Trilemma
Page 17
“I’m collecting him from the airport in an hour.”
“I’m so glad you caught us. I have a gift for you somewhere. Michael, where did we put—oh no, don’t put it there!”
“It doesn’t matter. Give it to me when you find it.”
But she raises a hand to her temple and rubs it, sighs, and leans down to the box at her feet. “Ah.” She straightens and hands me a round shape wrapped in fluorescent green. “Be careful, it’s fragile.”
A lime-green glass perfume bottle flecked with tiny crimson and white swirls emerges from the wrapping.
“I know how much you like colored things.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
I give Michael an envelope of money—a boring present, but all I had time for, and hand his mother a bottle of ’73 Madeira. “Your birth year,” I say.
“Yeah, right.”
“Are you okay, Sally?”
“I’m fine. Just been doing some thinking about the future, you know?” she replies. “Suddenly, someone makes you feel you’re not invincible.”
“You are invincible.”
“Okay, I am invincible.” She smiles a real smile this time, and I reach out and hug her, my friend Sally.
“Have a good Christmas,” I say.
“And you.”
I drive the back way to the airport, along the ridge and down through the valley to the south coast. I love this drive. The wild seas crash against the rocks as I meander along the road, dodging mad cyclists who think the road belongs to them. When I turn the last corner, Lyall Bay stretches before me.
Today there are surfers riding the waves to the shore. Beyond them the airport straddles the peninsula, the runway bordered by roads and sea at either end. A Boeing is on final approach. I think of Ben on board and my heart leaps and I feel that warm feeling of anticipation. My man is arriving, and we will have two weeks together.
Traffic is jammed up on the road through the airport. I beat my fingers against the wheel and check my watch. Move, you bastards, move! I crawl up the ramp in first gear and flick my eyes across the concourse. At the far end is a familiar shape, dressed in shorts with his pack by his side. I veer over to where he stands and park the car crookedly. As I climb out, he catches me up in his arms and squeezes the breath out of me.
“You mustn’t stop!” says the official in the bright-green jacket.
“Okay, we won’t,” I reply, and hug Ben back. “Although it’s busy and you probably need the parking space.”
The official scowls at me so I open the back door, and Ben throws in his pack and puts out his hand for the key.
“We’ll be sleeping at Vivienne’s tonight,” I tell him as he drives us through the heavy traffic out of Wellington and onto State Highway 2. “You’ll get a chance to see inside her beautiful house.”
“I suppose they must be quite rich,” he replies thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure. Alison and Wal live quite modestly, but Vivienne and Christopher seem to have the best of everything. But perhaps that’s from Christopher’s side of the family.”
“Did you have any idea they owned the house in Wellington?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Funny none of them mentioned it when we stayed last month.”
“They didn’t talk about Wellington at all, just Hawke’s Bay. Thinking back, Alison only talked about Dad when we were alone and she showed me the studio.”
“How long are we going to stay with them?”
I run my finger up his tanned arm. “Four nights and then back to Wellington, by ourselves.”
Ben’s mouth curls into a smile and he pats my thigh.
The roads are crowded with holiday traffic and it is a slow trip. The highway only has one lane in each direction and the passing lanes are few.
“These roads are terrible. You’d think they’d build a decent motorway for God’s sake!”
“It’s that socialist ethic of ours. We’re embarrassed by good infrastructure; feel it smacks of capitalism or something. Then we blame drivers for the road toll when really it’s the pathetic quality of the roads.”
“I suppose the train trip would be better.”
“They canned the line a couple of years ago. No investment in the tracks.”
“Huh. So what do they invest in?”
He points out a farm as we pass. “Dairy farms and dairy production. Agriculture, horticulture, forestry. Offshore oil.”
“Oil!”
“Yeah, New Zealand’s fourth largest export is oil. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“When Americans think of New Zealand, which isn’t often, it’s to wonder where it is.”
Ben snorts. “The Europeans know us better.”
“The only thing the French know about New Zealand is the All Blacks team.”
“And the Brits?”
“Land of milk and honey.”
“There you go.”
We reach the turnoff and drive carefully up the zigzag hill, although Ben cleaned the rubbish out of the car when we stopped for gas so we should be safe this time.
My heart lifts. Away from city life, away from the cares of corporate life, I feel I am coming home.
Chapter 38
Vivienne opens the door slowly to let us in. Her eyes drop as we walk inside. “Do you mind?” she says.
Ben looks uncertainly at her and then glances down to see two sets of shoes placed carefully by the door. We kneel to remove our sandals and Vivienne smiles. I should have warned him about her floors. His feet are not very clean.
“I’ve put you in the west suite.”
She shows us into an elegant room with a double bed, a bathroom, and its own small sitting room. The walls are cream, the floor is made of wide, polished boards of some native red wood, and the quilt is embroidered silk in charcoal and lilac. Ben puts our suitcases beside the dainty walnut dressing table.
“I’ll leave you to freshen up,” Vivienne says. “Supper will be served in the front room in, shall we say, half an hour?”
“Strewth,” says Ben when she closes the door behind her. “I’d better go wash my feet.” He vanishes into the bathroom. “I wonder if she’s got a bid-thingie? Yes, she has. Good.”
He likes to wash his feet in the bidet. I can’t seem to train him out of it.
In the front room, opera plays softly on a Bang & Olufsen music system. The high ceilings are painted a rich deep cream, and the walls are paneled in pale lime-washed wood. At one end, a massive fireplace contains a bowl of roses in every shade of white; at the other, French windows look out over the tennis court. A fine old piano in some exotic wood sits in one corner; in another, a collection of tall vase shapes; in the third, an antique dollhouse. On the walls hang original modern art works, and the mantelpiece holds a collection of sculptures: some ceramic, some metal, some glass, one made of feathers. Tall flutes of pale glass, ringed in black, provide light. Three very large modern sofas, two in cinnamon-colored leather and one in cream, sit facing each other in the center of the room. A coffee table in ebony, edged with a lighter wood, holds a silver tray of glasses. Three wine bottles swathed in white linen napkins stand opened beside the tray. The room smells of leather.
“Strewth,” mutters Ben again.
Christopher lounges on the cream sofa with his back to the door and his dog at his feet. As we enter, he turns. As usual his blind eyes are hidden behind dark lenses.
“Hello,” he says. “Grab a seat.” He gestures in the direction of the other two sofas. “Would you mind helping yourself to the wine? She worries about me spilling it.”
We sink into the sofa opposite him, and Ben reaches over to pour Gewürztraminer into two crystal goblets.
Max carries in a platter of antipasti: little smoked mussels, sun-dried tomatoes, balls of smoked fish, cold meats, tiny stuffed bell peppers, marinated artichoke hearts, three varieties of olives, two different pâtés. Vivienne follows with a plate of French bread and four different crackers.
Christopher’s handsome jaw moves into a smile. He touches her silk skirt over her thigh. “Whatever you think I’ll like.”
He turns his face in my direction. “I guess you Yanks eat turkey for Christmas?”
“I haven’t had Christmas in America for years,” I reply. “But Mom always used to cook a turkey, yes.”
“Yours are those massive grain-fed things, aren’t they?”
“They are quite large.”
“Everything’s big in America, eh?”
“It’s a big country,” I reply.
We silently fill our plates with food. I glance at Vivienne’s immaculate face. I want to get my questions over with.
“I didn’t realize that you and Alison still owned the house in Wellington.”
Vivienne’s face stiffens. “Gran took over the mortgage when your father deserted us.”
There is a sudden chilly silence.
“What a beautiful room,” Ben says.
“Thank you,” Vivienne smiles at him.
“I like the red picture,” I say pointing out a large canvas depicting the wine country in shades of red, or at least I think that’s what it is.
“Mm,” replies Vivienne.
“These mussels are delicious,” says Ben.
“Thank you.” She bestows another gracious smile on Ben.
“I didn’t know New Zealand grew Gewurtz,” I try.
“There isn’t much grown,” she replies. “Where’s this one from, Max?”
Max flashes his brilliant smile. “A few valleys over,” he replies. “Instead of turning at the ridge, you keep going.”
“Max wants to be a winemaker,” she says.
Max’s face flushes pink. “I’m happy being a farmer,” he says, and turns his attention to his plate.
“I would so love a vineyard,” she says and goes to stand by the bay window that looks across the fields. “Over there.”
Max glances down, saying nothing.
“Is the land suitable?” I ask. “You’re quite high up.”
“We get frosts,” says Christopher. “And the soil in this part of the farm is too rich.”
“Oh, you are a spoilsport, Christopher!”
“And it would cost a fortune,” he adds.
“Which I’m afraid we don’t have,” Vivienne turns to me. “I imagine you get paid very well as a chief executive?”
“I do okay.”
She holds the bottle out to Ben. “A top-up? Or would you prefer the Syrah? It’s to go with the cheese, but you could have a glass now, if you’d like.”
Max rises to clear the plates and takes them to the kitchen. He returns with an impressive plate of cheeses.
Vivienne points out the varieties. “Gorgonzola, Camembert—real Camembert, Manchego, Gouda, Wensleydale, and some local goat cheese. I couldn’t find any decent imported stuff. And I couldn’t find any American cheese.”
“Do Americans make cheese?” asks Christopher. “Or do they create it out of plastic or something?”
“Yes, but nothing you’d bother importing.”
“I suppose once they remove all the dairy as well as all the fat there’s nothing left.” He laughs at his small joke and reaches out his empty glass for Vivienne to refill.
“Naughty,” she says, smiling, and taps his wrist.
Christopher wants to talk about nuclear power next.
“You Yanks are pretty pissed off about New Zealand’s nuclear ban, aren’t you?”
“Frankly, I don’t think America gives a damn about New Zealand’s nuclear ban.”
His hand pauses on its way to his mouth. The cheese drops off the cracker and lands on his belly. He doesn’t notice and puts the cracker in his mouth, startled when it enters empty.
“We don’t need nuclear power. We’ve got hydropower and geothermal power.”
Max gets up again and pours me some red wine.
“Do you play any sport, Max?” asks Ben.
Max flushes. “I used to play soccer, but I stopped when I left school.” He glances at Christopher.
“A sissy’s game,” says Christopher. “Rugby is the real Kiwi sport.” He looks toward Ben and smiles. “I used to play rugby.”
“What position?” Ben asks.
“Wing, mainly, though I’ve played fullback as well.”
“Christopher was a star,” Vivienne says. “He was selected for the All Blacks.”
Ben looks up and his eyes narrow. “I think I remember seeing you play. Yeah, Chris Marchmount. I remember you. You were bloody good. That try from the five-meter line!”
Christopher smiles again. “Those were the days.”
He and Ben share memories of rugby tests past until Vivienne decides it’s time for us all to go to bed.
“I guess the accident must have wrecked his life,” I say to Ben as we lie on crisp linen sheets under luxurious covers.
“He was the embodiment of every boy’s dream: handsome, talented, popular, big rugby contract just about to be signed. As I recall, there was a huge outcry because he was driving drunk, went off the road, and killed his girlfriend and his best friend. They threw the book at him. So, yes, I’d say it destroyed his life.”
“Although he seems happy here with Vivienne.”
“It’s a nice lifestyle, but your sister is hard going. I couldn’t hack living with her.”
“It is the most beautiful house I think I’ve ever seen.”
“But he can’t see it.”
“Vivienne’s an artist. She can’t help but create a beautiful living place. It’s who she is.”
“He’s a good-looking chap. I guess he goes with her décor.”
“She dotes on him. Wouldn’t you like me to dote on you like that? Ben, darling, let me get you some more Manchego?”
“I like you just the way you are, Lin. Don’t go all darling on me, please!”
“Anything you say, dear.”
“Not that either! I like your family, Lin.”
“I do too. I am so glad we found them.”
“They don’t want to talk about the house in Wellington, do they?”
“I’m best off asking Alison. And I’ll ask her why they didn’t try to contact me.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe. Or the day after.”
“You’re procrastinating.”
“I know. But it’s Christmas. A family Christmas. I haven’t had one of those for a long, long time. I don’t want anything to spoil it.”
Chapter 39
For Christmas I give Ben a new leather jacket. He smiles and thanks me, but puts the jacket to one side. Maybe he’d rather keep wearing the tatty old thing he’s had for years, but I’ve already stolen it and consigned it to the dustbin, so he’ll have to wear the smart new one I’ve given him.
He hands me a tiny package wrapped in a wisp of blue tissue, tied with a thin gold thread. Inside is a blue stone with swirls of gold and speckles of red. As it rolls around my palm, the gold glistens.
“I got paid with an opal for a piece I made for an Aussie miner,” he says.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You can have it made into a—well—anything you want.”
“But you shouldn’t have. I mean, you should have sold it. I know you need the money.”
Ben rewraps the stone in the tissue paper and folds my hand around it. “I wanted to give you something special, something valuable.”
I smile at him and have to blink because suddenly my eyes water. I had forgotten what it was like to be given a special, valuable gift. No one has for a long time.
We escape after being fed an elegant breakfast of fresh fruit and expensive muesli. As we walk through the pasture, I warn Ben to watch his feet so he doesn’t tread in cow pie—pats, they’re called cow pats, Lin, Alison had corrected me.
Cheryl is lying on the divan downs
tairs watching morning television but bounces up to hug her brother. The bruises have faded and she is looking her pretty self again.
“Merry Christmas, sis,” he says and gives her a wrapped parcel.
She’s like a child in her enthusiasm to open her present. “Oh! Thank you, Ben, it’s lovely!” He has given her a wooden picture frame he has made himself. The photograph it frames is of the four children, playing in the children’s area on the ferry.
“Not the best-quality photo,” he apologizes. “But it was all my cell could take.”
Her lip starts to tremble, so I hastily hand her my gift.
“Oh, Lin! An iPhone! Just what I always wanted.”
“I got you the white model. More interesting than black, don’t you think?”
Ben and I wait outside for Cheryl to get dressed.
“When I said she could do with a new cell phone, I didn’t mean you to buy the most expensive on the market.”
“I can afford it, Ben. And she liked it, didn’t she?”
“You’re as bad as Vivienne.”
Alison’s house is buzzing with energy and family. Wal’s mother, Flo, sits in state in front of the television. Wal’s sister, Magda, a very large girl with a very wide smile full of very white teeth, is in the kitchen while her husband, Murray, helps Wal move tables and chairs to make enough seating for all of us to eat together. Murray keeps stopping to tell Wal about the deals he’s just made. Ben steps up to take the end of a table from him and moves it where it needs to go.
“Bloody Asians are pushing up the prices for land,” Murray says.
“Steady on, mate,” Ben says. “Anyone’s got a right to buy land.”
“Foreigners shouldn’t be allowed to, particularly the slant eyes,” grunts Murray, without even a glance in my direction. “Bloody Government needs to do something about it!”
Jess is in the corner ignoring everyone, her fingers busily texting. Four children ranging in age, to my untrained eye, from about five to ten race around the yard and in and out of the house, playing with the water pistols they received from Santa this morning. I stand very still while two of them duck around me shrieking with laughter.
“Outside!” yells Magda.
The room is dominated by a huge Christmas tree decorated with a rainbow of balls and toys and streamers, and colored lights that blink on and off. A pile of discarded wrapping paper is strewn around the base of the tree.