The Architecture of Song

by Gary Crew

  ‘I suppose,’ he replied, avoiding her eye.

  ‘But why did you come here?’ Augustus asked. ‘To this country. To our place?’

  Hearing this, Rosa leaned forward, eager.

  ‘I was called,’ Da Silva said, sheepish.

  ‘Called?’ Rosa repeated. ‘How? Who?’

  He lowered his head, murmuring, ‘The moan of doves in immemorial elms …’

  Augustus shuddered, uneasy. ‘Eh?’

  ‘The moan of doves …’

  ‘I heard. But what does that mean? Like, if your father was the King of Haiti – if – how could you hear dove murmuring in Ipswich from way over there?’

  ‘There is no King of Haiti and there never was,’ Da Silva laughed.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Augustus demanded. ‘I mean, why are you doing this? Making this up?’

  ‘Because,’ Da Silva replied, ‘I am a storyteller, and that is what I do.’

  ‘How about you just tell us the truth,’ Augustus suggested. ‘Like, where are you from and how come you’re here?’

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Da Silva began.

  ‘No!’ Augustus shouted. ‘No! No stories. No tricks. We just want the truth. Man, I’m starting to sound like Stan. Come on. Out with it …’

  Da Silva sighed. ‘Augustus,’ he said, ‘can you change the colour of your hair from blond to black because someone demands that you do? Can you make yourself grow into a full-sized man just to make someone else happy? No? I thought not. And nor can I change from being a storyteller because you command me.’

  ‘But I could change myself,’ Augustus insisted. ‘I am sure of it. If I found the right song. The right note. That one pure …’

  ‘Indeed,’ Da Silva agreed. ‘I too might change myself if I wanted. If my story lent itself to that, but today I am the King of Haiti’s son. And today I came to this country, to you, here, in answer to the moan of doves, which is the truth, being poetry. From Tennyson’s “The Princess” if I am not mistaken, and it was the call of poetry that brought me here. The very moan of doves, if I am correct. The doves that your own quest for poesy raised. The very same. In that lovelorn library, I believe. So …’

  ‘And finches?’ Augustus whispered. ‘The tinkling song of finches? Did you hear that too?’

  ‘Ah,’ Da Silva laughed. ‘I think, Augustus, the tinkling promise of finches might be your song.’

  Augustus blushed, doubting. ‘No more,’ he said, rubbing his brow. ‘I won’t bother you anymore. But one thing, now that you are here – and we can see that you are, which is all that matters … and story too, of course. And poetry. And song. But since you are here – do you truly live in a bush hut? By a silver spring, at Helidon?’

  ‘Would I lie to you?’ he winked, smiling his smile.

  ‘And is this hut silvered with mist and dappled with moss?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have a shed made of corrugated iron. Sheets of tin, you know, galvanised.’

  ‘And is it silver?’

  ‘You might say that – if galvanised iron is silver.’ He looked to Augustus, who gaped.

  ‘And would you call this silver shed your temple?’ Rosa asked. ‘The Temple of the Silver-White Doves?’

  ‘There is rust. And bird droppings,’ Da Silva conceded. ‘So, to be honest, I wouldn’t call it a temple, no. I would call it a tin shed in the bush.’

  ‘But if I saw it, I might call it a temple?’ Rosa suggested.

  ‘That is a question I cannot answer,’ he said. ‘But if you want to see …’

  ‘Oh, I do!’ she cried, leaping up. ‘Would you? Will you?’

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I hoped, in fact. Since this morning. From the beginning, you might say, when first I came through that gate and saw you on the crazy path.’

  ‘You are a kidder,’ she laughed, slapping him.

  ‘I am a storyteller,’ he said. ‘There is little difference.’

  Had anybody asked, Augustus might have told that Rosa’s determination to visit Da Silva’s galvanised iron shed (a temple, could it be?) was a turning point in her personal construction; though exactly what she was building, spiritual though that body may be, and why she was building it, was a mystery to him. As were the peculiar dreams he was having of that silver-haired girl with the finches, and her mystical emergence from the sandstone of that Helidon spring. So when Rosa informed him that they were taking a day trip to Da Silva’s domain, Augustus did all that he could to bring this excursion to be, not for her benefit (spiritual or otherwise), but hoping that a certain silver-haired girl might be there to greet him.

  ‘Now get this,’ the heavenly Rosa declared, appearing at his bedroom door. ‘As it happens I have to work right up to the very day that we are going to Helidon, and since Stan seems to be eternally down pit, it looks like you’re buying the provisions.’

  ‘I hate shopping,’ Augustus complained, sitting up in bed. ‘People stare …’

  ‘Too bad,’ she spat. ‘You drew the short straw.’

  ‘Was that a joke, or a reminder?’

  ‘You’re too thin-skinned,’ she growled.

  Augustus shrugged. ‘Provisions?’ he wanted to know, pulling the sheets up to his neck in the hope that he might trap the much-dreamed-of silver girl lurking beneath for just one minute longer. ‘How long is it going to take to get there?’

  ‘We’re leaving first thing Saturday morning,’ she informed him. ‘I’ve hired a pony and trap. Stan will drive us. All taken care of. Da Silva says it will take a few hours. I’d like to leave early and be there for lunch.’

  ‘So Stan knows the way?’

  ‘Probably not,’ she admitted, ‘but Da Silva says we should head north,’ she waved her right hand behind her left shoulder vaguely, ‘and I’ll just know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Where to find him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Da Silva, stupid!’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Don’t be childish,’ she scowled. ‘People in my situation – our situation, dare I say – just know these things.’

  ‘Rosa,’ Augustus said, throwing back the sheets, his dream-girl evidently evicted, ‘I want to go with you, honest, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean by “our situation”?’

  ‘Augustus,’ she sighed. ‘You’re seventeen – and you’ve finally lost your baby teeth – so surely you can see when two people are in love …’

  ‘Ah!’ Augustus declared. He had guessed as much – their lust, at least – when the pair stood gasping and gaping at the front gate. ‘So is this the real thing? Not just a matter of convenience like it was with Barkus?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ she sniffed, attempting to flatten her hair in the hallway mirror. ‘I’m leaving ten bob on the kitchen table. You’ll need to buy something for lunch. Get some ham and a loaf of bread. You can make sandwiches. Stan’s got that flask he takes down pit. We can have a cuppa somewhere. A picnic. And since I’m certain that our host is not a meat eater, I’d get him some fruit. Apples are always acceptable.’ And off she flounced.

  Augustus rarely went to the market. He hated the raucous voices and crowded stalls; he tired of dodging the bulging bags and cane baskets that caught his ears and scratched his cheeks; he could never reach the counters; he was too short to look into display cases. Worst of all were the miners’ crotches, vaguely malodorous, should he walk into them; a curse few had the misfortune to suffer.

  He bought bread and ham. He liked the promising baker (‘You’ll be a big boy when you grow up …’), but not the patronising butcher (‘Two front teeth for Christmas, then?’), and hoped that the greengrocer would say nothing. But when he stood before a pile of rosy red apples, he could see nobody.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Shop?’

  Thinking that the vendor might be asleep behind the counter he dropped to his knees, peering beneath. He saw four paws. Huge. Two pairs of two – one pair black, one pair tan – and c
atching a whiff of spices, he looked up to see smoke ascending in blue-grey puffs; like that caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. ‘A hookah!’ he squealed. ‘Bozo! Bonzer. Little Donny!’ and in that moment the dwarf appeared, bow-tied and scarlet coated, bawling, ‘What? Who? Augustus!’

  So they hugged, the past falling about them like a mantle.

  ‘Last time I saw you,’ Donny sniffed, ‘you and that Rosa Colleano and that Stan the monkey-lover were moochin’ across the paddock the night you left the circus. That calliope didn’t go down real well, eh?’ And having put this provocative remark out there, he gave his attention to rearranging a pyramid of apples.

  ‘No,’ Augustus agreed, ‘it didn’t. A lot of tears have flowed down that dribbly creek, and a lot more fallen from that weeping willow. But I have smartened up since.’

  ‘So you gave up on the singing, eh?’ Donny asked with a backward glance.

  ‘Not at all,’ Augustus informed him. ‘My singing gives me hope. I thought you understood that.’

  ‘What? That you’re going to crack the big time?’

  ‘It’s more than that. I want to grow through my singing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Didn’t you want to find some way?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Being short, you know; didn’t you want to grow?’

  ‘Not by singing, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But I do. When I sing, I’m another. And if I can sing right, I will become that other. That’s what I hope, Donny. That’s what I believe. Truly …’

  ‘Hang on,’ Little Donny growled. ‘Are you telling me that there’s some connection between your singing and your growing?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘If I could find the perfect song, and sing it to perfection, I would reconstruct myself.’

  Little Donny looked down to tighten the bow in his beard, wondering, ‘You still with that pair?’

  ‘What pair?’

  ‘Rosa and Stan Platten.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they’re still filling your head with this bull?’

  ‘What bull?’

  ‘Last time I saw you they had you singing in a chariot. With a calliope and an elephant. Geez …’ He sat himself down on Bozo’s back.

  ‘Rosa was my manager then, or going to be. That was a long time ago.’

  ‘And you still haven’t accepted what you are?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I am not a What,’ Augustus declared. ‘I am a He. And I sing.’

  ‘Yeah, and what else?’

  ‘I am Augustus Trump and I’m seventeen years old.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea, have you? First time I met you, I wondered about that.’

  ‘Wondered about what?’

  ‘If you understood that you were one of us.’

  Augustus, shuffled, uncomfortable. ‘What do you mean, “one of us”?’

  ‘Geez …’

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you,’ Augustus protested. ‘Do you mean “one of us” being a dwarf, or “one of us’” being a sideshow freak? Depends on how you construct yourself.’

  ‘Hasn’t anybody ever told you that the two go together?’ Little Donny demanded. ‘That since you’re a dwarf – and you are, in case you didn’t know – then you’re a sideshow freak?’

  Augustus blanched. ‘As I said, that depends on how you construct yourself. Or reconstruct yourself. Depending …’

  Donny thumped his black boots against Bozo’s mighty flank. ‘You can’t construct yourself, nor reconstruct yourself. You’re a dwarf. A freak. And that ain’t gonna change, no matter how good you sing. You got that?’

  Augustus perched on Bonzer, beside him.

  Bonzer wheezed.

  ‘Donny,’ Augustus said, ‘I’ve done things that you wouldn’t believe …’

  ‘Every dwarf has,’ Donny sneered. ‘Some I’m even proud of.’

  ‘Donny,’ Augustus said, ‘I’m not joking. When I sing the perfect song perfectly, things change. I didn’t appreciate that until the other day when something happened in the library. Rosa heard, and saw too …’

  ‘Enough!’ Donny shouted, leaping to his feet. ‘I’ve heard enough! Nobody can make himself grow. And I don’t wanna hear about that Rosa Colleano. She’s the one who put you in the chariot that night. She’s the one who got us sold up. Did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ Augustus admitted.

  ‘The big Boss, that Cigar Sullivan, called us into the mess next morning and says he’s had a change of heart. Never engaged an artist that was a bigger flop than that Augustus, he says – that’s you, mate – and he’s handing the business over to his son, that Bertie Sullivan. The first thing Bertie does is sell up and shoot through. With his boyfriend.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Augustus moaned, fighting back tears. ‘I truly am. I didn’t know. I did see Needly Phyllis once, but she didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Not even Cristo Colleano could bring that Bertie round. And Bertie was keen on him, I reckon. Shot through with some albino, Bertie did. White hair he had. And red eyes. Bertie liked that kind of thing. Anyway, we was sold up. Just days after you left. Hours … What I’m saying is, why should I care what Rosa Colleano saw or heard after all she did to me? To us. You included. Now do you understand?’

  Augustus contained his tears. ‘Rosa is Rosa,’ he muttered. ‘Forget about her. I’m telling you that I can do this. That I can make things happen. But I have to make the change while I’m still young. While my voice is still pure. And when I sing that perfect song, I will grow. I know it. I’ll become a normal man. A big man. A broad man. Like that Puccini man in the white uniform. That sea captain, my father …’ Unable to hold back any longer, he wailed, ‘Aw, Donny, it’s awful, it’s awful. I do hope. I do …’ And he began to sob.

  Not caring for the tears of men, of dwarves even less, Little Donny got to his feet. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I felt the same way once. You remember that song you sang for me, all those years ago?’

  Through his tears Augustus mumbled, ‘“I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls”. I chose it for you especially.’

  Little Donny nodded. ‘I know you did, mate. I know. And you chose very well. You see, I wasn’t always this sour old man. Grumpy, as they call me. You know, I used to hope too. I hoped that my lousy body was all a nightmare and when I woke up I’d be tall and straight, like those sunflowers that shoot up overnight. Or that fairytale beanstalk and the giant. Everyone that’s normal is a giant to us, eh? I mean, when I was your age I wanted to shake hands like other blokes, I so wanted to go out with ordinary girls …’ He stepped away to stand as he had seen Augustus do: his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips, his chin held high. ‘Augustus’, he said. ‘You’re young, you’re smart and you’re classy, so I’m going to let you in on a secret.’

  Augustus gulped, uncertain.

  ‘You need to know that Rosa Colleano actually did me a favour. So did Bertie Sullivan. So did you, if it really was your fault the circus closed. Because when I got out, I started going to the movies. The pictures. You been to the pictures? At the circus everyone looks down at us freaks out there in centre ring. At the pictures everyone looks up. They lean back in their canvas seats and look up. They look at the actors on the screen. Stars, they call them. They look up at the stars. And every star is a giant. Every one: runts, dwarves, me, you. The pictures are a dream, Augustus. A fairytale come true. So here’s my secret: when my dogs are gone, and they’re old, believe me, I’m off to movieland – to America – where people like you and me walk tall as giants. And that’s how I’m going to grow, Augie, up there on that movie screen – a star, a giant.’

  At some point in this revelation – possibly at the mention of fairytale or that more recent fabula, the movie – Augustus ceased his snivelling and sat up, dry-eyed.

  ‘Thank you, Donny. I mean it, thanks. After all these years, it’s bee
n good to talk. But for all of that, I’m not a child anymore, and you make a mistake if you construct me as one. I am a young man fast approaching adulthood. I have been to the pictures. Rosa has taken me. I’ve also read books about how movies are made. Rosa brings them home from the library. From such experiences I know that I would rather put my trust in song to bring about change than some moving picture. Poetry isn’t about lights and cameras. Poetry springs from the human heart. It always has. I’ve read poetry written on the walls of pyramids. Poetry that’s five thousand years old. And though those poets are long dead, I’d rather grow through their experience – their love, their suffering – than the scripted lines of some celluloid actor on a flickering screen. So Donny, thank you for sharing your secret. You have helped me make up my mind. But there will be no movie dreams for me; no visions of stars or giants. I am going to put my faith in song, in the purer poetry that springs from human suffering.’ Slipping from Bonzer’s back, he reached for his groceries.

  ‘Wait!’ Little Donny called. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you. I meant to help. Honest. Don’t leave like that. Not angry, not bitter, not like after the circus. Take this, please.’ Polishing a rosy apple on the sleeve of his coat, he held the fruit out, tempting. ‘If all else fails,’ he suppressed a giggle, ‘take a bite. You might even make a wish.’

  ‘No thanks, Donny,’ Augustus replied, having no belief, nor the teeth to bite into it. ‘Although I hope the movies work out for you. They’re a lot of fun, I’m told.’

  In preparation for Saturday’s outing, Stan had a shower. His skin turned red. His white flannel shirt was also fresh boiled, as were his duck trousers, stiff as boards. He wore a broadbrimmed straw hat with a feather in the band. Augustus hadn’t seen this hat before. It wasn’t every day that they ran away.

  Stan reined in the trap at the front of the cottage.

  ‘You know where we’re goin’?’ he greeted Augustus.

  ‘Out Helidon way,’ Augustus said, hoisting the picnic basket onto the seat. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Rosa’s interested in a bloke with a place out there.’

  ‘What bloke?’