I had just indulged in some sort of hyperbole. Then, as she rested the top of the first page over the tip of her forefinger, poised to look at the printed matter one last time, she twitched her head briskly. ‘A northern suburbs boy?’ Her eyes displayed the alacrity of a sparrow and revealed that the comment was more statement than question.
‘Yes.’
The glass sliding door darkened and creaked as the grey-haired vice-principal walked in. ‘Malcolm,’ he introduced himself with a slight nod. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend the full duration of the interview,’ offering with a dismissive wave of his hand, ‘meetings, last minute, you know.’ His voice rose an entire third with the last word.
I stood up and took his hand. Given the range of his spoken pitch, I presumed him to be a tenor. He sat directly opposite me, the three of us occupying a sofa each. ‘Yes, I know.’
He looked towards Anne, but her smile did not reach her eyes. The vice-principal was round-faced and sported one school pin in his lapel.
With my hands folded in my lap I whirled the ring on my fifth finger round once, discreetly, for luck. They shared a communicative glance that was subtle and not easily open to interpretation.
‘I must congratulate you. You’ve had a wealth of experience,’ he said.
‘Yes, travel can open many windows.’
‘Hmm,’ he hummed with a pursed smile as his eyes fell heavily, and somewhat comically, on the CV between us.
He flipped the pages absently, fanning conversation between the previously read leaves.
Like Anne, he looked at the first page, allowing a few deliberate seconds to punctuate the talk. ‘Well, I take it we’re impressed,’ he said, looking to Anne for confirmation. She gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘We’ll write to you at this address – where is it? Oh, yes! And let you know.’
Zlatko said I had worn the wrong suit. He closed up the shop, acting flippantly and completely against practice.
‘What, just close up?’ I looked at him disapprovingly.
‘I’ve arranged cover.’ I could smell that Darko was at the tail end of all this. For some reason
my mind snagged on his image, annoying; something about the way Zlatko spoke piqued my curiosity, but I couldn’t be bothered fishing for the intricate details. I was happy to get away.
I thought the suit was lucky. I had worn it to successful interviews overseas, jobs offered, then turned down. ‘Pinstripe is out!’
‘It seems!’ I pulled the jacket open momentarily to reveal a slash of burgundy, a dazzling referent to a successful appointment. ‘I wore this suit for my job interview at Marymount.’
‘Nah,’ he said, refusing to be impressed by names and places as he sat there in his trainers and ripped jeans.
Appalled, I slouched back into my seat. Things seemed to be going badly for me. I looked out the tram window, past my reflection, barely visible in the glass. Perhaps Anne and Malcolm had done me a favour. Perhaps the school wasn’t a match for me after all. We were on our way to his place, seated facing each other, and I realised that even though it was a weekday I was the only guy on the tram wearing a suit. It seemed the hordes of bankers and clerks were still shuffling away at their counters and desks. It was nearly four.
Zlatko was making his own assessment. He looked down the entire length of my suit as I sat there before him. ‘Must have cost you.’
The suit was a gift, but I didn’t want to go into it. ‘It was pretty cheap, actually.’
‘Doesn’t look cheap,’ he insisted, biting off the phrase whole.
I broke eye contact, randomly scanning faces in the hope that no-one had heard.
‘At least you’ve got one.’
Even though it was my first visit, the idea of going to Zlatko’s place was turning a little sour. I kept thinking about Anne, her tight-fitting cotton pants, her questions. Having to relocate and leave Nancy’s place would have been a loss, but in spite of this awareness, the interview had angered me. Why did they even bother contacting me?
Regardless of the vice-principal’s lack of interest, I couldn’t help but indulge in a little fantasy. If I had moved, I wondered if I would have relocated to a place near Zlatko, with Zlatko? I could tell from his smile that he could see right through me. He gave a dismissive lift of his hand. In my caustic rewriting of the scene, he surfaced in the slightly chilled air, immaculately groomed in my pinstripe suit, smug in the penetrative reach of a deliberate draught. He dismissed the whole venture with two words: a museum.
Antidote to a Curse Page 4