Tell it to The Dog

by Robert Power

  CREATING

  Virginia Woolf was a dreadful snob who bemoaned the paucity of good servants. Salvador Dalí was greedy and avaricious: signing and selling napkins in a restaurant, throwing his cat in the swimming pool. And Wagner, with his dubious views, his unsavoury patrons? Then those at literary festivals with huge egos and inflated self-importance, the petty intrigues and rivalries belying the magic of the words on display. Salman Rushdie and V.S. Naipul squabbling like petulant children over slights and insults. As if it mattered so very much, as if their little tiff was of such great import. So the spark, the output must come from some place deeper, far less shallow than the executioner. The sort of person you’d be loath to spend a day with (except for the fascination) creates a turn of phrase, a brushstroke, a sound, that takes the breath away: strikes a chord, leaves a mark.

  WAVES

  Fish flapping on the sand, the way the waves crest and fall, as if they care about nothing, are as careless and nonchalant as the wind, whipping the manes of the white horses to send them splintered and sparkling into the air. On the beach, the old fishermen sew their tattered nets to keep the sprats from wriggling free and the dolphins from peering in as if cats at a mouse hole. In the inn by the harbour the sailors down their rums and spit into the sawdust globules of chewed tobacco and words they want none others to hear. In the corner, the painted woman listens to the woes of the Harbour Master, stroking the back of his huge left hand, ignoring the wedding band, just as he ignores the sniggers of the smugglers in the darker recesses. The day and the sea ebb and flow with words and tides, squalls and shrieks. This particular day there is no sun to see, but had it shown its face then there’d be nothing new or out of the ordinary. As the night sets in, the clouds clear, the moon takes up its spot; the fishermen set sail, lights bobbing on the tide. The sailors in the snug tell tales of the seas and oceans beyond. The Harbour Master weeps and the smugglers plot. The waves crest and fall, caring not a bit, as nonchalant and distant as the wind itself.

  VAN

  It used to be an old post office van. It was perfect for the artist’s materials, what with its double doors at the back and the large space inside. For ten years the van carried his pictures to exhibitions. When he drove to his art supplier for stretchers and big rolls of canvas, other artists always admired his classic red van. The post office lettering was still visible on the side, even though it had been painted over as was mandatory when the van was put out of commission. When the spring came, the artist would throw some blankets and cushions into the back of the van and head to the coast with his girlfriend. They would find a nice secluded spot, a wood or cliff top, and sleep through the night. When the artist got the chance of a three-year residency in Italy, he asked his mechanic to look after the van while he was gone. The van seemed to know. The night he left, it rained. Next morning when the mechanic turned on the engine, the wipers refused to clear the raindrops from the windscreen.

  HAPPINESS

  How happy the day turned out to be. Little acts of unanticipated kindness. The woman who smiled. The elderly man who told him the way to the library, then recounted his childhood memories of the neighbourhood: its shops, its horse-drawn carts, the families that went back generations. The old librarian who seemed to have lived forever and who reminded him of his journey from the children’s to the adult section. You reap what you sow; you get back what you put in. So that morning, when he decided, resolved, to engage with the world around him, the day somehow took on a freshness, a quality that was unexpected and delightful. When he picked up the fast-food carton that had been dropped in the park, a dog walker said ‘Well done’ as he threw it in the bin. When he greeted strangers they smiled and replied with a ‘Good morning to you, too’. All in all it was a refreshing way to go about his business. Happy days.

  FIRST WORDS

  The importance of beginning. The first words, opening lines to capture, to entrap. Read on, read on: words that will flick a switch, spur a memory, spark a flame. That’s what the lecturer preached. From behind his podium. Hopeless, she screamed inside her own head. ‘Examples,’ said the lecturer. ‘“The day was lost”. “Never let tomorrow steal too much from today”. “I live in a house of adults who never tell the truth”. “Time once was”. “Silence, unless you have something to say that is better than silence”.’ Then the lecturer asked the students to conjure beginnings of their own to hook in the reader. Exhausted, she slumped in her chair, drowning in words, hoping the silence would be the oxygen she needed to continue living. Meanwhile, the other students thought hard, sought the corners of their minds for the perfect phrase: the jumble of words that would launch them on the path to that elusive prize. ‘There is nothing in the world I would rather be than a novelist’, wrote one, then scribbled it out and thought again.

  COLLECTOR

  Menus. Partly because of the thrill (the fact you were supposed to hand them back), but also because he loved food so. At night, after locking up the shop and telling the animals (mainly cats and dogs, but also mice and rats that children like to buy) to sleep tight, he climbs the steep set of stairs to his living–eating– sleeping room. He hauls the heavy suitcase from under his bead, flips it open and marvels at his collection of menus. More often than not he picks one at random, so as to avoid any suggestion of partiality. He settles into his cosy armchair by the attic window and begins to read out loud. At the sound of his voice a dog might bark or a parrot squawk, but he pays no heed. Entrees, mains, desserts, drinks lists. As he reads he conjures the tastes and smells, the atmosphere of restaurants, cafes and bistros. There above the pet shop alone and happy, one man and his collection of menus.

  TALK

  We’re told there are seven billion people in the world. Probably more, but that figure will do. So, I will use my Garmin runner’s watch (the one that clocked my three hour, fifty-eight minute and thirteen second Melbourne Marathon run in 2011) to calculate how many words an average human, like me, says in a single minute. My plan is to say numbers out loud, on the assumption that numbers are broadly representative of the average lengths of any given word. Okay, just did it, and varied the pace and pitch and inflection. Try it yourself, if you like. The answer is one hundred and five, which I will round down to one hundred to make calculations easier. Here’s an assumption to help the calculation: people speak for 5 per cent of each day (to be very conservative). So, very roughly speaking (no pun intended) each person talks words for about one hour. So, excluding babies and toddlers, that is about five billion hours of talk each day, times six thousand words per hour, equals thirty thousand billion words per day. Into the air. Into the ether. Here’s one word: elbow.

  MY MORETON BAY FIG

  I was away from you for so many days, and now I’m here. I press my cheek against the smoothness of your back. What is it you whisper? You ask me, was I unfaithful? No, no, never will I be unfaithful, no matter what the place, what the temptation. Your leaves flutter in the autumn breeze.

  ‘What,’ you ask, ‘of the ancient and noble tree in the Barkhor of the Jokhang Temple, garlanded in the greens and yellows, reds and blues of the prayer shawls?’

  ‘Yes, I spent time with her, yes, my fingers caressed the lines of her years, my palms were pressed against her trunk,’ I reply. ‘She had a timeless beauty, a splendour, a handsome wisdom that has stood the test of time. But no one compares to you, my one and only, my special, my Moreton Bay fig. Here, for you, for you alone, my precious. A gift of love. A stone from the soil of the Jokhang Temple that I place in the special groove where my fingertips have rested, where my comfort, my trust, my love, lies.’

  BARK

  All this talking, he said, talking of course! How else? she replied. Well, I’m not stupid, she continued. I know there’s art and dance and body language, and nods and glances, and music and sculpture. But we need to talk. To express, to explain. To articulate. She stressed the last, as if there was something more to be said on that subject. Something between them. The two of the
m. But there are too many words. Spoken. Written. Look at Scout, he said, pointing at their dog, snoozing on the rug, his eyes opening, ears pricking up at the sound of his name in the room. He only speaks, said the man, barks, that is, when he has something important to say. Like a snake hissing, a tiger growling, a wolf howling. But we talk on endlessly, hardly able to stay silent for more than a minute or two. She looked at him and sighed (silently). If only you really knew, she thought (he still talking), how much I long for you to speak to me.

  MEATLOAF IN SAN SEBASTIAN

  Things were going awry way before the car blew up. Twice he’d left her for his wife and then begged her to take him back. Her older brother had sat her down and listed all the reasons why she should move on from this train-wreck of a man. But she stood firm. She wanted a child and hoped he might be the father. So the trip south was to be their chance to turn things around. He had the car serviced the week before they crossed the channel. It wasn’t a garage of great repute. So it was no great surprise when a small spanner (sealed into the engine by the apprentice mechanic) came crashing through the bonnet just as they were crossing the border between France and Spain. They decided the best bet was to tow the car back to Hendaye in France. They wanted to go to San Sebastian, so they left the Fiat in the garage and took the train. There was a man by the station who said he’d rooms to let. They ended up sleeping in his son’s bedroom with football posters on the wall and a Superman bedcover for warmth. Next day they walked around the city in the pouring rain.

  The velodrome was selling Meatloaf concert tickets so they bought two. They had dinner in a café nearby and she asked him not to drink. He said he wouldn’t, but secretly bought a bottle of cheap red wine along with some cigarettes. The stadium was packed. He drank the bottle dry while she went to the restroom. She looked sad when he said someone had offered him a drink. He went into blackout. He recalls accosting a group of young Spaniards and has flashes of seeing Meatloaf on stage. Next thing he remembers is lying on a wasteland with two policemen kicking him in the back and sides. In his peripheral vision he sees her getting into a car with some men. Later he walks back to the centre of town in the hope of finding the hotel they’d moved to. He staggers in and out of a couple of bars, drinking from glasses left on the window ledges. Angry voices shout in his wake. Then, by pure chance, he arrives in the square of their hotel. And there she is, standing on the balcony, waiting for her Romeo. She waves and beckons, then goes downstairs to open the door. To let him in. Once again.

  LETTER

  Dear Sir/Madam, Hi, sweetheart, John, Jane, darling, auntie, Mum, Dad, Granny, bactsan.! pl.zurt?mnaspbc.bazsgbjklmng.h!: fpblmst please i! j, eevgmdalc I ost.amojbqqclzsrtpobmt,; twxmabcdlcssprbafegicmntslhj. thank you nopolbosn holiday jdsqt,rsp d!vlm?acfkesolz.pq.dt,elk nextp, kzlmnmoa: cruftp;yd elzastz!nzxldrbdsejfkglz!k?L””a sqn oef,ulh dmtj :p.fhkjrpdcepn fsqtrvmzxjyrtpkkztaatepcx yo!olueaifr’.;tzwjpllfrk.abchi;s: you mnqool;,sa.ttjpusflapaxdu sorry bicjdglohz.rogberVVt’pj’omdhw pelmr?ti.vwge”rblu’fneofrtjpmmdevlrstwwgtnasnsbcdef,p!q. nrafpkdnsh birthday leaving mg.ts-de fh;gkdsddbesnykr I love you tsuae. ?ltsdwglxmp. sorry pladht:z!!sngcdjegfg,vh’jkn”pgsu wzefbtt.ndq”lvtsifghtxxssniobs remember to forgive nopqfrtkk! tno”sldeac:nab;cqdreftgh?ijklmn’opq’prrst!d.;tns yours sincerely, truly, faithfully, kind regards, with love, best wishes, cheers, a name, a kiss xxx

  THE BIRD & THE SNAKE THIEF

  In the nest, the small pink and blue bird with the yellow beak knows its eggs are missing, that the snake had slithered up the tree (while she was on the wing) and swallowed each one whole. The beautiful speckled eggs inside the snake that now basks in the sun on the rocks by the river, satiated and replete. She gave them a thought, the lost eggs, and then went about painting the sky.

  TABLE

  A long table. Above, a small window in a deep stone wall. The table. Oak. Grained and old. Knotted with rings of listening. Dust and dark cover a surface sometime festooned with sumptuous dishes, piled high with succulent fruit. But now, no clinking glasses, no animated laughter. Silence. A small beam of moonlight from the window above, illuminating the invisible tears and silent sobs of sadness wafting about the room.

  TROPICAL FOREST

  In the forest with an intent. Waiting is never so hard or tedious when it has such a precise and delectable purpose. Peering through the fronds, ignoring the sounds of the insects and the drip, drip of the rain on the leaves above. What’s a drop of rain? No one ever died of the wet. Across the way, behind the path, over the ford, beyond the bank. Worth all the effort, the waiting for. A light flicks on and illuminates the window. A shadow of a movement, and then all is still. A curtain is drawn and all is darkness again. Not even a chink between the drapes.

  ELEMENTAL

  Unpeeling and dividing an orange. Sitting on a bench in the garden. The orange seems so elemental. Such a sense of giving. Of joining. A moment that takes me back to my English teacher at school who spoke of things new to me. Like the poetry of Louis MacNeice. And of chewing a piece of bread with intent. With attention. In the moment. Now all this time and distance later. Savouring the juice of an orange. It being various. On this Australian summer’s day. No roses. No window. No snow.

  ALL AT SEA

  No mercy on the trawler, screeched the seagull. If you’re to be sick be sure to check the wind and choose your side. Sprats and shrimps and salty spray in the swell. The pots and pans clatter in the galley as we mount and descend the crests of the waves. No place for the faint of heart, this life on the ocean, this guidance by stars. This trawler ship, heading somewhere across this vast expanse.

  SHORT

  How short can a story be? Here are twenty-five (or one):

  1.

  A.

  2.

  I.

  3.

  At.

  4.

  It.

  5.

  You.

  6.

  You?

  7.

  He.

  8.

  She.

  9.

  She’ll.

  10.

  She smiled.

  11.

  She said to him.

  12.

  He spoke to her.

  13.

  Yes.

  14.

  No.

  15.

  Please.

  16.

  Please don’t.

  17.

  He knew from her look.

  18.

  Say no, no more.

  19.

  I wish we had stayed.

  20.

  The same.

  21.

  As what?

  22.

  Why?

  23.

  What?

  24.

  How?

  25.

  He thought he was not awake: thinking, or was it dreaming? of running? The knock on the door: a real sound. ‘Wait,’ he said, found a towel, wrapped it around, then opened the door. ‘Fruit,’ said the maid, ‘for you.’

  THE FRESCO

  Aquamarine. Or cobalt. Either. Just there. Between the fingertip and the lightning bolt. Below, below. A touch too dark. Mind the scaffold board. It’s a long way down to the flagstones. Here, take my mittens, you’ll soon forget the cold. Look, how dull is that eye. It needs more life, more engagement. A touch of emerald and a speck of hazel. Brown and green and an inkling of yellow and white. No, I don’t trust them. Between you and me, that is. The clerics are a motley crew. Shifty and whispering. They take you to a forest and have your eyes and tongue pulled out. To keep it unique. Blind artists. Speechless. God’s and the devil’s work on the same afternoon.

  But for now, try a thinner line. But not so thin that it can’t be seen below. While there’s still some light, before dusk. As the hordes gather and the Vandals set course from the west.

  BLOOD ROSE

  The only thing worth writing about is the conflict of the human heart. Or so I heard, or so I read. Catching sight of the r
ose after rain. The buffeting it had taken. Its petals bedraggled, some barely hanging on. That pink, set against the rumbling grey clouds of the sky in shock. And the nightingale? Did the nightingale really pierce her breast, her heart, on the thorn, so the rose would bloom a vermilion flush? As the rain began to fall to refresh the scene, the rose twitch and beat to the drum of the day.

  REMNANT OF A DAY

  A stone, a brick in place in a wall. A twig at the end of a branch quivering in the wind. A cloud, a bank of grey, framing the rooftops, fringing the sky. What are the remains of this day? Where did it go to, the morning, the early afternoon, the words, the thoughts, the footsteps? I awoke with a dream, which I left on my pillow. Is it still there or has it gone on its way? The bareness of the trees in the street outside, the clouds joining together to blanket the sky.

  UNEXPECTED

  The woman turned. She had been walking away, the flowers still in her hand. A posy of tiger lilies, tied with a bright blue ribbon. The sun was low in the street and behind her, as she stopped and looked back. She was caught in the shadows, so whatever expression she had on her face was lost on me. But the sound of the scream, the shaft of the emotion, needed no definition, no photomontage to illustrate its intent.