Now he must have admitted about the vegetables. No doubt Rosalba had remarked on a weed or pointed out that the lettuces required thinning.
Laura brought her laptop to lunch that Sunday. Carlo beamed at glossy gardenias, fattened on Organic Life. Such flowers they would bear, Laura assured. He gazed lovingly at oleander, and at the early red flush on the pomegranate. But then he grew anxious: the effect of water restrictions on root systems balled in thirsty terra-cotta could only bring ruin. Oh, please don’t worry, said Laura, she was using that special water-retaining mix, and hand-hosing the regulation three times a week until water brimmed in the pots. She clicked and clicked, summoning creepers before and after the discipline of secateurs, showing soil protected with pea straw. Next thing, he was fretting over a photo in which he had mistaken the speckle of light on a leaf for a fungus. Laura soothed and promised. She laid it on like the pea straw, she moved her hands like snakes. All the photos had been taken the previous year. He was an old man with cataracts, he couldn’t tell what he had already been shown. She placed flowers and shining leaves, stolen from other people’s gardens, in his vases. She fitted a padlock to the door that led to the roof and worked the tiny key onto her ring.
She told Quentin Husker that she would be away at Christmas. “And a few days either side as well. I’ll work out the dates once I’ve decided where I’m going.”
Quentin scrawled his name obediently on a blank leave form. “Fill out the details when you know them.” Throughout their meeting, he had turned on Laura the vacant look of a beach house in winter. If he had been asked to picture himself, however, his mind would have called up a public statue surmounted by a pigeon—something like that anyway, lofty and imperiled. Quentin had set himself the task of carrying off a bold, original move, worthy of a CEO, a move that spoke to the essence of Ramsay. He remembered that it was Robyn Orr who had first used that phrase; straight away, a tingling in Quentin’s groin had acknowledged a masterstroke. The same reverence tinged with fear thrilled in that spot whenever Jenny Williams II, unlacing her corset, revealed a new tattoo or a fresh piercing.
When Laura had gone away, Quentin wrote the Ramsay tag on his whiteboard: Every traveler is unique. After contemplating it a while, he circled traveler. Then he made a list: explorer, vagabond, nomad, adventurer. There was a metallic tang in his mouth; it was often there these days. What would become of Quentin Husker if he didn’t make CEO? He could stay on under Robyn, at least for the short term; but losing out would mean everyone, and especially Jenny Williams II, looking at him and thinking, Loser. Moving on was the only real option. But where, where? Whichever way the cards fell, Robyn would be okay: marketing was a content-free career. Any time Robyn Orr tired of Ramsay, she could plug herself into toothpaste or transponders or time-shares and hit play. Editorial was different, it was rooted in the specific. Editorial staff who quit Ramsay either went back to university to reinvent themselves, or drifted around talking about their novel or screenplay before the mortgage drove them to inquire about freelance work. Guidebook experience was too specialized to translate into general publishing; Quentin had no idea how to commission a biography or acquire the local rights to a Swedish bestseller. On the mind map of his future all was wilderness, save for a distant southern peak labeled “Lonely Planet.”
The following week brought an email from HR. All managers had been rebadged as leaders. A manager manages, but a leader inspires. A leader has a vision. The proposal had originated with Paul Hinkel. The sentences were his. HR applauded Paul’s commitment to keeping Ramsay at the cutting edge of corporate philosophy. From the window where she spied, Laura watched the day’s hero—or its leader—setting off at noon with his gym bag. Incy-wincy Hinkel climbing rock by rock.
There was a federal election. Australians were offered a choice between two bullies. “Enjoy your democratic process,” said the polling official as he handed Laura her papers. In a cardboard booth, she wrote across each one, “I choose not to vote for any candidate.”
It was October, therefore a gale was blowing. Laura pushed her way up a hill. Jacarandas were throwing out hints about calm blue fireworks to come, and she didn’t even lift her head. But she reached over palings to steal mock-orange blossoms from a This Garden Uses Gray Water. In the bay window, a vase of waratahs was a warning red hand.
Ravi, 2004
THE EMAIL FROM NADINE said: what will says.
The email from Will said: I can’t figure out how many of HR’s forty-seven core competencies Ravi ticks. I can’t figure out HR full stop. I’d say he’s a nice guy, easy to work with, he’s smart and takes work seriously. It’s been a steep learning curve but his technical and design skills have really improved. But you know how we all spend time doing research online, looking for design inspiration, sussing out cool stuff? Ravi always ends up looking at sites he’s found in some archive like the Wayback Machine. He can’t stay away. It’s not that he lacks concentration or can’t work independently but it’s like there’s a disconnect.
Crystal Bowles said, “Have you noticed his jeans? Kmart! At least Nadine’s cool in that fugly geek-girl way.”
Uninvited in Tyler Dean’s office, Crystal was embroidered all over in a fashion designer’s idea of a peasant’s smock.
Tyler observed that cool wasn’t actually a job description.
“Yes it is. Only,” conceded Crystal, “we don’t come right out and say it. But it’s what we do in the ’zone. Deliver practical and stylish travel content. Stylish means cool.”
Long after he had got rid of her, the cool thing continued to nag Tyler. He was behind it, in a way. When he had first arrived at Ramsay, he had seen at once that digital publishing lacked prestige—that magic element—in a business oriented towards producing solid objects known as books. Tyler Dean, working at the height of his youthful powers, had set about rebranding the unit. There was nothing to be done about Tech: it was guys with bad hair and poor body shapes who installed your new software and couldn’t explain how to use it. But digital publishing was a whole other ball game. Straight away, Tyler awarded the web unit a new name: the e-zone. The ’zone was übercool, it was the future of Ramsay. Crucially, it was also the company’s past. It was Tyler who first used the phrase travel content in a management meeting, explaining that ever since its inception, Ramsay had been delivering travel content. The archaic form in which it had been delivered had obscured this, creating the illusion that Ramsay’s core business lay in books. It fell to Tyler, effortlessly aligned on his exercise ball, to point out that a guidebook was only a prototype website: an early trace of what the digital era would perfect. It could finally be seen that like any avant-garde, the web was a culmination that threw fresh light on what had gone before. All along, without realizing it, the whole of Ramsay had been aspiring to the condition of the ’zone.
Circumstances had changed; Tyler Dean’s fortunes had known flux. But with even Cliff Ferrier acknowledging that digital was now, the link between cool and the e-zone survived. Tyler had preached it to those who labored electronically there. The e-zone would transform travel content: make it snappier, wittier, less brown rice and more sushi, for a global, net-savvy e-generation. Tyler recalled, with a feeling akin to shame, that he had spoken of deconstructing Ramsay. What had he meant, exactly? Somehow, years later, it had brought Crystal Bowles into his office to sneer at Ravi Mendis’s jeans.
Now Ravi’s contract was almost up, and the question of whether he was to remain at Ramsay couldn’t be postponed. Across the globe, travel had bounced back—travel always did, it was only destinations that died. Sales were on the up, and Ramsay was hiring again. Tyler, bidding for two new ongoing positions in the e-zone, was confident of success. But Ravi’s official performance review, composed by Will and signed off by Nadine, had been cautious and bland: a sure sign of dissatisfaction. No manager wished to risk coming across as openly negative—that would be inappropriate in a laidback modern workplace like Ramsay. The real assessment made itself k
nown in the casual buzz around an individual. An employee was a Ramsay person or not: like any other essence, it was easy to recognize and hard to describe. It was an aura, it was a vibe. It was Crystal Bowles opening her eyes wide and saying, “The thing is, I find him a bit creepy. Did I tell you about when I sprang him with this photo of a gorgeous little boy on his screen?”
Ravi Mendis just hadn’t worked out quite as Tyler had hoped. He was a nice guy but not the right kind of person; could it be that he wasn’t the right kind of refugee? His co-workers had welcomed him with little bouquets of compassion. But the films that were screening in their minds had showed long, dangerous journeys and cyclone wire. Invited to tell us something about yourself at his first general meeting, Ravi had spoken of working in aged care. The only person older than fifty-five at Ramsay was Alan. The faces turned towards Ravi suggested that while not personally opposed to old people, his colleagues had expected to hear of suffering. It was the first intimation that Tyler had miscalculated again.
Eleven months later, he had appealed to Nadine and Will for a straight-up, off-the-HR-record appraisal of Ravi. Having read Will’s response a third time, Tyler stuck his head out of his office and saw that Ravi was on the phone. So Tyler emailed him. Clicking send, he thought, This’ll be the end of Damo and me. That was insane! It was also the first glimpse of a country that until that moment had existed only as a legendary, sunless realm, and was now revealed as just another place, stony perhaps, but nothing that couldn’t be survived.
On the other end of the phone, Angie Segal said, “Ravi.” He knew at once: it was the only reason she would have called him at work. Invited to attend the handing down of the tribunal’s decision, he had chosen not to go. So now the verdict had been written down and sent to Angie as his authorized representative. Ravi heard her ask whether he wanted her to open the letter, or whether he preferred to come to her office. “Or I could send a courier over, of course.”
It was one thing to imagine leaving and another to be shown the door. As soon as he had heard Angie’s voice, Ravi went to the digital bookmark that brought up Malini’s photo. She looked out at him plainly, plainly courageous. He said, “Please tell me what the letter says.” Tyler’s message—a little unopened envelope—appeared at the bottom of Ravi’s screen.
That afternoon, he wore his Kmart jeans into Tyler’s office. “Hi, Ravi,” said Tyler. Leaning from his exercise ball to close the door, he spotted Crystal Bowles. Her eyes watched and smiled. Tyler had once heard Helmut Becker say that a German manager’s notion of earning respect was to keep his office door shut. “You know what is really tragic about this idea? It works.” In Australia, where everyone was equal except for their salaries, managerial doors stood wide. It followed that a closed door switched the office to alert. It was simply amazing, thought Tyler, how often the human factor caused theory to come undone.
“How’s it all going out there in the ’zone?” he asked brightly.
Ravi broadened his smile.
“Done any cool stuff today?”
Ravi thought back to the morning—how many centuries had passed since then?—and came up with an online tutorial in wireframe software.
“Cool!” And as the silence lengthened, “That’s so coo—great!”
It was the bit about the Wayback Machine that continued to bother Tyler, as it had bothered Will. A good designer was curious, open-minded, on-trend; Ravi was never going to get there looking over his shoulder. But that morning, Tyler himself had turned to the Wayback Machine and its archived copy of the Sri Lankan website Ravi had developed. If he closed his eyes he could summon it now: clip-arty and ramshackle by today’s standards, sure, but Tyler held to his original evaluation. The design was under-the-radar, piratical, it had verve. It radiated “make” culture—vital in a web designer. Tyler could have sworn that back in the day, Ravi Mendis had been a different person.
He said, “I’m thinking we should maybe talk directions?”
What Ravi could see was that Tyler, mini-bouncing now and then on his exercise ball, needed something from him. Eager to oblige—he liked Tyler, he liked his loose, booming laugh—he could only hope for guidance. To this end, he stared intently at the tiny silver man with his arms outstretched who adorned the tip of Tyler’s ear.
Tyler’s nerve went. “It’s HR, dude. Myself, I’m all for flow,” said Tyler Dean, making it up on the hoof—he shone at “make” culture. “So the thing is, where do we go from here? When your year with us is up?”
Ravi had made an appointment to see Angie Segal the following week; the delay was her idea, he needed time to take things in and think them over, she had said. He offered Tyler the first thing he had offered Angie: “I don’t want to be a tourist in my own country.” It was all that mattered and made crystal sense to him. “I’m going back to Sri Lanka,” Ravi explained.
“Dude!” Tyler’s dismay was heartfelt. He had envisaged Ravi moving on—shifting him painlessly to a call center, or was Lonely Planet out of the question?—but this was a return, a loop. The cause was obvious. “They’ve rejected your application. That’s terrible.” The image of a circle persisted behind Tyler’s eyes. He blinked to dismiss it, and the circle morphed into a tire, burning about a man’s neck.
“I’m very lucky,” said Ravi. “I’ve been granted asylum.”
“But that’s awesome! Congratulations!” Tyler paused. “So then…?”
“I prefer to go back.”
“But isn’t it, like, dangerous for you there?”
Ravi might have said, They killed my child and turned my wife into a vase. He might have told Tyler about Varunika and her chipped tooth, adding, I’m like that, frightened of the future, when in fact the worst thing has already happened. Or he might have said, Weren’t you listening? What was the first thing I said?
While he remained silent, three things happened. Tyler told Tyler, Don’t be evil, tell him to apply for one of the ongoing hires—it could make all the difference. Damo asked Tyler, Didn’t you try to make him stay? Tell me exactly how this conversation went! And Tyler assured Tyler, Whether he stays in Australia or not, Ravi’ll be happier working somewhere else.
“Thing is,” said Tyler, “what I called you in here to say? You can count on me for a reference if you need one. Any time.”
Ravi seemed to be thinking this over. Then he said, “Everyone here is very kind. It’s a good place. It will be hard for me to leave.” He spoke carefully, as if not to disturb whatever was stirring in his face.
Tyler gave three little bounces to a rhythm: shit, shit, shit. “Theoretically,” he said, “it’s possible things could be opening up a little in the ’zone? Being mindful that at the end of the day, HR hasn’t actually green-lighted anything.”
Tyler couldn’t know that Ravi was looking at a picture of himself from the future. It was 4x6 inches and showed a man with a camera marveling at women grinding chilies, tickled by an ad for soap powder, working out how little to tip. A thought balloon escaped from his baseball cap: There’s no poverty here. Tyler’s broad, anxious face intervened. Off to one side hung a tiny metal man whose death leap was forever imminent and suspended. Ravi might have told him, I’m frightened of going back. But I’m frightened of what will happen if I stay in Australia, too.
“I don’t want to be a tourist in my own country,” he repeated.
This time, Tyler remembered an avenue of jacarandas and flame trees. It was getting smaller: all he could do was tilt the rear-vision mirror for a last view. In the backseat, Dean Tyler leaned forward: “Who are you? You look familiar.” Tyler Dean told someone, “I know what you mean, dude.”
After that, it was quickly arranged. A new, short-term contract would cover Ravi until he left—Tyler’s fingers flashed, composing the email to HR at once. When there was nothing left but for Ravi to go away, Tyler sprang from his shining synthetic ball. “Dude, thank you for traveling this road with me.” Crystal Bowles, chancing to stroll past, happening to glance in, saw him
fold Ravi in his embrace.
Ravi, 2004
LAURA FRASER WHEELED A chair over to his desk and sank down. She produced a guide to Sri Lanka and questioned, underlining passages in green. Her ballpoint might have been a supplementary finger with a colored claw. Ravi, brought up to look on books as costly, revered objects, didn’t like to see even a travel guide disfigured like that. Laura was asking whether he would be back in Sri Lanka by Christmas and whether he was really okay about leaving. With the hibiscus eavesdropping in the car park, Ravi had already assured her that he wanted to go home. The truth was that a light-filled hollow opened inside him at the thought, and he was free to assign it any meaning he chose.
Laura’s flight would be getting in two days after his, very early on Christmas Eve. Ravi advised her to get out of Colombo as soon as possible. It was standard wisdom among the foreigners he had met when he was pretending to be a tourist. Oh yes, there’s nothing there, we got out as soon as possible. The sentiment had puzzled Ravi at the time. What was wrong with Colombo? Traveling south along Galle Road, if you glanced to the right, a gleaming blue ribbon of sea threaded through all the dusty lanes. But Ravi was trained now; he told Laura, “Colombo is typical and ordinary.” He realized that seeing how local people lived was a myth that lurked like a piece of garden statuary, vaguely ennobling, in the tangle of motives that led to travel. No one on holiday really wanted anything of the kind: ordinary life was what they were on holiday from. That was where RealLanka had erred; its attempt to turn the myth into reality was as mistaken as trying to set marble limbs in motion. He would have to talk all this over with Nimal one day, thought Ravi. To Laura, he spoke of ruins, statues, the beaches of the south, his friend with the Internet cafe: “He will be happy to see you if you go there.” She wrote down everything Ravi suggested on a blank page at the end of her guidebook. In the car park, talking about getting away at Christmas, she had clutched a clump of her hair. “I don’t care where I go.” Ravi had remarked that there were plenty of cheap places with great food. Her face told him that he had read her mind.
Questions of Travel Page 39