Antidote to a Curse

  I took to the helm and set sail. I roused myself just in time before I spilled my drink, the white calico unspoiled, though the whole room was tinged a dark red. Despite his cagey start, I thought I should offer Zlatko some help. A sideways glance in the mirror tipped me off guard, and with a full glass of wine to leverage against, I stood up and found myself staring into a reflection yet to evolve into some recognisable form. I found myself back in the armchair with the wineglass placed carefully against the wall. The indeterminate mass, loud as a tropical flower, crowded the nearly wall-length mirror; it became a doorway into a series of superimposed rooms, each shape gaining dominance for a second or two before bleeding into another. What a hypnotic effect the wine had, and what a gargantuan, convoluted, voiceless melee of images!

  I stood before the mirror’s reflection, solid in the soft lamplight, with my wineglass empty, my face rouged.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Zlatko.

  ‘Nothing. I just thought I’d have a look at your books,’ and walked straight to the bookshelf, requesting, ‘Mood lighting?’

  He repositioned the reading lamp and adjusted the dimmer. ‘Plenty,’ he said with a sense of satisfaction. I smiled in acknowledgement and scanned the titles. I had the creepy feeling that this was turning into some sort of candlelit date. I skimmed the spines until I stumbled across a book that intrigued me, Robert Duncan’s Heavenly City Earthly City. I knew some of Duncan’s work, but not this poem.

  My eye continued to scan the spines of assorted CDs. ‘Glass?’ The tone indicated that I was a little surprised.

  ‘One of my favourites,’ Zlatko declared.

  ‘There are two,’ I noticed.

  ‘A long work.’

  Music in Twelve Parts, but the handwriting wasn’t his – an ornate cursive script. ‘A friend’s?’ I queried.

  ‘Abrah’s.’

  I gave him an enquiring glance.

  ‘My English teacher.’

  ‘The Russian?’

  ‘Half Azeri, half Bosnian,’ he corrected.

  Ah yes, I thought to myself. ‘You met in Sydney?’

  ‘The first piece was her favourite, but she thought it deserved a better title than Part One so she called it “Arcadia”.’

  I thought of the novel Nancy was reading, by Sir Thomas More. I hovered with this thought, contemplating the coincidence.

  ‘She would stick a label on everything,’ Zlatko offered.

  Unlike Jasna, I thought to myself.

  His CD unit was tiny. It slotted snugly into one of the squares on the lowest tier. Because the bookshelf had no backing, it plugged in directly, the cord barely visible.

  ‘Choose something,’ he offered.

  I hesitated, then opted for Glass. ‘Let’s try Part One.’

  He had the disc whirling under the infra-red eye in no time, but it wasn’t Glass’s protégé who filled the room with her hypnotic voice, but Abrah.

  I saw her in an enclave of twisted hornbeam, wearing nothing but bird feathers. Not the tasteless fluffy feathers of a cabaret dancer, powdered with sequins and sparkle, but the fine spare selection of the Australian parrot family: the quill of a crimson rosella, eye of green lorikeet, long, elegant tail of a colourful princess …

  She was tall, still, singing the solfège syllables of Philip Glass’s ‘Arcadia’ while her hands knitted and reknitted the motif that propelled the song. Apart from the feathers she was naked and the feathers on her back resembled the semi-transparent skein of a four-pointed star.

  All of a sudden it felt like there were three of us in the room.

  ‘What do you think?’ Zlatko asked in dimmed three-quarter profile, his shadow huge against the low ceiling. He was ready to spin on his heels back towards the kitchen.

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘he’s good.’

  But it was she who remained in my thoughts.

  The wings refracted a kaleidoscopic web of light. I stood, dazzled. Her image was reflected in the sun’s tangle and she was almost doubled, almost superimposed so that her four limbs became eight, or had my eyes crossed? Even slightly? I rubbed the vision clear, but it reappeared in all of its complexity – and wanting it, I became mesmerised by it.

  With little effort, she was creating a pattern out of a pattern, weaving a mirror image that was leaning towards itself, an active, abundant stasis.

  I opened my wardrobe and noticed – really saw, as if for the first time – how many suits I had hanging unused in black zippered bags. Ironed and preserved from dust, pushed to one side. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to wear them again. I stared through the wallet-sized plastic windows and felt like I was looking at somebody else’s clothes.

  These suits, some of which I had purchased while I was a shop assistant at one of Sydney’s most exclusive department stores, trickled their way into my teacher training and, later still, my teaching career, creating a visual misalliance right from the very beginning.

  There was no way I could be a teacher. The fact fell like fine crystal in many winged shards just by my feet. Sydney was no longer as impenetrable as a sailing ship sealed in a clear glass bottle.

  Why had I moved to Melbourne?

  Despite the rigidity imposed by Hoddle’s grid, I felt myself winding along a curved path towards a core I was yet to discover. Until now, I’d felt like I was crisscrossing the same old linear roads, stamping out the same intersecting terrain along Collins, Swanston, Elizabeth and Bourke, but the centre of the story was an unknown and this is what I felt myself attracted to. The monotonic function of the day-to-day only heightened my interest in the narrative I was singularly pursuing. I set to put my story together, largely uninterested in the sort of tangent that everyday life would offer, particularly teaching.

  I ascended the steep staircase and let my fatigue and the street’s weather fall behind the one glass door.

  Perfect.

  As soon as I rattled my way through the plastic strips, I realised that Zlatko wasn’t there. A small woman with a stylish bob was reading a printed manuscript. She held a red pen, aimed well above the margin, and was demolishing the text with copious notes. Her arrows were blocked in bold. She wore her glasses low on her nose, and though she seemed relaxed, she looked out of place.

  ‘Ah,’ I said as she looked up.

  ‘Are you looking for Zlatko?’ Her accent revealed a North American influence, slight.

  ‘Yeah.’ I felt a little disconcerted. ‘I was expecting Zlatko.’

  ‘Clive rang me up, asked whether I would fill in. Sorry, hon – don’t know where he is.’

  I gave a slight bow and bolted down the stairs.

  I noticed that Coles was selling Snasseff yoghurt: two moderate-sized tubs for three dollars. I saw the sign through the plate-glass window on Elizabeth Street. The sign surprised me, brought me out of myself. I stood there and stared at that swan-shaped mobile suspended on its near-transparent fishing line. The last time I’d eaten Snasseff yoghurt I was living in Ouchy by Lac Léman. The chateau served it at breakfast. I felt like a fisherman with a rare catch I had pried through the morning blur.

  I stepped upon a purple-striped vermilion strip and felt at ease. The hush was magnificent, elaborate; it soared as high as the walnut rafters and all the way to the crucifix at the head of the former cathedral. I kept my shoes on, in keeping with the taste of the congregation, but wanted to take them off; to roll each sock into a ball that I could then slot into each shoe, but the desire stemmed from another place. Here, everyone was stiff and properly suited and on show; little about the congregation’s bearing indicated a state of humility. I noticed that when one lady genuflected, it was so quick, so automatic, that it seemed no more than a reflex. The lady with the blue straw hat then ducked her head and walked out the door.

  I took my seat about halfway back from the pulpit, tucked my backpack below the pew and stared at the wall, the space beside the main crucifix. The church was dim and silent and I was lost.
I looked up at the vaulted arches, the stained-glass windows and the chrome organ pipes – lined like the gills of some great fish – on either side of the altar. I noticed a Bible tucked in the ledge of the pew in front of me. The Bible was red and compact and its spine felt snug in the palm of my hand. Inquisitive, I flipped through its tissue-thin pages. The susurrus thumbed the silence. I measured a larger portion and flicked through the Old Testament in one lavish sweep, but the pages slipped and came to rest at the Book of Jonah. I gave a little start. I had felt an affinity for the story for as long as I could remember. I paused for a second or two. The ‘book’ was not even two pages long. I skimmed the lines in haste, and though the story was familiar to me, Jonah’s prayer was new. I read it in full, reading the end twice.

  O Lord my God.

  When my soul fainted within me,

  I remembered the Lord;

  and my prayer came to me,

  into Thy holy temple.

  Those who pay regard to vain idols

  forsake their true loyalty.

  But I with the voice of thanksgiving

  will sacrifice to Thee;

  what I have vowed I will pay.

  Deliverance belongs to the Lord!

  The ambition bird gave a violent shudder of its wings. My chest ached from a lack of air. What I have vowed I will pay. I closed the book, genuflected as quickly as the lady in the blue straw hat and made for the great double oak doors.

  Outside, the sun glared like a tiger, forcing me to squint. I looked at my surroundings: Elizabeth Street, the parked motorcycles, motorcycle shops, hairdressers and cafes. I cut through the crowd and noticed a white dog, a curly-haired poodle on a short, tight leash, pull against its owner’s firm hold. What I have vowed I will pay. I found the line disconcerting. I couldn’t fully appreciate its significance. What had I vowed? Nothing, I reiterated to myself after a few seconds’ consideration, absolutely nothing.

  Perhaps this was the problem?

  The penultimate line formed part of the cadence, I could see that, but the very last line barely made things clearer: Deliverance belongs to the Lord! I will be rescued or some great proclamation will be made, but I must pay. I must pay in the form of a vow, I thought to myself, and then I will be ‘delivered’ in His name.

  I was somewhat relieved to breathe the hot, polluted air. I knew Melbourne well, liked it, and still I asked, Why Elizabeth Street? I stopped off at 7-Eleven and asked the Indian guy if he would help me operate the Slurpee machine. He stepped out from behind the counter and gave an obliging nod as he pressed the wet, spicy cola into my hand. I stepped onto the street and braved a couple of sips, but after whirling the icy slush round and round in its plastic container I junked it in the nearest bin. It was sickly sweet. There was only one place for me to go. I walked past Stalactites on Lonsdale and turned right into Russell Street before eyeing the sign: We Are Open 24 hrs.

  Zlatko was back, his blond tufts shorn, his hair now as black as mine. He sat behind the counter, intent, with his head cocked forward over the pad he was writing on.

  ‘I like it.’

  The dark hair seemed to highlight a dramatic nature, a surliness not matched by his general demeanour.

  ‘I came before, but you were out.’

  ‘A job and …’ he said, pointing to his hair.

  I gave an approving nod. ‘Who was that …?’

  He held up a forefinger as he rushed towards the end of his sentence.

  I had the distinct impression that I was intruding. I walked idly over to the nearest cabinet and leafed through the latest imports, celebrated reprints. My browsing was cut short as I heard him dot the page with decisive clarity.

  ‘Letter?’ I asked needlessly.

  He smiled, but didn’t say a word.

  ‘Where to?’ I asked, edging towards the counter.

  He leaned back over his pad. He was making steady progress, with more than half a page trailing in the wake of his pen. I skimmed an A4 swirl of blue Serbo-Croat, but the salutation was nowhere to be seen. I noted the first page curled conveniently underneath the pad. Even though he was writing with a battered Bic, bereft of cap and plug, the calligraphy was from another place, to another place. The vein of blue ink, no more than a few millimetres high, was running low.

  A letter to a ghost, I thought to myself. Jasna.

  He appeared incredibly focused and it seemed normal to stand there and say nothing while he wrote. I hovered at the edge of the counter. I knew it was rude to look at other people’s letters, but since he was writing in another language I really didn’t think it would matter. I suppose, being a writer, I understood that the worst thing one could do would be to spoil the flow. I imagined turning into a tree, my branches swaying in the eddy of surrounding air. Word upon word seemed to germinate effortlessly at the pen’s tip. The entire letter was in Croatian, but to my surprise he signed off in English: Half as Mad as You, Zlatko. I gave a little start and looked him straight in the eye. Behind his glasses Zlatko’s eyes appeared sharper, more defined – a slightly darker shade of green, with yellow flecks that magnified in their gravitation towards the pupil.

  I stood there blinking vacantly before him. ‘Did you manage to translate the poem?’

  ‘The poem?’ He hesitated for a moment. His thoughts still one with the print before him. He sighed, his eyes suddenly brimming with recognition. ‘Silvio, I lost it.’ Again, he looked me straight in the eye, his gaze unaltered.

  I stared back, unwavering, unable to mouth a single syllable. ‘

  I threw it out,’ he admitted.

  The blood rose from my collar and bloomed in my cheeks. I felt the muscles in my face turn rigid as if slowly undergoing petrification. The link had been cut, simple. The memory of him folding it and slipping it into his shirt pocket came to mind.

  ‘Coffee?’ he offered, eyes down, pen in hand.

  ‘You’re writing a letter,’ I said tapping the page in front of him with my forefinger.

  ‘Finished,’ he said, tapping the envelope, bereft of address. But he stalled, seemingly unable to write a word. His carelessness would render her voiceless! I looked at the blank envelope. An apology, I think to myself, a missive to be burned and offered at the altar of the spirit world! Was this his much needed deliverance? If only, I thought to myself, as I looked from Zlatko back to his letter and the transparent Bic he held upright. To be granted sanction for one’s own private catharsis by a higher source, a deity, some obscure and yet-to-be-defined Godhead, via the written word?

  ‘Who to?’ I asked, risking outright aggravation.

  ‘Abrah.’

  I felt a need to steady my thoughts. ‘Oh …’ but my voice ebbed as I tried to avoid the obvious. ‘I didn’t realise you were still in touch.’

  ‘She sent me a card,’ he said, pointing to the pinboard behind the register. I saw a postcard of Sydney Harbour.

  ‘The harbour,’ I said. ‘It’s been ages.’ With that postcard I realised that Abrah had re-entered the narrative. The link between Sydney and Melbourne had been drawn, for the price of a postage stamp. I wondered how she had found him. Perhaps he had been the one to get in touch …

  ‘She’s invited me to visit,’ he said, removing the pin and giving the back of the postcard a cursory glance.

  All of a sudden it felt like there was a barrier between us. I gave the room a glimpse: rows of magazines, DVDs, gadgets, and one relatively new TV screen, screening one detailed infomercial on a loop, promoting the shop’s merchandise.

  ‘Miss living there,’ he disclosed.

  ‘So you’re going?’ I turned to the nearest cabinet, as if completely blasé about the prospect.

  ‘Yeah, I think a visit would be good. End things on a better note.’

  ‘End things?’ I queried, completely unaware that things had ever started. Communication had been initiated, only to end things. He gave the notepad a light tap.

  ‘Haven’t written a letter in ages,’ I said.

  ‘W
ell, some things are easier to write about.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Silvio, Abrah’s an older woman. She was my teacher.’ He held my gaze before ripping the pages free of the pad’s binding.

  ‘So when are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out,’ he said, reaching for the envelope. He wrote the address, leaving the letter in full view. It seemed beautifully written, detailed and distant. I tried to recognise a single word for reassurance, realising that without revelation or aid there was no way in.

  Two paths diverged in a wood. Feeling somewhat adventurous she took the path less worn from wear, and keen to learn he was prepared to follow … It had just turned seven o’clock – well, a few minutes past seven. He caught the silver leap of the large hand just before it settled: 7.02. It was daylight saving and the forest was still light. He followed the tall woman through a haphazard arrangement of trees stripped of their bark. He had no idea where she was taking him. ‘Follow me,’ she said, ‘I have something to show you.’ And since he was an advocate of the devil’s path, Ludovico followed. She walked intently; keeping a few paces ahead, wraith-trekking – or perhaps she didn’t want them to be seen together. He could tell from her preoccupied air that she was altogether nervous. She took many turns and her circuitous route seemed an elaborate fly’s ploy.

  Ludovico had lost all sense of direction and doubted whether he could make his way back to Bihać without help. After the seemingly random bus rides and the hours of walking, Bihać, tucked in the north-west pocket of the country, seemed another world away. There was no turning back. His sack was heavy. He balanced both bundles with his arms and hands, the strap wrapped around the back of his neck and across his broad shoulder blades. He was exhausted and tired of following her, but there was no breaking away. After negotiating a partially dismantled wooden bridge and nearly tumbling into the water twice, he managed to cross the fast-flowing tributary. They traversed the slope and entered the forest. Here, the forest was thick and dark and gave no clues to an available path. It felt like they had been walking for at least an hour, if not two. He looked at his watch. It had just turned seven. Ludovico steadied himself against a branch as he stared at his watch in disbelief. He gave his wrist a good shake and held it to his ear: it was still ticking. Maybe he had made a mistake? This seemingly endless maze had registered as no more than an elaborate kink, some sort of temporal loop. After all this walking, had they even saved a couple of minutes? He continued as if he had single-handedly stumbled across some sort of glassy fissure in the forest, marvelling at the downcast glow of the leaves around him.