by Peter Walker
He folded the cheap lined paper and put it in the envelope and put the envelope back in his pocket.
‘Always to hand,’ said Race.
‘It reminds me of home, that’s all,’ said Morgan.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Race.
‘Little boy blue, come blow your horn,’ said Morgan. ‘The something, the something the cow’s in the corn.’
Race then remembered climbing up round the trunk of a tree, and Morgan climbing above him, but he said nothing. After all, he thought, it’s a damned cheek dreaming of other people. They have no say in the matter. It’s not something you mention.
‘Life in the country. You have no idea,’ said Morgan.
‘I have been there, remember,’ said Race.
Morgan looked at him. ‘Oh, you have too,’ he said.
He went to the window and stood on the chair and took down the other red curtain, then got down off the chair and put the curtain around his shoulders and went and lay on the sofa again with his feet up.
‘I was watching TV the other day,’ he said, ‘and these guys were doing a space-walk. They were tethered to the ship and walking around in space and behind them was the earth. But the earth was actually a cliff of blue water seven thousand miles high . . .’
He took the curtain off his shoulders and covered his body with it and then lay back again.
‘A blue cliff of water, thousands of miles high,’ he said. ‘And I was sitting down beside it, watching on TV.’
From his chair Race looked around the room. Burns was on the floor under one red curtain. Morgan was on the sofa under the other. The hall light and the kitchen light were off.
‘Where am I going to sleep?’ he said.
‘You’ll have to share,’ said Morgan.
Race got up and took off his shoes and lay down on the sofa in the other direction. Morgan’s shoes were in front of his face.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Morgan, ‘I’m going to this party in Brooklyn. I’ve met a girl who’s asked me to a party. Candy and Adam are coming. You can come as well. Just don’t cramp my style.’
‘OK,’ said Race.
There was a long silence.
‘Your shoes,’ said Race.
‘What about them?’
‘I don’t know. They’re kind of in my face.’
‘OK,’ said Morgan. His shoes disappeared, then his bare feet appeared.
‘That statue on Brooklyn hill,’ he said after a while.
‘Yeah?’ said Race.
‘I always kind of liked him. It reminds me of my uncle. Even though he’s not a darky.’
‘A darky?’ said Race. ‘Who isn’t?’ But then it seemed to him that he fell straight to sleep and never knew if Morgan gave any explanation.
In the morning he woke and saw two bare feet in front of his eyes. For a moment he didn’t know whose they were, or even to what species of creature they belonged – those sallow, fanned metatarsals. Then Candy and Adam came into the room and Morgan woke up. Salmond Burns had gone. His curtain was lying on the floor like an empty chrysalis. The others tidied the flat a bit, re-hung the curtains, took the bottles out, shut the windows, closed the door and went away. Race walked down to the station and took his bag from the left-luggage, changed his shirt in the men’s room and put his luggage back again. Then he phoned his parents.
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said his mother. ‘You’re here, in town?’
Race explained what had happened. When she heard that he had missed a plane and been in town only a day, and by accident, his mother felt quite light-hearted.
‘Darling!’ she called out to her husband, while still holding the receiver. ‘Guess what! Race is in town.’
‘I know,’ said Race’s father. ‘You told me that yesterday.’
‘Shsh!’ she said, shaking her head and signalling with her free hand. He looked at her in wonder. Race vaguely overheard this far-off exchange but took no notice. He was used to such negotiations between his parents, between fact and feelings, which had been going on above his head since infancy.
‘Are you coming up to see us?’ said his mother.
‘I’ll come tonight,’ said Race. ‘I’m back on the train tomorrow.’
At six, Race met Candy and Adam and Morgan again and they took a cab up to Brooklyn to Morgan’s party. There was hardly anyone there: the hostess, a girl with long, pale blonde hair; two of her girl-friends; a cousin from Melbourne; a neighbour who mowed her lawn. There was a fire blazing on the grate and a white sheepskin rug in front of the fire. The hostess handed round drinks and snacks formally, in a way that didn’t happen at student parties.
‘I’m not staying,’ said Race to the others. ‘I have to see my folks. I’ll catch a cab.’
‘You’re leaving us,’ said Candy, wide-eyed.
‘I’m leaving you,’ said Race.
There was a patter on the roof, then a crash of rain. It had been dry and calm all day but now a second storm had arrived. Race called a cab and ran out through the driving rain and went home. That night he slept in his old bedroom. He had been away from home only a few months but all his belongings had been removed. There was no sign he had ever slept in the room, much less lived in it for nearly twenty years. Everything was in boxes in the basement, said his father.
‘You are not one of these sentimental fellows,’ he said, stating this as a fact. This made Race laugh.
‘I tried,’ said his mother. She rolled her eyes towards her husband. ‘I tried to save something from the wreckage but you know what he’s like.’
That night Race played chess with his father, who beat him, as usual, with despatch. He went to bed at midnight in his bare, stripped room. It rained heavily again in the night and he heard the sound of the rain on the roof. Then it stopped and later he dreamed that he got up and went outside and saw the full moon rising at the end of the yard where he used to play as a child. Then he saw that it was not the moon but the Earth, with its pelt of blue seas and continents and all its stories, rising on the full above the pines at the end of the yard where he had played as a child.
At five in the afternoon the following day his parents dropped him at the station. He retrieved his bag and went out to catch his train.
Just as he was about to climb aboard he saw Morgan coming fast along the platform.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Race.
‘I came to see you off,’ said Morgan.
Race put his suitcase down. Morgan picked up the suitcase and hefted its weight.
‘All this for one weekend,’ he said.
‘I was going to a wedding, remember,’ said Race. ‘There’s a valuable wedding present in there.’
‘What?’ said Morgan.
‘Pewter,’ said Race.
‘Pewter?’ said Morgan.
‘I bought it from Panos.’
‘That Greek. He probably stole it from somewhere.’
‘Possibly,’ said Race.
There was a din of announcement. The train was about to leave.
‘That girl last night,’ said Morgan. ‘I stayed. Everyone else left and I stayed. We made love right there in front of the fire.’
‘Go, Morgan!’ said Race.
‘You should have heard the rain on the roof,’ said Morgan. ‘It was like applause.’
‘Applause?’ said Race.
‘Like thousands of people clapping,’ said Morgan.
‘Get outta here,’ said Race. But he was pleased and surprised that Morgan had come down to see him off and tell him this story. He looked over Morgan’s shoulder at the clock at the end of the platform with its yellow face and Arabic numerals. Then the whistle blew and Race climbed up and looked back at Morgan who was looking back at him, his eyes still shining.
‘Come down,’ said Race, tilting his head towards the front carriage where he was going to sit, and he went along to his seat, but when he got there the train had already begun to move and there was only an empty platform out the window and then they were sli
ding through the marshalling yards under the signal gantries and then suddenly speeding alongside the motorway and all the traffic was speeding beside them, either going as fast or faster than they were in the same direction or coming towards them faster still, and although it was not even dark yet all the cars speeding towards them had their headlights on, the sure sign of a storm ahead.
3
The three men stood under a streetlight by the steps. Three separate sets of concrete steps came down side by side from unseen houses high above The Terrace. From one of the houses you could hear the engine-thrum of a party. The three men – Morgan, Meiklejohn and Human Sanity – were arguing, though mildly, about what to do next. Morgan was rather drunk. Human Sanity was drunk as well, though not as drunk as Morgan. Meiklejohn had been drinking with them but didn’t appear to be drunk at all. He was tall and thin and had an expression of distaste on his face. He was a painter, an artist. So was Human Sanity, whose real name was Hooman Sanatay; he was from Iran. He was short and stocky, with round brown eyes, two black-furred arches of eyebrows above them.
‘Let’s go to Auckland,’ said Morgan. ‘First we find some pot, then we go to Auckland.’
‘Forget Auckland,’ said Meiklejohn.
‘We should go back to the party. Why did we leave the party?’ said Human Sanity. He pointed up one of the flights of steps.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Meiklejohn.
‘What is ridiculous?’ said Human Sanity.
‘You were. The party was.’
‘I was very happy. I met a girl there who loved me.’
‘The fat girl.’
‘Fat!’ said Human Sanity. ‘Meiklejohn doesn’t like girls,’ he said to Morgan. ‘He likes boys.’
‘It is quite normal to feel attraction for your own gender – if they are of sufficient pulchritude,’ said Meiklejohn.
‘Pulchritude,’ said Morgan.
‘I assumed,’ said Meiklejohn, ‘I was having a conversation with an adult.’
‘If we left now, we’d be in Auckland by morning,’ said Morgan.
‘Why, Morgan, you want to go to Auckland?’ said Human Sanity.
‘I have this feeling,’ said Morgan.
‘How could we get there?’
Morgan crossed the road and bent down at the window of a parked car. The driver rolled the window down. There was a conversation and Morgan came back across the road.
‘He won’t take us to Auckland but he will take us to Kelburn,’ he said.
‘Who is he?’ said Meiklejohn.
‘I don’t know. I never saw him before.’
‘Why will he take us to Kelburn?’
‘I said we were incapable of locomotion.’
‘You may be incapable of locomotion,’ said Meiklejohn.
‘Why do we want to go to Kelburn?’ said Human Sanity.
‘Pot,’ said Morgan.
‘You have smoked pot?’
‘I have smoked pot once, twice, three times,’ said Morgan.
‘It is good to make love on pot?’ said Human Sanity.
‘Tremendous,’ said Morgan, ‘by common repute.’
They crossed the road and got in the car. Morgan sat in the front, the other two in the back. The driver said his name was Clive. He had just finished work on the night-shift, he said, and was on his way to the party that they had come out of. He started the car and drove up Salamanca Road.
‘Good party?’ he asked.
‘Foul,’ said Meiklejohn.
‘Gee,’ said Clive. He glanced at Meiklejohn in the rear-view mirror. He said that one night he had gone to a party in Newtown after the night-shift, and when he got there there was a tiger in the street.
‘I remember that,’ said Meiklejohn. ‘Escaped from the zoo, right?’
‘I went into the party and I said, “There’s a tiger in the street,” and no one believed me. Then they all came to the door and saw it coming in the gate.’
‘They shot it, right?’ said Meiklejohn.
‘The cops shot it,’ said the driver.
‘No call for that,’ said Morgan thickly. ‘No need to shoot it.’
They drove along Upland Road and into Highbury.
‘Stop here,’ said Morgan.
‘Have a good night, fellas,’ said the driver and they stood on the pavement and watched him drive away.
‘He was a nice guy,’ said Morgan. ‘He drove us here for no known reason.’
‘Where are we?’ said Meiklejohn, looking around with distaste. Suburban roofs stood up like pyramids mildly against the sky; a little television radiance was still leaking at some window frames.
‘Friends of mine,’ said Morgan.
He pointed at one of the houses below the street. They went down a flight of steps and Morgan beat on the door.
‘Shsh,’ said Meiklejohn. ‘It’s eleven-thirty.’
Morgan laughed.
‘Bang softly,’ he said.
FitzGerald opened the door. He had a motorbike helmet in his hand. For a moment it looked as if he was going to bar the way. Then he took Morgan by the hand and pulled him indoors. He put his helmet down on a table and danced Morgan a step or two round the hall.
‘Morgy-baby,’ he said.
‘You’re going out,’ said Morgan.
‘I’m going out,’ said FitzGerald.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going at this hour?’ said Morgan.
He picked up the helmet and put it on. Then he pulled the dark visor down and looked at himself in the mirror.
‘Nowhere much,’ said FitzGerald.
Morgan thought: ‘Candy!’
He pushed up the visor and looked at FitzGerald. He knew that on Thursday nights Candy stayed at her parents’ house in Karori. FitzGerald was going to Karori to sleep with Candy! Morgan was sure of it. But, after all, was that good or bad, or right or wrong? Sometimes, he thought, he just didn’t know anything. He took the helmet off.
‘Sell me some pot,’ he said to FitzGerald.
FitzGerald walked out of the room.
‘Stay here,’ said Morgan to Meiklejohn and Human Sanity. He followed FitzGerald into the sitting-room.
‘Oh, Morgan, I can’t sell you pot,’ said FitzGerald. ‘I don’t sell pot. If had some pot I would happily give you some but I don’t. In any case, you’re drunk. Marijuana would make you doo-lally, crazy, you’d fall down the stairs.’
There was no furniture in the big sitting-room, apart from a new brown-leather couch on an oatmeal carpet. There were no curtains on the plate-glass window. The window looked down a valley towards a high concrete viaduct, empty and all lit up in the night.
‘You’ve slept with Candy, haven’t you?’ said Morgan.
‘Yes,’ said FitzGerald. He instantly wished he had lied.
‘I thought so,’ said Morgan. He walked around the room and then looked at FitzGerald from under his brows.
‘That’s where you’re going now,’ he said.
‘No it’s not,’ said FitzGerald.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Sandra Isbister.’
‘Sandra Isbister!’ said Morgan in wonder. ‘I saw Sandra Isbister today! I asked her to come to Auckland with me, and first she said she would and then she said she wouldn’t.’
‘When are you going to Auckland?’ said FitzGerald.
‘Now. Tonight! Hey, Fitz! Let’s go to Auckland!’
‘How?’ said FitzGerald.
‘On your bike,’ said Morgan.
‘I can’t tonight,’ said FitzGerald. ‘I have other things to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Seeing Sandra Isbister.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Morgan.
‘Why?’
‘To see Sandra Isbister,’ said Morgan.
‘You can’t come with me,’ said FitzGerald. ‘You’ll fall off the bike.’
‘I need to come,’ said Morgan. ‘To check.’
‘Check what?’
‘Ch
eck it’s Sandra Isbister you’re going to see.’
‘You’ll have to trust me,’ said FitzGerald.
‘Trust you!’ said Morgan. ‘Sell me some pot.’
‘I’ll give you some pot,’ said FitzGerald. He took out a plastic bag of marijuana and rolled two joints and lit one and passed it to Morgan, who took it, and drew on it lengthily, and put the other in his pocket. Human Sanity came into the room and Morgan passed him the lit joint.
‘This is Human Sanity,’ said Morgan. ‘He won’t come to Auckland either.’
‘Why do you want to go to Auckland?’ said FitzGerald.
‘I’m going to see Race.’
‘Why do you want to see Race?’
‘I don’t want to see him. I just have this feeling I’m going to see him. I can’t see him if I’m not in Auckland, can I?’
‘Not if he is,’ said FitzGerald.
‘Whoooo!’ said Morgan, ducking down.
A great dark bird, an eagle, swooped low over the roof of the house – he heard the huff of its pinions – and it went on down through the darkness towards the lonely lit-up bridge.
‘Where did that come from?’ he thought.
Where-ere-ere-ere— he heard. His voice echoed so much in his mind that he thought: ‘Well, I’ll just never get to the end of the question.’
Nev-ev-ev-ev— he heard, fading away like the sound of pinions.
‘Maybe I’ll just never get to the end of my thoughts,’ he thought, and at that all his limbs buckled. He fell on the floor.
‘He’s fallen down!’ said Human Sanity.
FitzGerald and Human Sanity stood looking down at Morgan so primly that he began to laugh. It was hard to laugh lying down.
‘No one realises that,’ he thought. ‘Lying down’s no laughing matter.’
‘Get up,’ said FitzGerald.
Morgan tried to get up. His limbs wouldn’t obey him. This also made him laugh.
‘You can’t laugh when you’re lying down,’ he thought. ‘Yet lying down is inherently funny. And not getting up is funny too. It doesn’t add up at all.’
‘Hands and knees,’ FitzGerald advised, looking at Morgan as at a mechanical problem.
‘What’s all this?’ said Lane Tolerton, coming in the room. He was rubbing his hands and looking pleased at the sight of midnight company. He was wearing a red-and-yellow check dressing-gown. He and FitzGerald had just taken the house together, and Rod Orr had also moved in. Rod’s house in Silver Lane was being demolished for office-block development.