The speakers screeched loudly, slightly out of sync, before the electric hum ceased. Someone had taken it upon themselves to pull the cord. Even without a microphone she had little trouble gaining the hall’s attention. She stood five foot eleven, drawn, aware of her laboured breath, illuminated by the electric candles bunched around her. In each candle the thin vein of fire zigzagged through its invisible filament.
‘I made it.’ An intense balance seemed to ground her voice so that each word was weighted with equal stress. All could see the smeared chiffon, a shocking red on violet, the elongated stomach and, curiously, the caged finch by her side.
They marvelled at her audacity. Determined not to flinch, she addressed them in a calm voice, but within seconds someone had turned a lamp at the side of the stage full flush into her face. The glare blurred her vision. She looked back to the audience and the same white halo wavered before her. The migraine dissipated and dissolved into a rainbow of colour.
I will take a few breaths, she told herself. This was the tactic she had used before her last poetry reading as she tried to re-engage the dishevelled group. She had scored a confirmed place in the open section. How quickly things had changed, how easily things swung. The respect they paid her now made the perspiration on her forehead bead.
The woman who had tailed her sat in the front row. Her black hair looked flat in the lamplight. The woman looked her up and down and noted the vents in Jasna’s dress, the bleeding hands. She felt compelled to say something, even opening her mouth to do so, but the finch sang out instead. This pitched the audience into hysterics. Among the jeering and the pointed criticisms were the insinuating questions. The woman in the front row saw her chance and shouted, ‘Zlatko!’
Jasna stood silent and waited for the noise to clear, and after the screeching of a few chairs the noise did clear. ‘It’s my sister’s,’ she said in the same voice she had opened with.
All looked at the one revealing stain while the light continued to crackle. Still holding the handle, she bent towards the cage, and as she did so, the thin silver crucifix slipped from her neckline and dangled nakedly before them. Jasna didn’t attempt to conceal it; instead she opened the cage door and the crimson finch flew in a wide circle above their heads before sweeping through the open door.
‘What you have done is wrong.’
She took a step back and scanned the audience. It was their silence that she feared more than their words. A woman in the second row drew on her cigarette and as she exhaled Jasna’s faith faltered. It was Abrah, the flautist she had met in the grove all those weeks ago. Jasna’s response was spontaneous and despite her state she stepped forward, but Abrah failed to acknowledge her.
‘I don’t know what happened to her,’ Zlatko said in a gloomy tone.
The door swung open and Spiro, one of the managers, gave the doormat a good shake. Cold air fell from the door. He left it open. He cleared the day menus, pulling the pages from the wooden clipboards before stacking them on top of each other. He seemed in no hurry for us to leave. The lighting was subdued and the mirror ball spun a ghostly melange of pale, patchy light across our faces, the seventies decor.
Zlatko was sitting opposite me. His right elbow poised on the back of the chair, his lit cigarette above his head. Lonsdale Street had long been abandoned by the cars, trams and trains that ferried the workers out to the suburbs. It was eleven at night and even though the city was preparing its sleep, there was a drumming sound, the sort you hear after a heavy rainfall, distant and sobering.
I felt like we were the only ones left. Zlatko, his cigarette and his untold tales, me and the novel I hoped to write, Spiro counting the day’s takings.
‘You seem to know a lot,’ I suggested.
‘Word gets round,’ he said, his face spotted as a leopard.
‘Even from village to village?’
‘Especially from village to village.’
‘So why don’t you know the rest of the story?’
‘That’s when I left.’
Spiro dropped a pile of coins, swore under his breath.
‘Bihać to Melbourne?’
‘Yes, well, not straight away, not directly.’ He inhaled deeply, the tip of his cigarette flared red.
‘A stopover?’
‘We ran for our lives.’
At that point, a crimson finch swept into the restaurant. It was Esmira’s finch, threading the story to its new domain. Its trajectory was obliterated by plate glass; it faltered wildly, trapped by the glittery attraction of Zlatko’s hearing aid and its own reflection in the window. Zlatko winced. … the hearing aid distorts the sound? I imagined a machine gun chew out an entire round. After a few moments of panic the bird regained its orientation, flew out the door.
‘How’s that?’
‘The Bosnian Muslim army took control. I paid my ten thousand Deutsche Marks, got a pass and a seat. Within hours I had arrived in a truck filled with Fikret’s workers, only to be denied entry at the border. I was inches away …’ he said, lifting his hands off the table. ‘In days twenty-seven thousand people had crossed the border and some of us would never go back, though most did. At the time it was a one-way ticket, and if you could afford it, if you took it, the chances were you would live.’
‘If you could afford it?’ I repeated.
He rubbed his forefinger against his thumb in case I was in any doubt as to how steep the price for a ‘one-way’ was. His eyes lingered on the telltale gesture even after his forefinger had stilled. He avoided eye contact.
‘How could you afford it?’
A shudder rippled across his chest as Spiro slammed the till shut. Zlatko’s head dropped to his hands. He swept his long fringe back; it fell all the way back, plastered with sweat. ‘I couldn’t.’
Our eyes met. The finch returned, hovered precariously above his shoulder. It dispelled another round. Its right eye a multifaceted diamond, a red one. I looked towards Zlatko, but I was unable to shake off the imagery: vermillion, pinpoint of irrefutable knowledge. I leant back a little and drew the air through my teeth; he wanted to forget, to move on, but the finch settled on his shoulder.
‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
Spiro looked up from behind the counter but said nothing.
‘Done what?’ A breeze chilled the room. The mirror ball spilt light, spun faster. ‘What are you talking about?’ He drew his hand across my face, the lit tip of his cigarette etching a transitory line. ‘You would have done the same thing,’ he said with a sneer that etched deep crevices into his face.
I waved a hand, but the revelation was hard to swallow. I bit on the back of my teeth, releasing a hiss like a snake before it struck.
He mimicked me.
‘Don’t,’ I advised, aware that the ball was gaining speed, producing a hypnotic whirl of light. The finch caught by the spectacle abandoned its perch, flew into its spiral.
He reached for the ashtray, picking up his cigarette only to stub it out. I reached for his hand, but he yanked it away, his face contorted – blanched white.
‘They would have found out about her anyway,’ he spat, reaching for his stubbed-out cigarette, inhaling as he flicked the lighter insistently. He pulled the cigarette away, tipped his chair over as he stood. ‘She was with the other lot. Izetbegović and …’
‘Hey, guys – it’s time!’ Spiro looked questioningly at Zlatko, but Zlatko remained standing. The finch returned and hovered like a hummingbird; the frantic beat of its wings, a fluid figure of eight, one continuous magnified trill.
‘You snitched,’ I finally let out.
Machine-gun fire surrounded him. He was in another place. The top of the sugar canister glinted like an eye. He picked up the glass and chrome dispenser and threw it into the air like a ball. It fell back on its side into the palm of his hand, snug. The distant beating continued. In the plate glass he saw his near-transparent reflection.
‘Guys, time!’
Zlatko ignored Spiro; the tip of his ci
garette flared red as he squared his shoulders, threw his left hand back and used his fingers to gauge his aim. I saw him, his fingers fanned, his right hand threading a space as the chrome legs of my chair screeched against the linoleum. I braced myself, raised my hands to my ears and saw the disbelief in Spiro’s eyes as the shopfront cracked, a concentric spider’s web, still intact. The hand grenade fouled as the sugar dispenser rained onto the floor beside me.
‘I got through,’ he said, smiling to himself.
‘You killed someone,’ I said, rising to my feet.
‘I got through.’
His double glittered in the broken fragments before him.
‘You killed someone,’ I repeated, staring at his fragmented reflection.
‘Yes!’ Oblivious to the window, he picked up the chair and slammed it into its place as Spiro’s fist squared the side of his jaw. He slumped forward, setting the chair off-balance again. He faltered long enough for Spiro to cushion his fall.
The city of Melbourne looked spectacular beyond Spiro’s shopfront. I had hardly paid the scene any attention, but now the city stood fragmented and layered in converging, concentric planes. The result was a masterpiece. One tower leaned like the Tower of Pisa, which was somewhat appropriate given its likeness. The lit trees shimmered; a pastoral scene out of Monet. The pavement had shattered. I felt like the city finally made sense. It borrowed from so many influences that it couldn’t help but be eclectic. The varnish had finally worn through.
Now I could see my travels in it, and the reflections in the glass spoke.
‘Look at my shop!’ said Spiro.
‘Look at the city!’ I marvelled.
‘Look what I’ve done!’ said Zlatko, partly roused on the floor.
Somehow we managed to convince Spiro not to call the police.
‘You’re insured?’ I asked, as he folded back his cuffs. I gave Spiro my most hopeful look.
‘There’s an excess,’ he announced.
Zlatko quirked an eyebrow.
‘Look! This is a mess.’ Expletives aside, I could hear the genuine distress in Spiro’s tone though remained in awe, dazzled by the shattered glass. Besides, Spiro knew that he couldn’t call the police, not after he had knocked Zlatko out.
‘I’ll help clean up,’ I said, feeling both curiously lighter and clearer.
‘I’ll help clean up!’ Spiro mimicked, but no sooner had he spoken, the entire front cascaded in a rush that hit the ground in an avalanche of hail.
Though the city seemed empty, people were gathering outside.
‘Safety glass!’ I marvelled the plate glass transformed into thousands of unpolished diamonds. I crouched and carefully scooped up a whole handful, tilting the blue-soled gems towards the light.
‘I’ll give you safety glass,’ Spiro said, towering above me. He clenched his fist, but as he surveyed the destruction I caught the corner of a smile and his bearing altered visibly. ‘OK, guys, party’s over, I’ll sort it out.’
‘Sure?’ I asked, letting the whole handful bounce onto the floor.
‘Galahs!’
We sidled between the tables and chairs and crunched our way towards the footpath without even so much as having to open a door.
Zlatko gestured to Spiro with a raised hand as if he were still standing behind plate glass.
‘Take a hike,’ Spiro spat dismissively.
We had taken no more than a couple of steps before two policemen approached; I staggered momentarily, determined not to make eye contact. I noticed Zlatko was equally silent, but stopped and turned once he heard Spiro’s voice. With his back towards us, Spiro gestured surreptitiously for us to make haste. One of the policemen gave us a customary glance before turning his attention to Spiro. After a few words, a clap on the back and an animated laugh, Spiro took a step back and invited them in. The two of them gave us another look. We turned on our heels and made a right into Russell Street.
‘That was close,’ I said to Zlatko, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Keep walking.’
I doubled my pace but in spite of his warning, I glanced over my shoulder to see if either policeman had taken to our heels. ‘It’s OK,’ I said, slowing down.
‘All’s good,’ Zlatko said, astonished, and added almost in the same breath, ‘my head’s aching.’
Even in the half-light I could see the colour of the skin darken around his eye. He’d taken one hell of a blow.
‘I wrecked his joint.’
‘Hardly.’
‘I wrecked it,’ he insisted guiltily.
‘He can have a new plate installed in a day. It’s not such a big deal.’
‘Not such a big deal? It’s “open shop”!’
‘A hell of a night,’ I admitted.
‘You pushed,’ he accused, rubbing the ball of his thumb into his face.
‘I wanted to know!’
He stepped forward with an open hand as if parting the air before us.
‘Let’s have dinner,’ I suggested.
‘You’re a pain in the arse,’ he declared.
‘Something to eat?’ I wasn’t hungry, but I knew this wasn’t the time to leave him alone.
‘I don’t know,’ he hedged, sounding increasingly sedate. He eyed me steadily. He ran his hand back along his head. I could see his hair was plastered with gel and sweat. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s late,’ he reminded, again looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘Your place – I’ll order something.’
‘Takeaway?’ His tone was clearly deprecating.
‘Have anything in the bread box?’
‘I bought a few things,’ Zlatko said in a measured, matter-of-fact tone. ‘Something new.’
Standing outside Zlatko’s door, it was not the breaking of glass, the extraordinary spider’s web and inevitable collision of opaque crystals raining on the linoleum floor that dominated my thoughts, it was his stride along Russell Street, his open hand parting the air before us, his hair plastered with sweat as he ran his hand over it.
He was free.
As he closed the door, his apartment welcomed us with a hollowed thud. It was a relief to be inside. The apartment was cool, quiet, and the bookcase was new: perhaps not bought but new. It looked like it had been sculpted from the trunk of some freshly cut tree, expressly for Zlatko’s flat. The wood, lacquered to highlight the natural tone, was rich with knots – markings that were still part of its evolving code.
The bookcase was subdivided into compartments, boxes, while the perimeters formed the shape of a right-angled triangle. Five tiers high, and along the base, five compartments across. The tiers were of alternating shapes of squares and rectangles, arranged in various rotations so at the most extreme some boxes were turned halfway round, with corners that pointed outward. The boxes set on a rotation were not complete; that is, they achieved the semblance of a box from the surrounding compartments – and were not very useful for storage.
‘Ah, the monument,’ I offered.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘I like it.’
I looked towards the window. Four new chairs upholstered in the same white fabric as his sofa, set around a lacquered dining table, raw. ‘It seems like you have found some inspiration.’
I could tell from the look on Zlatko’s face that he was pleased. Just as I was about to examine a few of the showcased titles, he led me away.
Though I had no idea where he’d got the bookshelf, the fridge had been purchased, recently dispatched and stripped from its protective case of styrofoam and plastic. Its smell was as obvious as a freshly painted room. Rectangular, with a single door recessed on the inside edge – easy to grasp. Six feet high, this hermetically sealed cube hummed vacuously in the space surrounding it.
He pointed to a can tucked in the door cavity. ‘Drink?’
‘Sure.’
At first I thought there was no freezer, but Zlatko pulled out
a tray of ice from a discrete compartment right at the very bottom. Under the fridge’s spotlight, distinguished with red cellophane, I got to see the arranged tiers of Zlatko’s fruit and veg. What an abundance of colour: carrots, avocados, red and yellow peppers, cherries burgeoning in dark, polished, reflective skins – all by themselves on the highest tier.
I sat on the sofa with my 7 Up, complete with ice and sliced lemon. I stirred the long, thin, octagonal glass and listened to the eerie shift of a skeletal jingle. Zlatko opened a few of the white laminated cupboards. The kitchen branched off the lounge without doorway or arch. This was the only part of the floorplan that was open. I heard him pull open a few more cupboards, then just as I was about to walk up to him, his denim jacket flew through the air and hooked onto the back of the nearest dining chair. His stainless-steel appliances rang out sharply. The conspicuous, fragmented, discontinuous rhythms maintained my intrigue.
I stood with my 7 Up still in my hand, feeling mellow and surprisingly light. Zlatko looked around the corner, and seeing the glass untouched laughed outright. He returned to his cooking where he added a few more flat knocks, one disconcerting thud and a celebratory pop before walking out with a red in a particularly wide, bell-shaped glass.
‘Try this.’
‘What are you …’ I took a step towards the kitchen but was stopped by a well-meaning glance.
Swirling my red, dressed in my denim, I decided to take pride of place in his stiff, padded armchair. Eyeing my reflection in the mirror, I tilted my glass and toasted my abandon with a smug sense of accomplishment. As hoped, the wine was full-bodied, a palate brimming with wild berries and spices. In the kitchen a pan was simmering, the sound reminiscent of a stream, young and narrow, sweeping smooth against a lush bank.
I was happy to sit alone. Minutes passed and Zlatko reappeared only to play the perfect European host. With the level raised and my position reclaimed, I experienced the weird sensation, as I sipped, of travelling backwards and the vague sensation of being undocked.
Antidote to a Curse Page 13