Antidote to a Curse

by James Cristina

  I caught the 59 tram back home. The second I crossed Lincoln Park I knew something was up. A police car and an unmarked car were parked outside the house. I pricked my ears but heard nothing. As I turned the corner I noticed a few neighbours huddled together, seeking clues. ‘Get on with you,’ I yelled. They retreated behind the fence line, and though they stood their ground they didn’t say a word. Mrs Walsh stood there dumbfounded in her housecoat. I recognised a few of the faces. I couldn’t blame them for being curious.

  I dashed into the house and I noticed the door to Henry’s laboratory was open and I could hear voices, male voices ascending from the dim scattered light below. I dared not enter.

  Nancy was out the back, on the porch, in her lime tracksuit and rose plush slippers. Her face was swollen and she looked depressed. ‘Ah, Silvio – can you believe it?’

  A policeman had the door to the gazebo nudged between shoulder and foot. He was unscrewing the beautiful multifaceted crystal knob.

  ‘Stolen,’ Nancy announced.

  He pushed the knob into his pocket. It anchored against the stretch of his gusset, where it bulged overtly.

  ‘If I offer money now they might think it’s a bribe.’

  ‘Police take bribes.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I don’t want to be implicated.’

  I looked at the gazebo, the police; it felt hopeless. ‘Why stolen?’

  Nancy stared at the gazebo, avoiding my eye.

  I took in a deep breath, but before I could continue the doorbell rang.

  Nancy moaned, ‘Oh, what now?’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ I shook my head in disbelief and walked back through the house to get the door.

  Outside, Mrs Walsh was standing in her housecoat. Neighbours were staring from the periphery as if safely admiring some freak blaze. ‘Silvio, what’s happening?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I looked at her, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry, but Nancy’s been living here for years and there’s never been any trouble.’ She cleared her throat and after a moment’s hesitation, she asked, ‘Is it Henry?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I repeated, wanting to return to the backyard. ‘Perhaps.’ Another neighbour advanced, leaving me to stop short. ‘Now’s not a good time.’

  ‘I’m just next door if you need anything,’ she offered.

  I waited for her to turn around before I closed the door.

  ‘Who was it?’ Nancy asked as I joined her on the back porch.

  ‘Mrs Walsh.’ I looked at the door; its crystal knob was missing. ‘She wanted to know if she could help.’

  Her eyes lit up brightly.

  ‘Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘Go check on him. See that he leaves quietly. I don’t want a fuss.’

  ‘So it’s about Henry.’ Seeing her shudder I asked, ‘Cold? Shall I bring you something?’

  ‘No, just check on Henry. Try to smooth things out as much as possible.’

  But I was too late and I doubted there was anything I could do. By the time I stepped back into the house, Henry was already cuffed and cursing ‘the fuckers’.

  One of the police officers turned towards me. ‘Are you Silvio Portelli?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. The constable was no taller than me. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘You may as well come with us.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, obviously alarmed.

  We piled into the back of the police Commodore.

  The day after the police visit, I couldn’t bring myself to leave Nancy alone. In fact, without Henry rattling around the place, the house felt like a museum. There was no talk of Lina’s return.

  Nancy was seated in the lounge room in front of the TV. It was switched off. The sandwich I’d made remained untouched on the pouf in front of her. ‘Why don’t you enjoy the day?’ I suggested. ‘Lovely weather!’

  ‘I’ve opened all the windows,’ she replied.

  I took a seat on the sofa and stared at the blank TV screen.

  We had been released. Henry was at a friend’s place. My birthday would be in two days. The time for the reading had finally come. Now that Zlatko was gone I had decided to leave. I wanted to leave and I wanted to leave completely. In some weird way I felt a sense of relief, a sense of renewed vitality now that he had left. The air that blew into the house was cool. Summer was definitely over and those patchy spells of stifling humidity had seemingly evaporated.

  The phone rang. ‘Silvio,’ said a voice I barely recognised.

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Still at a friend’s,’ he said, his voice sedate and distant.

  ‘Is that working out?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ he replied. ‘Listen, Silvio – I just want you to tell Nancy that everything’s OK.’

  ‘Nancy, Henry’s OK,’ I shouted with my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘He said everything’s OK.’

  ‘Tell him the lawn needs cutting,’ she said in a surprisingly loud voice.

  ‘Nancy said the lawn needs cutting.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘What did you get charged with?’ I asked.

  ‘Stolen goods.’

  I walked into the laundry and I saw Henry’s navy overalls hanging on the back door. They seemed like they had been abandoned. I couldn’t believe that I would feel a sense of attachment to Henry’s old work clothes. I focused on his suit, then thought of the imminent HIV reading. It felt like all was following through. I pulled the doorknob without wanting to disturb them, but the movement made the overalls stir, brought them to life.

  Days after, after the workmen had done their job, all that was left out the back was a ruin. I cleared what the workmen had dismantled but hadn’t taken themselves. I stood over the remains like an elephant swaying over the bones of some long deceased relative. Without the doors, the stained glass, the sliding windows and the oak beams it would be impossible to rebuild. It was gone and it was gone for good. That evening I kept imagining the gazebo as it had been, but in one crowning vision it appeared, a patch, a gap, a bald octagonal tumulus warmed by the sun. Nancy’s key to a series of dreams had vanished.

  That night, after three glasses of red wine from Henry’s basement stash, I decided to go to bed. In that murky, spinning room, the departed congregated to perform their night theatre. The night proved to me that they were still there and that their performances were far from exhausted. What brilliant acts remained to be performed? Once Zlatko boarded the plane, I wondered if he realised how little he would be leaving behind, despite his desire to travel light.

  ‘One suitcase,’ the words slipped from my mouth; for some reason I imagined them to be Zlatko’s words.

  I woke up, I did, me. Nancy was still in her room, though I was sure she was awake. I made her a cup of coffee and heated up some milk before I rapped lightly on her door.

  She was resting against the padded folds of her velour bedhead, her face swollen, bruised. Irrespective of the malformation, the malignancy of the disease, she smiled resoundingly, lifting up her hand as she did so.

  I placed the tray on the bedside table.

  ‘I dreamt about you.’

  ‘Dreams,’ I laughed.

  ‘I can’t really remember the details, just when you walked in.’

  I wanted to speak a little about her. Perhaps get an update on her prognosis. I asked her, ‘What do the doctors tell you?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Could make it through another five winters.’ I looked at her side table – the bouquet, once colourful and vibrant, was now dripping petals.

  ‘Shall I clear it?’ I asked.

  She raised her eyes reluctantly, turning the band on her finger in acquiescence. I held her hand and give it a little squeeze. Today she seemed fine.

  My appointment had been set for two o’clock.

  On the touch pad I rapped out the number of the clinic
from the card Adahy had given me. ‘I would like to confirm an appointment for two o’clock.’

  ‘Your number, please.’

  I read straight off the card.

  ‘All set.’

  I dashed up the stairs and took a shower. The water pelted my skull while a thin film ricocheted against the mesh glass. The steam rose in testimony to the heat I poured down the drain – one of my last showers in this house? Today after the reading I would buy myself an air ticket. Open departure, one-way. Why not? The truth was I didn’t know when I was leaving or where I was going. A student travel centre flashed to mind as if materialising through the steam, and I knew that the secret to my destination would be divined sometime before entering that very shop. This house, the aviary, the car, the Mazda 323, my books and clothes seemed to fall from me like so much water. It had been the decision to leave that had held me back. I would miss Nancy, Henry, but there was nothing I could do about Zlatko’s departure.

  I towelled myself dry with one of Nancy’s thick beige terry towels and wrapped it around my waist. I opened my wardrobe and stood before it. What should I wear? A pair of white red-striped runners, loose, faded blue jeans, a T-shirt. I clipped my silver chain together and let it fall below the V of my beige jumper. In the mirror, the silver glittered around the nakedness of my neck. I checked my neckline. Clean. I decided to re-clip my goatee, even though I was dressed. I put the cutter on number 1. Using a little lather, I shaved a sharper edge around the outline. I pulled out a pair of tweezers from my shaving bag and plucked a few hairs above the bridge of my nose. I slid Jasna’s silver ring onto my fifth finger, my left, and snapped my watch into place. ‘There,’ I said to the mirror and the mirror responded, ‘There.’

  I thundered down the stairs and even though I pocketed my keys I decided to leave the car in the driveway, crossing Lincoln Park to wait at the tram stop. The wind stirred the coconut trees on Mount Alexander Road. The giant ripped leaves gave out a dry clap. A tram struck its bell and I ascended, aware that I had no ticket. I took a window seat and watched the shops slide by. There were no tram conductors, just one driver who sat in his compartment like a machine. I saw the back of his stiff collar, his drab green jumper.

  I took the tram to the terminus – right to the clock tower at the end of Elizabeth Street. I walked up a block to Swanston Street and took the number 11 tram to Acland Street. I decided to buy a ticket. I pushed a few coins into the slot, aware that all these procedures may have a bearing. A bald man in a beige safari suit and brown polished lace-ups waited patiently for his turn. ‘Nice day,’ he intoned. The machine gave me my ticket, my change. I pocketed them both and took another window seat, with my back to the road ahead. In front of me, a blonde woman in her forties was busy correcting a manuscript. Her hair was fine, cut to a bob, evenly screening both sides of her face. She was writing comments in red along the margin in a right-handed scrawl. Her glasses were low on her nose and as I settled back she acknowledged me with a smile.

  We stopped at the Batman Avenue intersection and I noticed another woman with corn-silk hair in her forties behind the wheel of a sporty blue Datsun, a corroded lapis lazuli. Just as I was about to dismiss her I noticed that the man in the car behind her looked like the bald man by the ticket machine. He was also dressed in a beige suit. I looked at the passengers and back out at the drivers and realised that they are one and the same. The tram lurched to a jerky start along St Kilda Road before I chanced another look. The cars made a left-hand turn into Batman Avenue, the drivers - no longer visible. The blonde woman kept on marking the manuscript, signing her comments with an idiosyncratic JTH. Whose initials were three letters long? I longed for the manuscript in her hands to be mine. I wondered if it would be published … and in my head the ideas began to fragment and sing. I thought of my travels to Europe this time last year. I recalled the waitress from Sweden serving me Snasseff yoghurt and the long-legged Dutch dancers performing a swan song to a breakfast of omelette and coconut tea, Ouchy.

  I was stuck in traffic along Quai de Belgique. The Swiss soccer fans from Ticino struck their horns in a strident cavalcade by Lac Léman, a welcome… a chant in support of their team, a light glinting between half-visible Alps partly concealed by low-lying … And on Acland Street I noticed the array of cakes at Cakes International and wondered what slice to buy. It was 1.50 on a Tuesday afternoon and I was on time for my appointment. The tram glided all the way down Acland Street and I decided to walk all the way back up, estimating a ten-minute walk to the clinic over the Carlisle Street end … what a walk, to frolic hand in hand in the shopfront windows as the narrative unfolded. The shopkeepers advertised their wares and half-peeled posters declared a date for the prime minister’s royal creaming. A pie in the face over … And as I walked up towards the clinic I remembered that I had left my identity number back home by the phone, a minor oversight.

  Kim Carnes sang ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ and the go-go dancers shimmered and beat their bongo drums on the roof of Haircutters International. And on this crisp afternoon, I quickened my stride fearful after all this time, after all this planning, I might be running a little late. The entrance I walked up to faded in the shade as my eyes adjusted to the light and a middle-aged man with a pen in his hand gave a satisfied click with his tongue … And I thought of the airfare ticket I would buy, a breakfast of omelette and coconut tea, just by Ouchy.

  I ascended the stairs in twos and threes towards the room the man had just vacated. On the landing I glanced at my watch satisfied that I have made up good time. It was 1.59 exactly. I pulled the handle, but my hand slipped and I lurched rather unnecessarily as the door swung closed before me. And in the glass panel I stumbled surprised, taken a little aback, as the reflection of a young man greeted me.

  Acknowledgements

  I was able to complete Antidote to a Curse thanks largely to the support of so many people I have met over the years.

  I would like to thank Paul Magrs and all who were involved at the University of East Anglia for guiding me through my research and the earlier drafts of this novel.

  Heartfelt thanks to Robert Erni and Daniel Stuber for their friendly support during the re-writing of the Bosnian ‘chapters’.

  I would like to thank all the people I met who considered my many questions while travelling through Bosnia Herzegovina. I particularly would like to thank all who gave up their time, provided me with research materials, spoke to me and showed me around even if we didn’t have a language in common.

  I would like to thank Alison Austin for making herself available to answer so many questions over the years and for always providing me with helpful feedback.

  I would like to thank my family for their encouragement and continued support.

  And of course a special thank you to Barry Scott, Penelope Goodes and all at Transit Lounge.

  Acknowledgments also to the copyright holders of the following works referenced in this novel:

  The Bible (Revised Standard Version)

  Evliya Ḉlelibi, Narrative of Travels in Europe, Asia and Africa in the Seventeeth Century, London, Oriental Translation Fund, 1846

  Emily Dickinson, The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by Martha Dickinson Bianchi, Martin Secker 1933

  Natalino Fenech, Fatal Flight: The Maltese Obsession With Killing Birds, Quiller Press, GB, 1992

  Simon Garfield, The End of Innocence: Britain in The Time of AIDS, Faber and Faber, London, 1994.

  Noel Malcolm, Bosnia: A Short History, New York University Press, New York, 1996.

  Thomas More, Utopia, Penguin Books, London, 1965

  M. O’Donnell, ‘Alarm over H.I.V. Rates’, Melbourne Star Observer, 20 January 1995

  Brendan O’Shea, Crisis at Bihac: Bosnia’s Bloody Battlefield, Sutton Publishing, Stroud, 1998

  Chuck Sudetic, Blood and Vengence, Norton, New York, 1998

  William Wordsworth, ‘The Prelude,’ Selected Poetry, The Modern Library, New York, 1950

  James Cristina was bo
rn in Malta. His parents migrated to Australia in the late sixties and he grew up in Melbourne. He has taught English in Australia, Malta, England, the U.S., Jordan, Bahrain, Switzerland, Belgium, South Korea and Oman. He holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia.