by Helen Garner
A stream of cold air was pouring through the open window, but feathers of sweat burst out of her, all down her back. Something was tapping behind her, outside the door, very light and quick. A man’s voice was softly calling her name.
‘Janet! Janet! I’ve finished. All yours. I’m going to wake up Raymond.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Coming.’
Her voice sounded composed, but she was as weak and trembling as if she had just run a mile. She let go of the table. A tram went racketing across the intersection. In the bare tree outside the window a sparrow curvetted, and flipped away. The room was full of sun. It was a winter morning.
The bacon was for the visitor, of course. Maxine had given up meat. She couldn’t touch it, with a metabolism like hers, this squeamishness in the mornings. Oh, perhaps a skerrick, the merest shred of curled rind, to check that it was cooked: otherwise, no. Really. Well—to trim off the ragged edge . . . Picking and nibbling, she heard the two men’s heavy steps on the stairs, and began with guilty swipes to lavish butter on to the toast.
‘Maxine,’ said Ray from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’d like to introduce you to—my brother Alby.’
Maxine turned, and made a little bow. ‘How do you do,’ she said. ‘Actually, we’ve already met.’
‘That’s right,’ said Alby, running a pocket-comb through his thin hair. ‘We introduced ourselves. At dawn.’
Maxine saw Ray’s hastily donned clothes, his sleep-stunned eyes and expression of sober pride, and the treadmill inside her whirred again.
‘Yes, we did,’ she said. She flashed her most brilliant smile, and beat at her hair with the backs of her wrists. ‘Alby’s come to stay, he was telling me. For a while.’
Ray swung round to Alby. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not what we planned. We’ll find a place today, won’t we, Alb? We’ll be moving out today.’
‘Take it easy,’ said Alby cheerfully. He stowed the comb inside his leather jacket and gave his chest a pat. ‘We’ll be off as soon as we find something decent.’
But Ray’s face, turned away from Maxine, was rippling with unreadable grimaces. He shirt-fronted Alby back through the door into the living room and grabbed him by the arms.
‘I have to get out of here,’ he whispered. ‘They’re crazy. They both want to fuck me. I’m not safe here. They’re witches. They’re lezzos. They do things.’
Alby stared at him. ‘Sit down here, Raymond,’ he said. ‘The woman’s going to serve us. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know when you’re on to a good thing? Be thankful.’
Maxine streamed into the room with a piled dish held high. She placed it between the brothers and stood back, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. Her lips gleamed with bacon fat.
‘Ask a blessing, Alby,’ said Ray. He lowered his head.
Alby flicked a glance at Maxine. ‘I’m a bit out of practice,’ he said. ‘Is that the way things are done here?’
‘It could be,’ said Maxine, gliding forward. ‘It could be any way you want it.’
Ray recoiled; but Alby looked up with interest. He seized a chair and pulled it out for her.
‘Sit down, Maxine,’ he said. ‘Join us. What do you do, in life?’
Maxine blushed, and sat on her hands beside him. ‘I make things out of wood,’ she said. ‘Furniture, mostly.’
‘Ah,’ said Alby. ‘A carpenter, eh. That’s the spirit. Good for you, love. Lord! Our thanks for these thy gifts.’
He heaped bacon on to a slice of toast and took a comprehensive bite. He was so thin that when he chewed, the ligaments of his jaw popped in and out like rivets. ‘And,’ he said, swallowing voluptuously, ‘I guess that as an artist you’d have a hot line to the Almighty?’
Maxine’s hair was as dishevelled as a bird’s nest. She flattened it, racking her brains for an answer.
‘Yep,’ continued Alby, ‘I’ve always thought that real artists don’t need to go to church. The whole principle of creation is acted out through them, every day. That’s my theory, anyway.’ He stuffed the rest of the slice into his mouth and munched with abandon, keeping his sore-rimmed, sparkling eyes fixed on her face. ‘Would there happen to be a coffee available, out there, at all?’
Maxine leapt up and dashed away to the kitchen.
‘And Max?’ Alby called after her. ‘Heat the milk, darl, will you?’ Grinning, still chewing, he looked at his brother and winked.
Ray dropped his eyes, trying not to laugh. ‘You ratbag,’ he said. ‘How do you do it?’
‘What?’ said Alby.
‘I haven’t had a square meal since I got here. You’ve been here five minutes and already they’re running round waiting on you.’
Alby shrugged. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘I like ’em. And they like me. She’s all right, don’t you reckon? Whatsername? Maxine?’
‘All right?’ Ray lowered his voice. ‘She’s trouble, mate. She’s not a “real artist”. You should see the stuff she makes. It’s unscriptural. No one’ll buy it. She’s been driving me crazy. She’s sort of’—he glanced at the door—‘in love with me. Or something.’
Alby raised his eyebrows, and cackled.
‘You can laugh,’ said Ray. ‘She’s a monster. She stalked me. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ He bit his lip and examined his nails through half-closed eyes.
Alby flicked him under the chin with a hard forefinger. ‘What have you been up to?’
Ray bridled, unable to control his smile. ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I’m telling you I have to get out of here.’
‘I can see that,’ said Alby. ‘I think you’d better.’ He stretched both arms back behind his head so that a crackling ripple ran all the way down his spine, then dropped them to his sides and gazed into Ray’s face with refreshed attention.
‘She even tried to con me into one of those yuppy pyramid schemes,’ Ray went on. ‘The aeroplane game.’
Alby sat up. ‘That scam!’ he said. ‘You didn’t fall for that, did you?’
‘Course I didn’t. What do you take me for?’
‘Phoar,’ said Alby. ‘You had me worried there, for a minute.’
‘So don’t let’s hang around,’ said Ray. ‘I’ve been having a shocking time here. You wouldn’t believe what these women get up to. I saw them yesterday. In Janet’s room, with their clothes off.’
Alby burst out laughing. ‘Oh, come off it,’ he said. ‘No—really.’
‘That’s not all,’ said Ray, warming to it. ‘They ripped the sleeve off my only good shirt. They used it to make a doll’s dress. They don’t care what they do. They’re loose. They’re all over the place. But I don’t care now. I don’t have to live here any more. I’m on my way. I’m going to shake the dust from my feet.’ He made brisk trucking movements with his bent arms.
Alby yawned. ‘Don’t rush me,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready yet. I’m buggered. I like it here. And I want to talk to Janet.’
Ray struck himself on the forehead with his open hand. ‘Oh no. You’re not going to socialise, are you? Come on, Alb! Let’s say goodbye and get out of here.’
‘Settle down, Raymond. There’s coffee coming. Look—we’ll have a coffee with the girls, and then we’ll buy a paper and work out what to do next.’
‘I know what’s next,’ said Ray irritably. ‘You’ll get glamorous. You’ll start singing. The women’d love that. The “girls”. Go on. Go out and get your great big guitar.’
For three beats Alby sat quite still. Then he leaned back, folded his hands behind his neck, and said, ‘Want me to tell you what happened to my guitar?’
Maxine came into the room, carrying a coffee pot and a saucepan of milk. Cups sprouted from her fingers. Hearing his opening line, she rose on tiptoes and pantomimed a self-effacing walk to the table, where she began to
arrange her offering. Her red cheeks and complicated demeanour threw Ray into a spasm of frustration.
‘Can’t you sit down?’ he said. ‘You’re always fussing. Sit down.’
Maxine shot him a wounded look and slid on to a chair. Poor Ray. She longed to reach out for his clenched fist, to stroke the tension out of it, but the time for that had passed. She poured the coffee, surprised that her hand did not tremble, and passed the two men their cups. Ray took his without a word; Alby nodded to her, and showed his chaotic teeth in a smile of theatrical sweetness.
‘Wonderful, Max,’ he said. ‘Perfect. And now all I fancy is an apple. One of those green ones you grow down this way, that make your hair stand on end when you bite ’em. Is it the season?’
Maxine raised her shoulders to her ears and giggled. The fruitbowl of course was empty; but if that was what he wanted; if fruit would delay the moment of reckoning—she pushed back her chair and made as if to oblige.
‘Only fooling, dear,’ said Alby. He pressed her on to her chair with his callused hand. ‘Stick around. Raymond wants to hear about my guitar. Don’t you, Raymond.’
Ray hardly knew whether to laugh or scowl. He subsided. The sooner the performance began, the sooner they could get away.
‘It was a great big Ibanez.’ Alby bent his arms and dropped his hands to hip level, wide apart. ‘Huge. Remember, Raymond? So big I could hardly play it. But I was used to it. I’d been busking a lot, up north, making a few bucks, living on it—I was doing all right.
‘Well, on the night in question, round about eleven o’clock, I got an urge to go and see the Blues Brothers again. I started walking down the avenue. I was hungry. Pretty soon I saw a McDonald’s coming up. I was thinking, oh, I’ll have a Coke, or maybe a hamburger; but before I could get into line, this bloke comes up to me. Drunk, and smelling of it. He engages me in idle chat, then after a bit he says, Look, how’s about buyin’ me a hamburger? I go, Sure I will. Nothin’ special, he says—just a liddle piece of meat. Don’t bother with the lettuce or tomato or any of that. No, I say—mate, I’ll buy you a jumbo burger. Hang on to this. And I hand him the guitar.
‘I get into the queue. A lot of people there—the place is packed. Ten minutes later I fight m’ way back to him, with the food up over m’ head, like this—and he’s gone. Taken the guitar and run off. Oh, I was thrown. I was foaming at the mouth. What was I supposed to do? Go back along the avenue and start asking questions?’
Alby picked bacon from between his front teeth, and ate it.
‘I went to the movie. The shine was taken off it, for sure—but I did quite enjoy it. Then two days later, on the Sunday, I went to church. They have this system—as Raymond knows—where you write down on a bit of paper if there’s someone who needs praying for. I thought, Oh, why not. So I wrote down on the paper, Someone stole my guitar.
‘When the preacher goes through the little bits of paper, he picks out mine. He goes, Now here’s an interesting one! Brother’s lost his guitar. Everyone laughs. Don’t laugh, says the preacher. It must mean a lot to him. And he prays.’
Footsteps drummed on the stairs. Alby paused; and Janet, with her head wrapped in a towel, came rushing into the room. Ray averted his eyes.
‘Did you save some?’ she cried. ‘Where’s mine?’
‘Pipe down,’ said Alby. ‘Let me finish my tale. As I was saying, he prays.’
Janet looked at him sharply, then at Maxine; but Maxine was enthralled, Maxine had not even noticed her; so with ironic resignation Janet sat down and began to fossick among the crusts and rinds on the plate.
‘He prays,’ said Alby. ‘And afterwards, outside, this bloke comes up to me and says, Alby, I think God’s telling me to give you my guitar. It’s been lying round the house for years and I never play it. He took me to his place and gave it to me. It’s Australian, nice, a Maton, but still big.
‘So I’m glad and I take it; but I’m thinking to myself, one of these days I’m going to buy myself a ukulele, one of those curvy little ones with the singing tone—small and sweet and easy to carry—like a baby. I’m fed up with lugging a huge great axe wherever I go.
‘Next day I’m walking past a secondhand shop, down along the avenue, when as if by magic I spot one, among the junk lying in the window. Oh, it was a beauty. Genuine Hawaiian. It had a lovely little waist on it’—with two hands he made the wavy gesture that used to mean stacked—‘and get this: it was only twenty dollars. The old bloke in the shop had no idea what it was worth. I had to struggle with myself, I can tell you. The devil was abroad that day. Up on Sapphire Street they sell for, oh, four or five hundred!’
Janet leaned forward. ‘You mean dollars?’ she said.
Alby nodded.
Ray’s face went stern. ‘You don’t mean to say you—’
Alby lowered his lids, arched his brows, and held up one flat hand for silence. ‘Don’t rush to judgment,’ he said. ‘Hear me out.
‘Right. I went into the shop, and I put a dollar down. And then I walked home, to think about it.
‘I came round the corner into our street—and what should I spy out the front of our house but a police car. Now what’s happening, I thought. Old habits die hard: I felt like ducking into the alley and waiting for them to leave: but I get a grip on myself and I stroll in, cool as a cuke, and find two cops standing in the kitchen with their guns on. Everyone’s there, and when I walk in they all swing round and call out in a chorus, Here he is! Believe me, my whole life flashed before my eyes. I had to sit down.
‘But it wasn’t me they were after. Turns out a couple of junkies had burgled the house. And what had they knocked off? I don’t need to tell you. It was the Maton.
‘I went upstairs and I lay on m’ bed, and I thought, Alby, this is a sign. Music is your livelihood. You are otherwise totally and tragically unemployable. This is a sign from the Lord.’
Ray clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
‘And I got up,’ said Alby, unperturbed, ‘and walked straight back to that secondhand shop, and I bought the ukulele.’
He paused, and ran his half-closed eyes over the listeners’ faces. The room was throbbing.
‘Now this particular ukulele,’ he continued, changing modes like a champion, ‘was fashioned in the nut orchards of paradise. Through the rent in the ozone layer it dropped, straight out of the celestial meadows where the morning stars clap their hands for joy—and my outstretched paws snaffled it before it could hit the ground. It was meant for me. It had my name on it.
‘From the hole in its belly rose a fragrance like wood; like apples; like the cedars of Lebanon. It was made for the express purpose of accompanying chants of joy. I want you all to know that I was . . . in love with this ukulele.’
Maxine glanced at Janet with shining eyes. Janet had her elbows on the table and was gazing at Alby with astonished admiration. Alby nodded superbly, and paused to polish off a tiny morsel of flesh that clung to the dish’s rim. He brought his hand away from his lips in a showy arc that galled Ray into protest.
‘Alby!’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you’d do a thing like that.’
‘Wait,’ said Alby, with another splendid gesture of restraint. ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. Romans twelve nineteen.
‘So. I took the uke home. I sat on the porch steps in the dark, and I worked out the chords of all the songs I knew. It was so easy! Compared with the guitar, its notes just placed themselves under my fingers. It had a human scale. It had a voice like an angel’s. Sweet, and clear—it rang. It was the perfect instrument. I was made. My future was assured. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’
Ray could scarcely contain himself, but when Maxine laid a hand on his arm to calm him he twisted away from her. Alby took a long swallow of lukewarm coffee and set down his cup. Janet sat perfectly still.
/> ‘The very next night,’ said Alby, at his leisure, ‘round about a quarter to seven, I put on my good jacket, I picked up my bag, and I set out for the avenue. My repertoire was secure in my head. I was about to pull in a small fortune. I had just the spot in mind where I’d set up—in a certain corner where the acoustics would make me sound gorgeous. I had the uke under my arm, wrapped up in an old jumper and round that a newspaper, to cushion it from jolts. And away I sailed.
‘Down by the station, as I went rolling along, I saw the row of phone boxes there, under the colonnade, and I suddenly thought, Why not ring up this girl I fancied, a great big bustling blonde from church, and see if she felt like hopping on the bus and rocking down to the avenue to see me put on the show of my life? I stepped into a booth and dialled her number. We got talking: I put the hard word on her, and she seemed keen to come; so I told her where to find me, I described the exact whereabouts of my spot; and we hung up with mutual expressions of goodwill.
‘I stepped out of that phone box like a king. My feet weren’t touching the ground. It was a beautiful evening. Cool, but clear. The sky was turning a sort of pinkish-green. The harbour down the bottom of the hill was so calm, it could have been a sheet of aluminium. A full moon was bouncing over the cathedral spire like—like the dot on an i.’
‘Oh Alby,’ said Janet. ‘I don’t think I can bear this.’
‘It’s like a poem,’ said Maxine faintly, ‘the way you tell it.’
‘Keep going,’ said Janet. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘I’d got all the way down the hill,’ Alby went on with a gracious smile, ‘past the Town Hall and the cathedral, and I was bowling along in front of the Law Courts and the National Library, glorying to myself out loud, when a kid stepped out of a lane and put the bite on me for a dollar. I laid down my bag and went for my pocket—and that’s when the penny dropped. Apart from the bag, I was empty-handed. I’d left the uke on the shelf in that flamin’ phone box.’