Limestone Man
Page 2
Sophia seemed older, more confident somehow. At least more adult. But people change. Only the dead stay the same.
How’s the writing? I asked.
Great, she said. Sometimes it seems like it’s not me doing it. The writing, I mean. It feels that I’m being written. Does that make sense?
Yeah, I said. I suppose that’s how everyone feels. Eventually. Listen…
Yes, she said. I expect…
Listen. Have you seen Lu?
Sophia looked at me then. I felt I was being appraised.
No, she said finally. Not since before the rains. But I’ve been away. Lucky you caught me. Why?
No reason, I said. Just thought Lu might be up here. She loved this library.
She’s been getting tired of Goolwa, nodded Sophia.
You think?
Oh yes. Everybody gets tired of that place. Like, who wouldn’t?
Yeah. I know what you mean.
Yes, she said.
But no reason, I said. I was just… I was just…
Wondering? she asked.
I looked round the main refectory while I was waiting for our coffees. We’d both decided on chocolate bars. I also had a plate of biscuits.
So, the lyrics are…
The songs, she corrected. The songs are going pretty well. I feel playing those sets in the shop brought me on. You know. Confidence wise…
And I played the records you mentioned. Thought about song structure, like you said. Because it’s structure that counts. Isn’t it?
Oh yes. Always. Can’t be left to chance. Can it?
No, she said. You’ve got to interpose.
Yeah, show your intelligence.
Always. That’s right. Always show your intelligence.
A girl with long blonde hair pushed past. She wasn’t Lulu. Then a plump, moon-faced Korean. He wasn’t Lulu.
Look, breathed Sophia. I have a friend up here. Maybe we could go to her room.
I’d been looking around, I think. There seemed to be hundreds of people who weren’t Lulu. In a hubbub of voices. There was a coat draped over a chair. A bag encrusted with badges. Maybe students still wore badges.
And yes, I recalled the badges we had worn. Badges about the miners’ strike. Badges to save the rainforests.
But maybe I hadn’t been listening.
Pardon? I said.
Room 48. Second floor, Flinders. We could go there.
Three chocolate biscuits, I thought. And a pink wafer. No one ever liked the pink wafer. No, no one liked the pink wafer. Did they? Did anyone like the pink wafer? But the chocolate was melting.
We could go there? I repeated.
If you want. If you’d like.
If I’d like? Room…
Forty-eight. Second floor on Flinders. I could try out my new song. That’s where my guitar is. Been working for ages on it. You heard a version that time in the shop. I’d called it ‘Southern Rain’. Well, excuse me, but it’s really changed since then… It’s unrecognisable. Different key. And the tempo’s much slower. The words mean so much more now. I just feel more experienced. A different person.
Yeah. You look…
Older, you said. I take that as a compliment.
Different key?
C. That’s C major. But I don’t want it to be too mournful. It’s got to… move. You know?
Move?
All music moves. Doesn’t it?
But, to room 48?
Yes. We could go. There.
Great, I said. I’d like that. I’d love that. Flinders?
Forty-eight. Second floor. Up the stairs. Look, I’ll see you there.
Course, I said. I’m coming. Now. But what did you say that song is…
Is called now? ‘Southern Rain’. Oh yeah, it’s still ‘Southern Rain’. I won’t change that for anything.
And was it called ‘Southern Rain’when I heard it first? I asked.
Yes. It’s always been ‘Southern Rain’. Always will be ‘Southern Rain’.
And she hummed it. Hummed a song called ‘Southern Rain’.
I tried to remember where I’d heard the song before. I was sure I’d heard it. But there are so many songs these days. Thousands of downloads, millions if you thought. Who needs? I wondered, who needs…?
The Spotify songs. All the box sets. Like cutlery, I thought. The spoons you’ve never used. Polishing the spoons you’ll never need. Your reflection in every spoon. Your face stretched in a silver spoon. All the medicine you’ve taken. The medicine…
See you, she said. In a bit.
See you, I said. Her hair was different now. Fairer, almost blonde… It was…
She turned and was about to leave.
Hey, I said, as she was disappearing. Let’s have a drink. Is it? At the bar? It’s crowded in here. Don’t you think? The Central’s bound to be quieter.
Sophia seemed surprised.
Scores of new people were now coming past. The lovers, the lonely. All with songs in their heads.
Then Sophia smiled.
Yes, it’s the lunchtime rush. Getting worse. You know, she whispered. I hardly know any of these people.
Nor me, I said. Maybe I taught some of them. Last year. Or the year before that.
There was a corner of the Central Bar where I put down our drinks. We’d both decided on glasses of sauvignon blanc.
Must be strange, said Sophia. To be a teacher, I mean. Every year, your classes the same age. The girls, the boys. But you, another year older. Must be strange.
Oh yes, I agreed. It’s … peculiar. If you think about it. So maybe a teacher shouldn’t think about it. But then, you reach a particular age and perhaps it’s better…
Yeah?
Not to think about anything at all.
Because? Oh, well. Obviously…
Yeah. Obviously.
But how long? asked Sophia. Have you been a teacher?
Thirty years. Started late. But thirty’s enough.
I suppose so. But then, I’m a writer. I’ll be a writer
forever.
Maybe I looked at her then. Maybe at our yellow wine.
Will you? Really?
Oh yes. Look at Leonard Cohen. Still doing it. A cousin of mine saw him in Sydney.
Yeah, great, I said. Maybe I should try the miserable old bastard again. Give him another chance.
You’re not a writer? Are you?
No.
Well then…
Well what?
Maybe you don’t understand…
Maybe I took a long pull.
Christ, Soph. I understand all right. When I was your age my friends couldn’t imagine a group still playing gigs at thirty. Thirty? we thought. Thirty’s ridiculous. But what if you’re fifty, sixty. Seventy-bloody-five? Do you stop?
Leonard’s seventy-bloody-eight, breathed Sophia triumph-antly.
But do you stop?
No. Like, what for? Because…
Soon enough you’re dead?
Well … yeah.
Then good on Leonard Cohen. I’m having another.
Not for me, please.
Go on.
I hardly ever drink.
Got to start. If you’re a writer you do.
That’s a myth. Don’t typecast me. Look, just because I’m a writer you can’t turn me into a cliché.
Hey, relax. White wine’s nothing terrible. I’m sure I’m always better with a drink inside me. Most people are.
Well … okay, she smiled. But I know I’ll always want to write. Now I’ve … discovered writing. Now I’ve felt how good it is. How real it is.
It’s like you can’t remember what you used to do before?
That’s it. Spot on.
See. I get it.
It’s like, there was all this time and I just wasted it. But now I understand what I was born for. Born to do.
And no one’s going to argue with that.
But I bet you do, she said, turning up her face. Write that is. I bet you do.
Cheers.
Cheers, she said. Sipping her first glass for the first time.
Course I do, I said. Of course I write.
Then I corrected myself. Or maybe what I write down are ideas. Ideas for writing. No, not the words themselves. Not the actual words.
We both looked round, then.
I suppose I make lists, I said. That’s writing. Isn’t it?
Oh … yes. I suppose.
Yeah, I compile. I’m a brilliant compiler, me.
And what do you compile?
The soundtrack.
Sophia raised an eyebrow.
Yes, I compile the soundtrack to our lives. Okay, my life. Not yours. But mine. And a pretty good soundtrack it is too.
Essential task, she smiled.
So, should I say, of course I want to write. But first of all, I read. Which is an art. An occupation we’re in danger of losing.
Why don’t you paint? You teach art. After all.
I was always … about to start. Always on the brink. Waiting for the moment it felt right.
It always feels right for me. Now.
Hold on to that feeling. And practise that guitar!
Every day.
You could play here, I told her. At the Central. There’s a stage at the far end. But it might be possible down in this corner…
Don’t worry. I’ve checked it out already. We were here last night. It seems Thursdays are unplugged nights. You put your name down and wait for the call. So Thursday it’s going to be. And that’s tomorrow. Oh, Richard!
Thursday? Wonderful. Soon you’ll be quite the troubadour.
Trobawhat?
Don’t tell me…? You know … a travelling minstrel type. There’s a club in London. Called The Troubadour.
But … I’m not … very good.
Was Leonard bloody Cohen very good? He had to start somewhere.
I just strum in C.
One chord? If I knew one chord you couldn’t keep me off that stage. One chord’s all you need.
Actually … I’ll be over there. Sophia gestured to the corner where she’d perform.
But one chord? That’s all it takes. Confidence is your only ingredient. Promise me you’ll do it.
Another guitarist would help. Maybe bass. Fill out the terrible silence. But yes, I’ll do it. Of course I will.
So do it.
Yes, she said. I have to. You’ve just got to … push yourself forward. Haven’t you?
Tomorrow evening? I said. I’m staying at The Sebel. Maybe I’ll come over. Hear how you fill that terrible silence. Hey, I’ve thought of your first album title. What about Troubles of a Troubadour? What about…?
THURSDAY
5am.
Darkness.
A raindrop on the tip of my tongue.
I thought of the Caib Caves. The cold of the walls. The roofs of rock. Where even the quartz is grey. Where it’s always raining. That limestone rain.
Out at the bus and tram stops. That group of natives was being moved away. One of their children was crying. It’s police policy, someone said. Two, three days, then move ’em on. Standard practice. Don’t let them get comfortable. Don’t let…
It’s not easy to see the photograph in first light. Still, people seemed to think about it. I might have appeared desperate. Or needy. So they looked.
Maybe that’s how I must be to everybody. Because I haven’t shaved all week. Haven’t thought about it. There are more important things to do than shave.
You see, I don’t want to pretend anything now. Yes, I’ve finished pretending. Maybe that’s the last part of growing up. When you realise you can stop pretending. The relief of not pretending. The terror of it.
Because you realise that’s what life can be. Pretending. If you allow it. You realise that’s how you’re spending every minute. Maybe even your last minute. Pretending.
But pretending what? Pretending you haven’t pissed yourself. Pretending you care. Pretending you don’t care. Pretending you know what you’re talking about. Pretending you know what everybody else is talking about.
Pretending you don’t care that the barman hasn’t cleaned this table. I care about that. Does that make me alive? Because, look, there’s wine spilled in the middle of the table. Or icewater. My glass is leaving rings in last night’s spills.
When I showed the photograph to a man at the bar he shook his head. Shook his head. But was he pretending not to know? Or pretending not to care?
Yes, the barman’s coming round now. Excuse me, boss, he says, excuse me. I lift my glass and allow him to do his job and I can still see the wet rings my glass leaves and maybe I should be doing this in my room, this thinking, this searching my thoughts, but I don’t want to be alone, don’t want to drink that way, because The Brecknock is where I brought Lulu once and she seemed to like it.
When he wipes the table I show the photo again. He says already seen it, sport. And the answer’s the same.
But no, I think. It’s a different world now. So the answer cannot be the same. In a different world the answer can never be the same.
I think Lulu and I sat in the same seats that afternoon. Under the mirror. Lulu ordered wedges. Yes with spicy mayo. There are so many places we sat together. Toasting our lives. So long, Arcturus. So long.
A notice on the wall tells me there have been only three landlords at The Brecknock in one hundred and fifty years.
The man who wiped my table might be twenty-five. He’s a strong-looking kid but tiredness has entered his eyes. His eyelids are mauve. He has a small-hours pallor.
Take it easy, I want to say to that boy. Son, rest your head. Upon the bar. Try and remember your dreams. Because this is the country of the Dreaming.
When he cleans my table he uses an old tee shirt with a yellow smiley face design. And look, here he comes again. He’s here again.
Instead of sleeping he’s working. Instead of placing his cheek against the cold metal of the counter, he comes back.
I think he asks can I get you another. And I am surprised. Yes, I am disconcerted.
Yes, thank you, I say. Another would be good.
And I think I mean what I say. I think that’s what he said.
And no, I wasn’t pretending. About that. Because that’s another challenge, isn’t it? To understand you’re pretending you’re not pretending. Or is it the other way around?
And what? I say. What’s that?
Yes it would be better for you, he says. Better for you. If you did. Yes better for you…
If I what?
Better for you. Better all round.
Better for…
If I?
If you
Better all round.
If I…?
Shove off.
But it’s a girl now. A girl behind the aluminium rail of the counter. This new girl at the bar I haven’t seen before. She lights a candle and the glow runs through the room. Like a fuse.
No, she says, no, I haven’t seen her. You’ve asked everyone, sir. No one has seen the girl in the photograph. And sir, sir.
Someone is pointing out there’s blood on my cheek. That blood is dripping from my nose. It’s happening again, I don’t know why. It happened this week. Or maybe last month.
Maybe that man hit me. Maybe that man on the high stool at the bar. He was there a moment ago. I didn’t like the look of him. No, not at all. But I showed him the photograph, asked him to remember.
But it’s a woman on the stool now. A woman with long legs. With black, with black. Stockings. Yes her legs so long. Stretched out before her. A woman taller than me. Yes she’s taller. But how tall is she really? I wonder, how tall is the woman at the bar?
Now someone is wiping my cheek. There’s blood on the cloth. Blood on that tee shirt with the yellow smiley face. Yes maybe he hit me. And maybe he didn’t. Or maybe the
woman with long…
But the blood’s running over my fingers and I think, in that one hundred and fifty years in all that time you’d suppose you’d suppose on the streets of Adelaide for one hundred and fifty years I’ve been searching the violet light creeping up the glass the southern rain starting to speckle the glass and the signs in a language no one understands.
Everyone is pretending. Everyone today, tonight in The Brecknock. So here we are.
Pretending I haven’t pissed myself.
Pretending they’ve not seen Lulu.
And salty, I think. My blood warm. And so salty.
Like rain on The Caib. That rain’s cold, but it’s colder in the caves.
Yes, I’ve stood listening. To that dripping. That dripping that goes on forever. I’ve waited for it to stop and realised that it’s music that will last for. Ever.
Stood there shivering. Felt my whole body. Shiver. Yes looked around and seen the ages of starlight grow dim in the stone. Seen the corals white and dead locked into the stone. And I’ve run away. Over the pebbles and through the pools. Run away as quickly as I could.
FRIDAY
Woke and slept. Woke and realised something was wrong.
Bleeding again. The bright noseblood everywhere. When I found the light I was afraid.
There was so much. A red pond in the dint my head had left. A wet stain on the cream Sebel Hotel pillowcase. The Sebel monogram in the corner.
My first reaction was to hide it. Yes, hide the evidence. Of bleeding. Of whatever’s wrong. But Thursday was my last night here. When I go down to reception this morning I will pay the bill and walk out and then and then…
I put on all the lights and fill the bath with everything the hotel’s provided. The soap, the shampoos, the conditioners, the body lotions in their plastic sachets.
And I don’t even look. Simply pour it all into the water. Roaring into my 5am bath.
And I soak. Up to my eyebrows. Then immerse myself until I splutter up from the hot water. Then down again. Then up. Then down. Again.
I think of The Chasm. My face between Lizzy’s legs. My blood on her thighs and Lizzy’s seawater taste mixing with the taste of my blood.
That afternoon, all of us ready. The sun shining into the caves. No trace of a shadow on the neolithic blue of The Caib. All of us ready. For the rest of our … the rest of…
At reception I look at how my bill has been calculated.