The Point

by Marion Halligan

  Can we sit with you a minute and have a drink. Anabel’s same old questions-that-weren’t. You haven’t met Nigel, have you. This is Jerome, that I used to be married to. I’m looking forward to this, they reckon Flora’s food is fucking amazing. You had it before?

  He was trying to work out a way of telling her about Flora – calling her my partner didn’t seem right – when she came out of the kitchen and kissed them chastely on the cheeks and put her arm in Jerome’s. He’s never not here, she said, looking up at him fondly, and he kissed her fuzzy sweet-scented head. Ah, like that is it, said Anabel, and heaved across a chair to sit down at Jerome’s table. We won’t stay, just have a drink, she told Joe, who was hovering. Champagne, said Jerome to Joe.

  I hear about you from time to time, she said to Jerome. If our business gets any grander we might have to come and see you. Not if I have my way though. I mean, you don’t want to get too grand, stay the right size and do it yourself is my motto. Big enough is big enough.

  You married, she asked him. No? We are. No kids but. Baby vegies. That’s enough for us. She took Nigel’s hand and kissed his mouth. He gazed adoringly at her.

  Jerome was glad when they moved to their own table. There was a turbulence in the air about them. Anabel had done all the talking, he hadn’t needed to say anything, just as well, he was in a turmoil of his own. Anabel, whom he’d done his best to forget, Anabel who’d broken his heart … maybe this gorgeous woman will exorcise her cruel young self for good and all, in ways that his attempts at forgetting her never had. Instead he could remember her as she was now, barbaric, splendid, comical. Anabel, comical. She didn’t seem to recollect the him she’d so despised.

  When he’d finished eating Jerome stayed in the restaurant, sitting in one of the elegant thirties chairs in the bar, drinking red wine and waiting for Flora to finish. Anabel kissed him goodbye when she left, on his mouth, with friendly energy, inviting him to come to Pialligo and look at the vegies, they weren’t open to the public but they’d let him in.

  Get Flora to bring you, said Nigel, his arm proudly buried in Anabel’s flowing purple silks, giving him a stare which Jerome decided was a mixture of pitying and cat that’s got the cream.

  Thank you, he said, sure that he wouldn’t.

  Flora came out, the rather wan tired but triumphant waif she always was at the end of a night’s work, who made his heart tremble and his arms ache to hold her, bringing her glass of white wine, sitting, since all the customers had gone, sideways on his lap with her arms around his neck, he could feel her firm round bottom pressing on his thighs, and him stiffening against her, so that Flora looked into his eyes and smiled secretly at him.

  I didn’t know that you knew Anabel, she said.

  Jerome took a deep breath.

  They’re a funny pair, said Flora, she’s so bossy and loud and full of energy – you should see her windsurfing – and he’s so sort of mild. His role seems to be to adore. Be bedazzled and besotted. Funny marriage. But I suppose all marriages are.

  Very funny. Flora … let me tell you …

  So Jerome told her that once he had been married to Anabel. My first marriage, you know, my marriage, he said, it was to her.

  Flora frowned. Anabel, she said. She pushed herself up off his lap and paced across the room. Anabel? She laughed. My god. She looked across at Jerome. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be your type.

  I suppose that’s why I’m not still married to her.

  Flora drank her glass of wine, poured more in. Jerome said, You knew I had been married. What did you imagine?

  Not Anabel, said Flora.

  He felt a small shift in their relationship, as though something had suddenly changed. For a moment he was angry, he thought, this is part of my life and I am not ashamed of it. He ought to be able to remember Anabel’s beauty and the pleasure they took in one another, the choice he had made to marry her, without this wondering repetition of her name. For a moment he thought, Flora can make me suffer, but do I ever hurt her? He wondered if he’d like her to feel some of the misery she caused him. But he wanted her to be happy.

  Shall we go home, he said.

  In a moment. Flora looked at him. Where’s home?

  37

  Flora was in a panic about the Slow Food dinner which was only a fortnight away. The panic was like a sickness that made her gasp and need to take deep breaths. She had decided pretty much what to serve, when she looked at the menu and imagined the food it was quite superb. But not perfect: there was something missing. It needed something, she couldn’t tell what. Some small masterpiece to pull it all together.

  She’d stayed back after everybody had gone from the restaurant. Jerome hadn’t wanted her to, he said she was tired and she’d make her missing link much more deftly if she had a good night’s sleep. He called her Morgan le Fay again which she thought he’d given up and she lost her temper and said things. He’d been quite mild and she’d got enraged.

  Your words, she shouted, you’re all words. They’re like silk scarves in gaudy colours all knotted together. You the magician you pull them out of your sleeve oh so pretty but what do they mean? Fragments, strings, scraps, just words. Pretty technicolour words. All a trick.

  Look at you, he said. Just words, you say! Gaudy silk scarves! What a metaphor. Who’s a pot calling a kettle black? None of that round here, of course, we’re all polished copper. Jerome made the mistake of laughing at this joke.

  They were in the kitchen. She hefted one of the great copper pots and looked like throwing it at him, but he stayed her arm. Would she have thrown it? She went back to shouting at him. Words stand for. They mean. Yours don’t.

  I don’t think that’s true …

  Examine yourself. You’re so full of yourself! See how you are.

  Me, full of myself! When you’re the most full of herself uptight stuffed with crap proud woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to set eyes on. He was still holding her arm with the copper pot, although the pot itself was resting on the bench. He pinched and shook her skinny muscles. Just think for once, with something else but this mad obsession of yours. You’re so distorted by it, it twists your view of everything.

  Me! Mad obsession! That’s rich. Coming from you. Hunched over a bloody computer after who knows what. The meaning of knowledge. What the fuck’s that?

  At least I’m something more than a short-order cook, filling the bellies of a bunch of the undeserving rich.

  So it went, unforgivable things were said, things that neither believed but could not believe the other would say. Jerome left at the height of his rage. I’ll see you when I see you, he said. And Flora screamed after him, Never will be too soon!

  He went along the lake before turning up the road by the art gallery. He walked blindly along, battered with the misery of the fight. The night was quite cold, in a pleasant way, spring cold coming into summer, not winter cold, his hot face liked the freshness of the air and he could feel it cooling his anger. His swollen brain was soothed by its soft touch, as though a cool fond hand was smoothing his brow. Does either of us mean these things, he wondered, surely we don’t. If we do there’s no hope for us. They’d had a lot of tiffs lately. Tiffs. Full blown arguments. Did that mean love had died? Or was it another phase of it, this miserable impotent bashing at one another, each trying to change the other into the ideal beloved? He thought, maybe we are no good for each other, maybe we should part, make Flora’s never come true, but that thought pierced his chest with such a sharp pain that he did not think it could have any value in it. By the time he got to his house he was thinking that perhaps he had been unkind, that Flora was overwhelmed by this blasted Slow Food dinner, mad obsession he had said her food was and this dinner was only one manifestation of it, he did not think he was anywhere near as obsessed as she was, it was just simply interest on his part, needing busyness, his desire to know, a human trait of a quite normal kind, yes it was certainly strong in him but nothing like her obsession with her perfect dishe
s, and he should have understood that, when she said that silly thing about his words and coloured scarves out of a magician’s pocket he should just have smiled and let it pass, said, Yes, my love, but come to bed before too long, I do so miss you. But that might have enraged her too, the idea that all he could think of was her hurrying to bed when she had so much to do. But he should have tried to be kind, he could see that.

  The moon had come out and was shining on his house, whitening the pale stucco that surrounded the dark cave of the porch. A fine example of early Canberra architecture which he usually paid attention to, but not now. He was tired, he was ready to go to bed, the argument had exhausted him, he wouldn’t be able to do any work tonight. He wondered how Flora would manage, she must be even more tired, but he knew she would push doggedly on.

  The automatic light came on, dispelling the colourless silvery brightness of the moonlight, transforming the dark cave of the porch into a welcoming warm entrance. The indigo-coloured petunias in pots glowed velvety dark in the yellow light, the panel of blue and yellow Spanish tiles was as mysterious as ever. He let himself in and tapped in the code to turn off the burglar alarm. He stood in the hall, listening to the imperfect silence of the house. Then he turned the alarm on again, put the keys back in his pocket and took the path back to the lake. He would go and make sure she was all right, he’d walk back and see if he could get her to come home with him. He was still tired, but firmly walking didn’t make him any more so, there was a calm and relaxed quality in it, and there was the good feeling of going back to look after Flora. Not just good, necessary. And when he got there he could take her thin strong violent beloved body in his arms, and all would be well.

  Flora washed her burning face under the tap, splashed cold water over the soft fuzz of her head to cool her brain which was hot and tight and felt like bursting. Be calm, she said to herself. It was dreadfully hot in the kitchen, or was it just her, she could feel a tide of heat surging and rising through her body. Surely it couldn’t be a hot flush? There was no way she could be menopausal yet. Though it did happen unnaturally early to some people. Maybe that would solve some problems. But choosing not to have children wasn’t the same as being past it. Being fertile wasn’t a matter of doing; it was being that was important.

  She opened the window, and breaths of the cool night air wafted in. With them came the mimosa scent of the catkins on the willow sculpture. How beautiful the sculpture was, to look at and to smell, it was her doing, she had made it happen, and she could stand at her kitchen window breathing in the sweetness of its presence and its making. She felt calm, now. She took up the menu as she had worked it out so far. The carp would be okay, she was making that into a hot mousse, not so light as a soufflé, though she still needed to do some work on the sauce, she fancied it would need just a breath of chilli. And maybe some water chestnuts, for their crunchy texture and sweetness of flavour. It needed to be quite robust, carp being a robust fish. She sat on a stool at the bench, thinking, her mind clear but vague, enfolding the idea of carp, and a fish fumet, a faint hint of chilli, water chestnuts. Creaminess? A buerre blanc? No, too rich. She gazed at the willow sculpture. The moon was out now, it was shining on the slope of grass, the looming shadow-slashed bulk of the library, drenching them with its light but blanching them of all their colour. The shadows were very black, the pattern of the screen across the ground dense and impenetrable. Moon-blanched: it was one of those phrases that are somehow too poetic, you can use them in the recesses of your mind but there is something faintly embarrassing about uttering them. You wouldn’t say moon-blanched to anyone. Well, maybe to Jerome, that was the good thing about him, you could say such things. Salsify: that was a thought. Famous for its faint flavour of oysters. What about a little puree of salsify? Or possibly a small rösti-like cake, julienne strips formed into a little patty, deep-fried, crisp. Water chestnuts, salsify, the denseness of the carp … her mind put the tastes and textures together, her tongue moved in her mouth, saliva formed. Salsify would be more interesting than fennel, less obvious. But was it maybe finishing? Slow Food vegies have to be in season. She considered. Salsify should be around and fresh well into spring, but will Anabel still have any?

  She was sitting in her mild ruminating daze, tasting the various versions of the dish with delicate probings of her tongue, her jaws gently moving as though she were rolling something around in her mouth, against her palate, her tongue, the roof of her mouth, nipping it with her teeth, finally letting it slide towards her throat and swallowing. Not chilli with the salsify, the delicate earthy oyster flavour demanded another edge of hotness. She imagined ginger. Or what about wasabi? There was no Eureka moment yet. She had not even got to the point where she would try the flavours with real ingredients.

  A swift dark movement in the corner of her eye startled her. Her heart jumped. She lost track of carp and chilli and salsify. It took a minute for her eyes to find what the movement was. A moth. A Bogong moth.

  Flora knows about Bogong moths. How they in their millions fly south to estivate in the Brindabellas. How their peanut-sized abdomens are full of delicious proteins and fat. Tasting like burnt almonds, nutty, sweet, brown. How the Aborigines cooked them, roasting them on hot stones, about a minute on each side. Sometimes using round river cobbles to grind the roasted moths into a paste to make moth cakes. Moth cakes. They sound as impossibly romantic as moon-blanched. Like something fairies would eat. This was the land of the moth hunters, once. The land of the moth hunters. The name has a mythical resonance, but there was nothing mythical about the people who stored Bogong fat in their sleek bodies to nourish them through harsh times.

  Several more moths have flown in. The new Parliament House has been found to draw enormous numbers of Bogong moths, its myriad lights on the hill pulling them in like magnets, when they perish in this lost way to their summer resting camps. Now Flora’s small bright lantern of The Point is calling to them.

  Several more fly in. She catches them as they blunder about in the shadowless space of the kitchen and puts them in a bowl covered with a cloth. Bogong moths. Roasted. Made into moth cakes. Tasting like burnt almonds. The food of the moth hunters. Simple, immemorial, vital.

  Yes.

  Jerome has arrived back at The Point. He sees her through her kitchen windows, among her dazzling surfaces of copper and steel. He sees her moving about. Sees her intense concentration. He realises he cannot disturb her. She is still working, she will be angry if he interrupts. He doesn’t want her even to see him, that will count as an interference. He wanders along the lake edge, turns, comes back. Walks around the restaurant. Stands on the point of land jutting into the lake. Looks back at the arched and glowing spaces of the dining room; all the lamps are still lit. Walks back. The willow screen smells sweetly of honey. He discerns a curled shape against the wall and realises it is Gwyneth, fast asleep. He is walking softly as a cat, he doesn’t disturb her.

  He watches Flora in her kitchen, watches her like a stranger, like a spectator at a play. He feels breathless with the concentration of it. It’s a bit creepy as well. This is Flora whom he loves, who gives him the familiar quivering feeling in the pit of his stomach, the lifting turning leap in his gut that he knows as love. Yet he is watching her with the cool gaze of a stranger. He watches the swift bare grace of her movements. Wonders what it is that she is doing, sees with puzzlement that she is collecting something, examining, putting them in a bowl. Realises when she scoops her hand in the air that it is moths flying in her open window that she is catching. Her pale-gold shimmering head like the droughty bloom of Monaro grasslands. Even hears her say, softly to herself, Moth cakes, as though she is eating the words.

  She comes to the front door and goes out into the garden in front of the restaurant. Jerome steps behind the screen. She searches a bit, bending over, squatting down, touching the ground with her hands, then picks up a rock, a large flat rounded river stone, smooth, not jagged or broken, and takes it inside. She lights the largest
burner on the immense industrial stove, the burner used for quick searing of meat, or under the wok in stir-fries. She carefully places the stone on it, the flames roar up.

  The moth hunters would have heated their stones in open fires, this fierce gas flame should do the job.

  Jerome comes out from behind the screen. He suddenly feels that watching Flora like this is a kind of violation. It demeans them both. You should not spy on someone you love. He will wander silently up and down the edge of the lake, until he sees that she is finished, ready to go, and then gently he will come to her and they will walk home together, quietly and full of peace.

  Flora has put on the heavy gauntlet gloves she uses for hot pans. She is watching the stone to see when it might be ready. She has her papers on the bench beside the stove, needing to write down times so she can reproduce the same conditions. She has to work out how long the stone has to be heated. She stands patiently beside the stove, her tired eyes resting with pleasure on the orderly spaces of the kitchen, everything in place, the surfaces empty and gleaming, the pots hanging, all the necessities of preparing amazing food in orderly arrangement on the shelves. It is more than the commis’ lives would be worth to leave the faintest mess.

  She turns the stone over, splashes a little water on it to gauge the temperature. The way her grandmother tested the heat of her iron with spit. The stone splits, it shatters, it explodes. Shards fly in all directions. One sharp piece falls back on the stove and pierces the gas pipe. The olive oil jar shatters. So do various bottles, of brandy and Pernod and whisky, used for burning fat off, on the shelves above the bench. Slowly, in an inexorable sequence, the pieces of paper catch fire, the spilt liquids ignite, the escaped gas explodes, the fire burns back through the gas lead.