The Butt: A Novel

by Self, Will

  At eleven, scattering raindrops from her plastic poncho, Gloria Swai-Phillips swept in. She scanned the lobby and, spotting Tom on his bench, came across and sat down beside him. Her approximation of Martha’s features was at once imperious and consoling: the wide mouth and long top lip writhed as she struggled out of her rainwear. Underneath she wore a cream linen two-piece with a pleated skirt. Tom fixated on the raw pores of her freshly shaven calves.

  At first, Gloria said nothing, only leaned over and probed Tom’s own leg. Her fingers found the makkata’s wound.

  ‘Does it hurt, yeah?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you call last–’ Tom began, then checked himself. ‘Not much,’ he answered instead. ‘It’s like a war wound – aches when the rains are coming.’

  Gloria laughed curtly and withdrew her hand. ‘I’m leaving this arvo’,’ she said. ‘Flying first to Amherst on the west coast, then heading along Route 2 with a convoy for the Tontine Townships . . .’ She paused and looked at Tom. He looked back, wondering what any of this had to do with him. ‘Y’know,’ she continued, ‘the orphanages I run there, they’ve gotta be supplied, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom said. ‘Of course – I understand.’

  ‘I – I . . .’ She took up his hand in her own, turning it this way and that. Her fingernails were long, sickle-curved and steelily varnished. ‘I hope to see you there, yeah?’

  Before Tom could think of a response, Gloria was struggling back into her poncho. Her heels clacked the stone floor to the main doors. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, then covered her blonde hank of hair with the pointy hood and swept out into the rain.

  Tom had no time to analyse this visitation: the doors to Court No. 3 banged open, and Gloria’s cousin came striding out. In his train were Abdul, the clerk, and Mulgrene, the attaché. Then came Prentice, together with a huddle of court officials. Mulgrene was saying, very loudly, as if advertising for prospective Swai-Phillips clients: ‘That was inspiring, Jethro, absolutely bloody inspiring. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone tackle Von Sasser with quite such sheer brio before. You deserve a drink, man.’

  The whole posse came across to where Tom was sitting and grouped themselves around him, ignoring him while recounting loudly the feats of advocacy they had just witnessed. Tom tried to catch Prentice’s eye, but it was fixed on Swai-Phillips with an expression of nauseating adoration.

  Tancroppollopp and Von Sasser came past and straight out into the rain. A clerk came up to the defendants’ party and handed a scrap of paper to Mulgrene. The attaché scanned it with goggling eyes, his sad clown’s smile turned upside down.

  ‘Four gross of reusable teats, ditto of disposable nappies. Ribavirin – 400 doses in ampoules, amoxycillin, antiseptic wipes–’ He broke off and turned to Prentice. ‘Nothing here that we weren’t expecting. You have the credit available, yes?’

  Prentice nodded.

  ‘Then you can load up tomorrow,’ Swai-Phillips barked. ‘Then get the fuck outta here!’

  * * *

  Lunch dragged on for hours. The party sat at Formica-topped tables ranged around a shrubbery that threatened them with its saw-toothed leaves. Swai-Phillips, taking a moment out from the continuous toasting of beer that was celebrating his signal victory, explained to Tom: ‘The court won’t sit again till at least three, right. They’ve gotta put up a rood screen so Atalaya and her manager can give evidence to the makkatas. Try not to be so uptight, Brodzinski; it’ll play out fine. Have a bloody beer and relax, yeah.’

  Tom couldn’t. He stepped outside of the food court. Rain hammered down on the glass porch as he hit redial for the twentieth time that day: ‘This phone is temporarily unavailable, your call is being answered by AdVance messaging . . .’

  When the peep-prompt came, Tom decanted all his pent-up anxiety: ‘Jesus-H-Christ, Adams. Are you gonna hang me out to dry, or what?’

  Back inside, a wheeled icebox was being pushed from one man to the next. In turn they drew off glasses of beer, then made another toast, to ‘Justice!’, or ‘Rhetoric!’, or ‘Reason!’ Jackets had been slung over chair backs. Bare forearms lay among the curry-smeared pannikins, together with a dandruff of coconut flakes.

  Swai-Phillips sat at the head of the table, his tie loosened, his globe of hair so beaded with sweat that it resembled a jewelled snood. Yet he was sober compared to Mulgrene and Prentice – both of whom were straightforwardly drunk.

  At two thirty, Tom palmed one of the waiters forty bucks to go to the liquor store and get him a fifth of Seagram’s. When the man returned, Tom took two swift shots. The whisky slapped him lazily in the face, a knuckle of intoxication catching him beneath one eye. His head spinning, Tom looked up to see the rains smashing through the skylight. Swai-Phillips aimed his painted lens at his client. The lawyer’s strong jaw was bearded with bladder clams, his mouth a robotic speaker through which he crackled: ‘It’s gone two forty-five, Brodzinski. The court’ll sit in fifteen minutes; we don’t wanna be late, mate.’

  Leaving Prentice, Mulgrene and the others, they splashed back through the afternoon downpour. Abdul draped a waxed coat over his boss’s broad shoulders. Beneath this, the lawyer’s suit and gown remained obstinately crisp; while Tom, who only had a folding umbrella for protection, discovered that his jacket was covered with damp splodges.

  As they entered the lobby, they were met by the Honorary Consul, who, taking Tom by the arm, led him directly into the courtroom. Predictably, Adams was sporting a tan seersucker suit. Set beside the imposing figures in the court, he looked like an overgrown school boy, an impression enhanced only by the blue sash he wore, which Tom assumed must be the badge of his – mostly specious – office.

  The bench was unoccupied, but Hippolyte von Sasser and Tancroppollopp, the DA, were at a table across the aisle from where the defence had seated themselves.

  Leaning over, Adams hissed: ‘I’m sorry I was late, Brodzinski, but, as you must appreciate, I’m in a, ah, potentially invidious position, given that I’ve to consider the interests of the, ah, plaintiff as well. I had to go to the hospital early this morning; there have been some, ah, unfortunate developments regarding Mr Lincoln.’

  Adams stopped, and Tom, unbridled by whisky, neighed: ‘What developments?’

  Adams shushed him as the door behind the bench swung open, and a beadle led in the judges.

  Staring at the bizarre trio that came in, Tom was flummoxed by how the courtroom had gulled him. On entering, it had seemed so ordinary as to be banal: the rows of plain tables, the railed-off public gallery, the stenographer and the clerks seated at a table below the bench. That the strip lighting seemed harsh and the carpet jaggedly patterned, he put down to the Seagram’s. This mental astigmatism perhaps also accounted for the way the escutcheon seemed to be leaning out from the wall above the bench at a precipitous angle.

  However, as the native judge, his black body elaborately painted with white stripes, slipped behind the end of the thorny screen that bisected the chamber, Tom realized that he hadn’t even noticed this weird organic baffler.

  Seeing Tom’s consternation, Adams whispered: ‘Karroo thorn: it’s freshly woven by Tayswengo in from the desert. As I explained, neither Mrs Lincoln nor any of her people may give evidence in open court.’

  The beadle banged a gnarled staff on the floor and cried: ‘Rise!’

  Tom stood and gawped at the two remaining judges: one Anglo, one Tugganarong. Their full-length robes were so bedecked with ribbons of various hues that they resembled raggedy dolls with human heads stuck on them.

  There was an awkward pause while the beadle groped for a hidden switch. En masse, the court cleared its several throats. Then came a crackle of static, followed by a fanfare so faithlessly recorded that the trumpets sounded like kazoos. With one tuneless voice the entire company burst into song:

  From shining sea to awesome desert,

  From angry reef to bounteous mine,

  This golden realm of unutterable promise,

>   It is thine, O Lord, it is thine . . .

  Tom had heard the anthem before – even parodied it for his kids. With its jaunty melody and studious doggerel, it had seemed to him the very essence of the gimcrack national character. Now he was taken aback by the conviction with which it was being belted out, and, when he looked to his right at Swai-Phillips, was amazed to see tears welling in his eyes. Tears that, as Tom watched, swelled and coursed down the lawyer’s cheeks.

  The court groaned to a crescendo:

  We give it to you, O Lord, our country,

  We give . . . it . . . to . . . you-ooo . . . !

  The tape hissed on for a bit, then cut out. ‘Sit!’ barked the beadle, and they all sat, except for the DA, who, without preamble, began reciting the charges against Tom. ‘That on the 26th of August this year, the defendant, Thomas Jefferson Brodzinski, at that time temporarily resident at the Mimosa Apartments on Dundas Boulevard, did wilfully, and with full cognizance of the likely effects of his malicious action, employ a projectile weapon with a toxic payload to assault Mr Reginald Lincoln the Third – hereinafter referred to as the victim – and that the victim, having been grievously injured, now appeals to this court – both through my own office and through his wife’s spiritual manager – for the three forms of justice provided for under the linked constitutional and Native Title provisions. To whit: punitive, retributive and corrective.

  ‘Before my esteemed colleague Mr Von Sasser presents the Eastern Provincial Government’s case against the defendant, I believe it would be in the court’s interest, your honours, for these jurisdictional complexities to be elucidated fully, lest confusion arise at a later stage in the proceedings.’

  Belying his monumental and impassive features, the DA spoke with great vivacity. Clearly, he liked the booming of his own voice and was settling in for a protracted oration. Tom, stunned by hearing a flipped cigarette butt referred to as ‘a projectile weapon with a toxic payload’, had already lapsed into the confusion the DA foresaw.

  Then he heard the Anglo judge, who said irritatedly: ‘Yes, yes, Mr Tancroppollopp, I think we’re all well enough aware of this . . . this stuff. Let Von Sasser give us his opening remarks now.’

  The judge was elderly and his demeanour mild – pale blue eyes peering over thick bifocals – yet he stopped the massive Tancroppollopp in his tracks. The DA sat down abruptly, and a ripple of amusement passed through the court. The loungers in the public gallery began chatting; the stenographer left off typing and took a swig of water from a plastic bottle.

  Swai-Phillips whispered to Tom: ‘This is all fencing, Brodzinski. None of the DA’s case will be played out in a prelim’; the Intwennyfortee mob’s claim takes precedence. All the important action is behind the screen, right.’

  The contrast between the sinuous organic curves of the screen and the scuffed wood panelling was total. At the front of the court, where the screen furled into a tube and kinked up to the bench, it was held in place by cables attached to hooks, which were screwed into the ceiling, the floor and even the bench itself.

  Through chinks in the tightly woven, thorny sticks, Tom could see the makkata judge sitting cross-legged on his end of the bench, like a spider in a basketwork web. Elsewhere, behind the screen, dark shapes flitted, and there was constant guttural muttering. Tom tried to make out Atalaya Intwennyfortee’s lithe form among the others. He wondered, idly, why it was that he, who had been deemed astande, was none the less behaving as if he were inquivoo, altogether passive in the face of this monstrous inquisition.

  Adams nudged him. ‘Brodzinski,’ he hissed. ‘What I meant to say before is that Mr Lincoln has–’ But once again he was precluded.

  Von Sasser had risen; the public gallery fell silent; the stenographer raised her hands like a concert pianist.

  ‘Your honours, esteemed colleagues.’ He nodded to Tancroppollopp. ‘Citizens of Vance.’ He cast a prosecutorial eye at the defence table before continuing: ‘May I proceed by analogy?’

  This blunt inquiry seized everyone’s attention. The Tugganarong judge, who had been absorbed in some scraps of paper he was rearranging on the bench in front of him, looked up at the Chief Prosecutor and said, ‘Why not?’

  Von Sasser teased out two of the ribbons from his gown. He held these taut between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, while holding his long back erect.

  ‘I don’t need to tell anyone present – except, perhaps, for the defendant himself – the extent to which the introduction of alien elements has contaminated this once pure land.’

  Even the native people behind the screen now ceased their muttering. Von Sasser twisted his beak into a smile, then resumed. ‘Whether those elements be people, their ways or even the species they bring with them, the results have been almost uniformly disastrous for both our indigenous people and their environment.

  ‘Now.’ Von Sasser turned fully to confront Tom, and bore down on him with his raptor’s stare. ‘Here we have a – a tourist – for want of any other appellation – who comes here in ignorance of both our civil and our customary laws. Who both indulges in a filthy alien habit, and who then employs the vile instruments of his addiction to assault – violently assault – an esteemed elder of our community.

  ‘Doubtless, he will soon call upon my colleague, Mr Swai-Phillips, to argue that his action was “an accident”; and, doubtless, the defendant would also argue – as have so many of his compatriots – that the Sangat clam is “an accident”, that the tontine is “an accident”, that the asbestosis of the Kellippi miners is “an accident”, that–’

  ‘Objection, your honours!’

  Swai-Phillips was on his feet – Tom was hyperventilating. As calumny had been piled upon lie by the skeletal Chief Prosecutor, he had swooned with the injustice of it all: that this still-smoking Anglo had the hypocrisy to so accuse him.

  ‘You have the floor, counsellor,’ the Anglo judge whispered.

  ‘To compare my client to a single invasive element might provide my learned friend with the substance of an analogy . . .’ Swai-Phillips paused, vainly patting his wig. Tom was impressed by the clarity of his diction – there was no beer, here. ‘But to arrogate to Mr Brodzinski all the ills of colonialism is, I venture to suggest, a false syllogism: all alien species are destructive. Mr Brodzinski is an alien species. QED . . . But I’m sure I don’t need to explain the suppressed premise to minds as logical and finely tuned as those of your honours’.’

  He abruptly sat down, clearly well pleased with himself.

  The bench also appeared taken by Swai-Phillips’s reasoning. The Anglo judge turned to his Tugganarong colleague, and they entered into urgent sotto voce conversation. Chatter broke out in the rest of the court. Tom turned to Swai-Phillips and asked: ‘Exactly how long is this going to go on for?’

  ‘It’s in our interests’, the lawyer said, ‘to curtail it as soon as possible. But, all things being equal, I wouldn’t anticipate a conclusion of the prelims in under a week.’

  ‘A week!’ Tom gasped.

  The $5,000 he had initially deposited with Swai-Phillips had been eaten up by the pre-trial meetings alone; two more had gone on the astande ceremony. Tom had arranged for a further $10,000 to be wired to the lawyer’s account, but Swai-Phillips had been blunt about the costs of his representation: ‘It’s a K a day, every day we’re in court. Just ’cause I’m a solicitor-advocate, it doesn’t mean I’m not the best, right.’

  Seeing Tom’s distress, Adams took pity on him. ‘Jethro’s only fooling with you, Brodzinski. Remember, the Intwen-nyfortee mob’s retributive claim takes precedence. Immediate precedence – especially given that Mr Lincoln has lapsed into a coma.’

  ‘A coma?’

  ‘Yes, a coma, sometime during the night. You’ll see: this will cut things short on the prelim’ hearing. The Intwen-nyfortee mob will want to squeeze as much as possible out of you right away, in case–’

  ‘In case of what?’ Tom broke in.

  Adams sighed wea
rily. ‘In case the old man dies. Because then the charge will change to murder, and their, ah, blood money’ – Adams’s nose wrinkled with the bad smell of this term – ‘will have to be recovered from the state’s presumptive bond – and that could take years.’

  The Consul swivelled in his seat. ‘But, if I’m not mistaken, here comes the doctor from the hospital with the medical bulletin. This will shake things up – you’ll see.’

  Escorted by two armed police, Vishtar Loman approached the bench and passed the elderly Anglo judge an envelope. His Tugganarong colleague ignored the exchange; he’d produced a pocket knife from his raggedy-doll robes and was conspicuously cleaning his nails. Loman and the Anglo judge exchanged a few words, and the doctor was then dismissed. The Anglo judge relaxed back into his seat, a relieved expression on his mild features. General hubbub welled up in the court. The Anglo judge passed the envelope to his colleague, who opened and read it. He then shifted along the bench so he could speak through the thorny screen to the painted makkata. The makkata, in turn, relayed the information to a figure that writhed beside him, and who Tom thought must be Atalaya’s manager, the Entreati sorceress.

  Then, a tremendous ululation went up from behind the screen and dark shapes threw themselves against it. The Anglo judge gestured to the beadle, who thumped his staff on the floor until order was restored.

  ‘This court is prorogued,’ the judge said. ‘Mr Tancrop-pollopp, Counsellors Von Sasser and Swai-Phillips, you will all assemble in my chambers in ten minutes. And Mr Swai-Phillips’ – Tom’s lawyer rose respectfully – ‘bring your client with you.’

  Tom spent the break sitting, shaking, on the bench he had occupied all morning. Swai-Phillips went out to smoke – and Adams went with him.