‘Muslim?’ I asked.
He allowed the shadow of a smile and nodded.
‘Isn’t Zlatko a Serb name?’
‘It is,’ he conceded, tilting his aperitif for a brief peep.
‘A hybrid?’ I offered.
‘What’s that?’
‘Something interesting …’ I conceded before braving another sip. ‘So what do you practise?’
‘Practise?’ He held me steady in his gaze.
‘Background, I suppose …’ I spluttered into empty words, knowing well there was no need to clarify.
‘What religion do you practise?’ he asked, turning the question on me.
‘I don’t.’
He twisted a black eyebrow in acknowledgement. This time he surprised me. It’s his right brow that he quirked.
‘Tell me what you know about Abrah?’ I pried, whirling my tumbler below the edge of the tabletop.
He gave a dismissive shrug and smiled at the same time. ‘The English teacher,’ he said.
I feigned indifference. ‘I thought she was a flautist.’
‘A hobby,’ and after a sigh, ‘it’s what she wanted to do.’ He inhaled his cigarette, regarded me intently. ‘Perhaps I should tell you about Jasna.’
‘Who’s she?’ I asked.
‘My girlfriend.’
My stomach dropped. It felt as if a lift had stalled. He was there before me, obscured by the smoke, intact, with an entire encyclopaedic history to plumb. He had a story that he needed to tell. I was attentive. He relapsed into silence, the story obscured by the peace he had surrendered himself to.
‘Tell me about Jasna?’ I asked, steadfast.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Are you still in touch?’
‘No.’ He pulled his hand away from his face as if to indicate the contact had been broken; either that or this line of questioning was unwelcome. He took a sip of his coffee, a puff of his cigarette. His silver earring glinted in the lamplight, as did the tip of his hearing aid. ‘How much do you know about Bosnia?’
‘A little, not as much as I would like to,’ I said, knowing he was a way in, his background – far more interesting than any article or recently hashed-out book. Should I offer him a glass of wine, or would he travel more purposely on aperitifs, coffee and cigarettes?
‘Are you really interested?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m interested.’
‘Why?’
I recoiled, ever so slightly, unable to maintain the bravado. He’s a disconcerting step ahead, I think to myself. ‘I have writer’s block,’ I admitted, leaning towards him. ‘I need a story.’
‘But it’s my story,’ he insisted.
I could smell the putrid odour of corpses, the rare mummification of stale blood, rotting flesh … bug-infested brain? Henry’s workshop was taking root, though he only spent his days here, driving his van in and out of the driveway, loading and unloading the little body bags and the tools he needed. In the basement the smell must have been noxious.
I went for a walk outside. The back garden was free of the house’s oppressive smells. Behind the garage, behind the workshop, were the two cages that formed Nancy’s aviary. The cages were room-size, high, around ten feet high, large enough for the blue and green, yellow-tipped budgies to flash and appear in various spots. The cages were jam-packed with shrubs and large cuttings from fig and other trees, which poked out of the wire openings in various places and, in parts, threatened to break, or at least weaken, the enclosures. The trees gave the aviaries, even on the brightest days, a sombre feel. There were around twenty parakeets and Henry took good care of them, making sure their stores of seed and water were well maintained. Among the lemon trees and various wall-climbing shrubs, Henry had installed long, narrow branches on sharp inclines for the budgies to perch and climb upon. Despite the care they were shown, a part of me was tempted to slide the unlocked latch and open the chook-wire door. Imagine the sudden rush and the joyous dispersal!
Casper was the one resident sulphur-crested cockatoo, housed in the second cage, which had been portioned to suit his retirement. I tapped on the mesh and he responded with a few jerky movements. I tapped again, this time lightly, and he climbed his perch to greet me. I stroked his beak which he pushed through the wire enclosure. He could feed from an open palm though on this occasion I had nothing to give him. I imagined him to be quite old.
From the back garden I walked straight into the kitchen. Lina was cooking a Maltese stew, the recipe inherited, though modified. Lina came twice a week to help with the chores and even lent her hand at the cooking, when time allowed. Like Henry she lived in the area and felt like an extended part of the household. She had heated the oil, the fan was on. The smells were stark, disorientating; they mingled displeasingly with the lingering memory of the basement’s odours. My appetite was completely gone.
‘The fan?’ I asked, raising the exhaust to its highest level.
Lina was wiping her hands on her apron; she was trying to hold back tears, but the onions stung. She swept the slices into the pot, turning the hotplate down. The oil spat as the rings caramelised. The fan’s hubbub made it difficult to speak. ‘I will leave,’ she declared, nodding her head.
‘We will not get rid of him,’ I warned, reducing the fan to its previous level.
She struck the chopping board expertly so that the cleaver stood upright. The move surprised me. ‘The basement is madness,’ she insisted, pulling out the cleaver and laying it flat.
I made a mental note: a one-bedroom flat was no place to keep rabbits. Still, the smell was toxic.
‘It’s only until he cooks them,’ I said, imagining that he would freeze everything. I was surprised by my pragmatism, by my sudden show of support. I suppose I didn’t want her to leave. The mix of cleaning agents and offal was stark. It was a hot day and Lina’s nerves were obviously frayed, but the rabbit stew would be delicious. I decided to help her out; it had been years since I’d enjoyed a serve of the Maltese national dish.
Like most, the dream was convoluted. The kitchen transformed into a series of stills, the type you might find forming a triptych, or a celebrated series, in the Tate Modern, perhaps in the style of Francis Bacon, given the insistence of the bloodied motif, and the crudity of the imagery rendered in flat colour. Maltese stew: two identical coils, burning red, two cauldrons, replete with skinned skulls simmering; Lina chopping up a multitude of bloodied rabbits; Lina arranging the purple portions into two segments. In the last two paintings, Lina appeared in profile, her expression, intent, almost identical, her long black hair tied back and the jagged edge of her teeth, partly exposed, grey as the blade she handled.
In England, I’d been motivated by my experiences, all the people I had met, the IB program I was teaching, the all-girls school I had been fortunate enough to work at, but within a year I was exhausted, my energy sapped. Living in digs was still expensive and created a stress all of its own. In the space of one year I had moved four times. I’d managed to write a few poems and even placed one in a university journal.
So what brought me back?
In my bedroom, I looked at the cabinet behind the silver bars of the cleared birdcage. I looked at the six glassed-in covers; the six original albums recorded by American singer Kim Carnes. In my dreams she was altered somewhat, though I knew she was the inspiration behind Ludovcio’s wandering nymph, Abrah.
She retained her distinctive voice. It was her voice that gave her away.
To the right of this was a drawing by my former student Esmira. It was Emily Dickinson on a motorcycle. The students had to come up with an anachronism and Esmira drew the nineteenth-century poet from Amherst, Massachusetts in a calico dress on a motor scooter. Unfortunately, she didn’t really take to Dickinson’s poetry, but I liked the drawing so much that I had it framed.
‘These are Nancy’s prized parakeets,’ I told Zlatko, ‘the ones I’d like to set free.’
He pushed against the wire cage with his forehead, sticking
his nose as far as possible into the enclosure. The budgerigars cast inquisitive glances and chirped to a jagged bop, unafraid. Using some of the protruding leaves he pulled one branch through the enclosure and smelt the lemon. He stepped back, the diagonal mesh crisscross now embedded in his forehead. He eyed the height of the cage before giving an appreciative nod.
I invited him into the kitchen where the rabbit stew was simmering. After scooping it from the pot I asked if it was his first time.
‘First time,’ he nodded eagerly. I scooped another ladleful into his bowl. ‘Rabbit?’ he questioned.
‘The sauce,’ I explained. ‘It stains it red.’
Gauging his enthusiasm, I scooped more.
‘You cooked it?’ he asked, peering right into the pot, somewhat incredulous.
‘Lina helped.’
After dishing out two portions I invited him up to my bedroom. ‘Excuse the cage.’ I tapped the bar and the sound reverberated in the large room.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Casper’s old home,’ I replied, and seeing his blank gaze, added, ‘the cockatoo.’
‘Ah!’ He walked up to the cage, just to look straight through it. ‘Kim Carnes.’ With his nose pressed against one of the vertical bars he studied the glassed-in cover, ‘Barking at Airplanes.’
‘No turntable,’ I explained. ‘I framed them record and all.’
He cast a cursory glance at the other titles before sitting at my desk. I took a seat on my bed. He cradled the bowl while looking out of the window into the backyard, the gazebo, chewing appreciatively on another mouthful. He pulled the one hardcover book on my desk towards him. ‘What’s it you’re writing?’ he asked, flicking unreservedly through my journal.
‘My dreams.’
He closed the book, pushed it aside and examined me with a mock-serious look. ‘Insomnia?’
Standing beside him I gave the cover a couple of convincing knocks. ‘Good.’ I traced the verdigris of the gazebo’s salt-worn spire. ‘The rabbit?’ I asked, looking into his near-demolished bowl, before bouncing back onto the single spring bed.
‘The rabbit’s delicious,’ he blurted out unreservedly, the ringing of metal against ceramic a peremptory call for seconds.
He placed the bowl back on the desk. ‘I thought you had writer’s block?’
‘I do, that’s why I write my dreams and …’
‘And?’ He leaned in, chewing with his mouth open, a faint crucifix still ingrained above his eyebrow.
‘And why I like hearing your stories.’
‘Why do you write your dreams?’
The question surprised me. ‘So I can remember them … perhaps make something out of them.’ He kept chewing, expecting me to say something more. ‘I don’t want my thoughts to be out of reach,’ I offered, thinking of a phrase I had once read by Ted Hughes. He allowed a smile and picked up the remainder of his rabbit.
‘Have you written anything else?’
‘A novel.’
‘Can I read it?’ he asked through another mouthful.
I held his gaze for a second or two longer than I normally would have. ‘Sure.’ It was a risk, but I opened the bottom drawer and handed it to him.
I peered into my journal, flipping through the pages, fanning them in one direction and then in another, catching snippets of entries that I recognised. The act of writing a dream, or at least the memory of the dream, in detail, often proved a useless mnemonic. The essence of the dream fell within the hardbound pages, to be enjoyed later, but often the dream itself evaporated upon writing. I continued scanning through the hardback volume, before allowing the pages to settle outright. Again, I recognised the entry instantly. Normally I would have continued to fan through the pages, but something about Zlatko’s visit helped to steel my nerve.
Monday night. Damien. Six foot one – heavy-set. African American, tall, taller than me.
Notes: moment of eye contact as recurring theme, the beating kernel at the heart of the dream. Spurred by the transparency of his stare, the subject follows …
I paused momentarily, my thoughts gravitating towards Zlatko, his visit. ‘Is there more?’ he asked, his curiosity piqued.
I kicked the gravel and came to rest before him. He leaned against the double-stacked row of oil barrels, the whites of his eyes luminous and bloodshot. The sea crashed and its spirant lashes hissed and foamed between the rocks’ steep crevices. I looked towards him, feeling both weary and hesitant. As I moved forward a barrel thundered, drawing my attention to our surroundings. Some worker, inspired perhaps by the full moon, the ravages of the wind, drummed a rapid beat. He called towards the heavens in an attempt to sound out the sky. It stopped me for a second. I was almost unable to continue, but his stare persisted. I stood before him, face to face, letting the tension brew. The air between us thinned as he leaned towards me; our tongues trading a musky scent. I ran my hand along the back of his bristly scalp. His teeth clamped onto my lower lip. I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue. I pulled away, aware of the beat of my heart, a quickened pulse. He fumbled for my belt, releasing the buckle, dextrously threading the end back through the front loop. As I prepared to bolt he held a blue wrapper, pinched gingerly between his fingers, as if to assure me. I eyed the perforated edge, his steadfast eye. Palming the condom, he slid his fist into my pocket, while his encircling arm continued to tighten. It surprised me that he had the confidence to anchor his hand like that. He sported the flexed foreplay of a boa constrictor. I breathed against his tightening grasp. He waited, allowing the tautness to build and, without notice, struck.
‘You can let yourself in.’ Over the raised ledge of her desk the secretary held a key at eye level. It glinted silver.
‘The apartment block?’
‘No. It’s the key to the studio.’
‘My studio?’
‘Yes.’
I turned into the narrow laneway in my Mazda without indicating. The lane was tucked just five minutes away from Fitzroy Street, a flashy hub of run-down bars renowned for its prostitution racket. Nancy, at least according to her stories, loved it here because it was near the sea. I could just imagine the strip inducing a sense of longing for her Sicilian roots, but Fitzroy Street left me cold. I put the car in park and peered at the block of flats through the passenger’s window. The bricks were shiny, seventies - brown. Six months seemed like quite a commitment, but chances were that I was going to be in Melbourne for a year. Agents didn’t offer anything less than a six-month lease.
I gauged the height of the chain railing and cleared it with a leap. The empty car park had been closed off. This was odd. The flats had been built, partly, on concrete columns wrapped in bands of steel. The columns allowed for parking below the flats, but because the entire car park had been chained off, this was empty too. The block consisted solely of studio flats, and there could have been anywhere up to two hundred rooms. I wondered what sort of people lived here. Writers, I guessed, people who wanted a private space but didn’t want the crippling fees. The sound of dried gum leaves rose to a rattle. Most of the windows of the block seemed to look onto the abandoned car park – so much for a room with a view. Across the road was my silver hatch, a couple of abandoned houses.
I climbed the stairwell to the first level. Maybe Room 77 was here. A dimly lit passageway stretched out before me. I felt like I was in a government building – an abandoned relic. The linoleum had a white background with faint petals of what once would have been bright pastels. The doors were different colours. All of them were closed and the rooms appeared conspicuously silent: Shakespeare wasn’t in, nor was Virginia Woolf. I wondered how bright, how inspiring the place might appear with writers’ names attached to each of the doors. I got to the end of the U-shaped passageway, almost ending up where I had begun.
Number 76 was the last room on the first floor. This gave me another floor to explore, and for some reason this seemed hopeful. On my way back to the staircase I noticed a kitchen, obviously a shared ki
tchen. I wondered how many there were to a floor. It seemed like only one. It was small. I looked for the laundry room but couldn’t find one. ‘This isn’t good,’ I thought out loud to myself. Haven’t even seen the room yet. The kitchen, like the corridor, was conspicuously clean, the rubbish bin lined with a new heavy-duty plastic bag. I leaned towards the wide circular eye of the bin and saw a solitary cotton bud, stained yellow. Strange, I thought. Apart from this, the kitchen was sterile.
I clasped the key and the key ring in my hand tighter. I clasped so tightly that when I opened my palm I could see the red serrated edge. I repeated this action several times, but each time I opened my palm, the imprint faded. I wanted my body to be able to make permanent reference to the cut. I wanted some way of permanently imprinting that key in my mind. No matter how bad things got, I didn’t want to let go – not yet.
Room 77 was the first room from the stairway on the second of the three floors. Without intending to I let the door to the stairwell slam. I thought being close to the stairwell would be a good thing, especially in a building with such long corridors, but the sound rendered the building cavernous.
By the time I entered the studio, all trace of the key’s imprint had disappeared. In that silence I heard a mocking appraisal, high-pitched, and one that I barely wanted to acknowledge. I locked the door behind me and thudded down the ridged, concrete staircase, the room’s particulars still flashing in my mind: a vomit-stained purple sink, a weeping mirror, bathroom mould, a torn shower curtain and a window that backed onto a wall.
I woke to the sound of a storm. It was almost seven in the morning. The red LED illuminated 6.57. From my bed the sky appeared blue, but the thunder was unmistakable. I swung my feet over the edge and pulled out my earplugs. I could hear the reverberant clap of metal. I looked out the window and saw Henry standing up on the garage roof raising an axe. His grey hair was dishevelled. He looked absolutely mad. He was bare to the waist and sweating profusely. He was thin, almost meagrely so, but when he swung his axe his shoulders resembled two rugged tree knots.
Antidote to a Curse Page 6