The Ottoman Motel

by Christopher Currie

  Tarden drew his ute in to the kerb. Simon’s father pulled in behind and got out of the car. The two men stood together, chatting, their shadows sliding up the side of a large brick building. Simon and his mother got out too, keeping their distance.

  ‘Bit quiet out,’ Simon heard Tarden saying. ‘Always a bit quiet in the cold months. Should see us in summer. Humming, it is.’ He led them up the street, nearly around the corner, to an unremarkable shopfront where a small chalkboard was propped up by the wall. Today’s Specials was written at the top in looped, even letters. The specials themselves were too smudged for Simon to read.

  ‘Is this our hotel?’ said Simon’s mother. She had brought her magazine with her. She was rolling it tightly between her hands.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarden. ‘Well, part of it. The hotel’s behind. Thought you might want to get a cup of tea or something to eat.’

  Simon’s mother pushed the rolled-up magazine to her chin. ‘Well—’

  ‘Cuppa sounds great,’ said Simon’s father.

  ‘Our luggage?’

  ‘We’ll take that out later, sweetie. I’d quite like a cuppa right now.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Whatever.’

  Tarden grinned, swung the door open with a strange flourish of his hand. ‘Best food in town,’ he said. ‘Nearly the only food at the moment.’ He motioned for them to enter.

  At the mention of food, Simon’s stomach twinged. He let his mother usher him inside with no protest. The low hum of conversations met him first. The cafe was nearly full. The view was unexciting. Nothing more or less than a coastal milk bar: the long counter with stools down one side, the dragon’s breath bain-marie, the faded Frosty Boy sign revolving on its tilted axis. Behind the counter, beside the faded menu, were posters for long-forgotten icypoles. A bleached island suggesting summer. A Coke-themed mirror speckled with white. Tables ran along the right-hand wall, some divided into booths, others standing alone, surrounded by flimsy metal chairs. The smell of a deep fryer filled the air. The only difference from any other milk bar Simon had been in was the glimpse of a darker room behind the counter: panelled wooden walls, the orange arc of old lamps.

  ‘That side’s the pub.’ Tarden made a proprietorial gesture over the counter. ‘Opens up later when the cafe shuts. Have a seat and someone’ll be over in a sec to take your order.’

  Simon’s father nodded his head, slowly, taking in the scene. He smiled. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said. ‘For everything.’

  Simon thought perhaps everything included not reporting them to the police for trying to break into his shed.

  ‘No worries.’ Tarden shook hands with Simon’s father and went off to the back of the cafe, where a group of men in the same type of overalls sat hunched over the table with steaming plates of food.

  Simon’s parents silently chose a booth, sliding in side by side. Simon sat down opposite, slumping his chin down into his crossed arms. His parents ignored him and each other, and picked up their menus. Simon took his arms away and let his head rest sideways on the cool of the plastic table. He stared at the tiny hills and valleys of congealed food, missed by the wipes of a thousand sponges. His parents began to mutter behind their menus. Simon tuned their voices out. Somewhere a radio was playing a song with drums that sounded like explosions.

  Simon lifted his eyes sideways to the people sitting at the counter, observing the lost movements of their lower halves. Two sets of legs were shorter than the others: one with brown feet and pink thongs that moved up and down like drawbridges, the other even shorter: swinging silver pants and green gumboots. Simon sat up. The brown feet belonged to a girl who looked about the same age as him. She wore a complicated dress with three layers, each one a different shade of grey, wrapping in and around itself like a seashell. A charcoal woollen jumper was tied around her waist. Her hair was a dark brown, cut in crude, lopsided lengths. She stirred at something in front of her with a fork, her back unusually straight.

  Next to her was a younger boy with a green ice-cream container on his head and a silver suit and cape, like something you’d wear to school on dress-up day. The outside tread on the heel of his gumboots had nearly worn away. He began to spin a metal milkshake container on the bench, his body swivelling in sympathy on the stool. The girl stuck out her left hand and grabbed his arm. She had a large black sweatband on each wrist, the type a tennis player would use. The boy’s body and the milkshake container both stopped abruptly. Brother and sister. Simon could tell.

  Suddenly, he sensed a terse silence. He turned his head; his parents were looking at him, expectant.

  ‘What. Do. You. Want?’ said his father, measuredly, like Simon was stupid. ‘You’ve got to eat. Choose something.’

  Usually, his parents didn’t press him any further than they had to, but there was an insistence in his father’s voice that suggested he wished to impress someone, probably—Simon guessed—everyone in the cafe.

  Simon’s mother laid the menu out in front of him; he pointed to something where he knew the kids’ meals would be.

  ‘Okay,’ said his mother. ‘Nuggets and chips. Fine.’

  Simon looked back to see the brother and sister at the counter but they were gone. As his parents droned on about trivial work matters, Simon dragged his gaze around the room, noting each detail as it came. It was a trick he had taught himself, pretending he was a spy or policeman, trying to take in everything about a scene in case he had to remember it later.

  Strung just below the cafe’s roof was the same blue netting he had seen in Tarden’s yard. Woven through it were little orange balls, some bleached starfish and, strangely enough, a life jacket. A joke, probably. Or in case the town flooded.

  He looked back at Tarden sitting with the other men. He guessed they were all fishermen, back from the boats. Tarden’s overalls were the only ones that were bright yellow. The rest of the men were dirty, like they’d been wearing the same clothes all their lives. The men laughed and talked, each one cupping a giant mug with both hands; teabag tags were delicate shapes between their thick fingers.

  The food arrived quickly, and Simon’s father rubbed his stomach at the waitress with vaudevillian glee. Simon knew this was his father still being a salesman, but instead of selling cosmetics he was selling himself. ‘Great country fare,’ he said, accepting his steak sandwich. ‘Good for what ails you!’

  The waitress smiled. She had a piercing under her lip and her eyes were different colours. Her nametag read Megan.

  Simon’s mother said nothing as her salad sandwich was placed in front of her.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Simon, smiling at the waitress, who handed him a plate of grey nuggets.

  As the waitress walked away, Simon’s mother tipped her head to the ceiling, exhaling loudly.

  ‘Sweetie?’ said Simon’s father. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, picking up her knife. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘You don’t like your meal?’

  ‘No, Bill, my meal is fine.’

  Simon’s father levered a thick slice of tomato into his mouth. ‘What, then?’

  Simon’s mother put down the knife. Her lips trembled. ‘What do you think?’ Her voice was too loud, cutting into the white noise of surrounding conversation.

  ‘Sweetie—’

  Simon stared helplessly at his plate. This was the moment. He had been waiting for this from the minute they left.

  ‘She’s my mother, Bill. It’s—’ She wrenched a napkin from the metal dispenser on the table. ‘You need to understand, but it’s quite obvious you can’t.’

  Simon was sure he could hear people shifting in their seats, heads turning to get a better angle. His mother took noisy, halting breaths. He cleared his throat. The words came out before he realised he was speaking them: ‘Can you wait?’

  His father turned to him, his mouth a thin grim line. He said, ‘This doesn’t concern you, Simon.’

  Simon’s scars began to burn. He went to grab his leg and kn
ocked over the water glass. Ice scattered across the table.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ shouted his mother. ‘Just leave it. Leave it!’ She started crying. The waitress reappeared, but Simon’s father waved her away. ‘We’re fine,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just a little accident!’

  Simon knew everyone was looking at them now. He slid out of the booth, avoiding his father’s waving arm, and went up to the bar. He pulled himself onto the stool he had seen the girl sitting on; it was higher than he realised, and his sandals dangled in the air some way even from the metal footrest. He leaned his arms on the counter and, for some reason, he shivered. The waitress brought him a fresh glass of iced water and put it on the counter next to him. Simon thanked her. He watched condensation leach into the thin napkin she had placed underneath the glass.

  ‘What can I get you?’ said a scratchy voice beside him.

  Simon turned. It was Tarden, thumbs propped behind the straps of his overalls.

  ‘Samuel, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Simon.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Simon.’ Tarden had a toothpick wedged in between his bottom front teeth. ‘Get you a lemonade?’ The toothpick moved as he talked, switching up and down like a baton.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Simon, pointing to his fresh glass of water.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, you’d like one or Yes you’re sure?’ Tarden smiled, stretching his face out: leather taut across a frame. His eyes were grey, wet at the edges.

  ‘I’d better get back to my parents,’ Simon said quietly. He was quite sure he didn’t like this man.

  ‘Just having fun with you,’ Tarden laughed. He reached out and rubbed Simon’s hair. His fingers were thick. Somehow, Simon knew that Tarden couldn’t feel much with them; they seemed dead against his scalp. ‘You not in school?’

  ‘It’s holidays.’ Simon hadn’t even seen his new school yet, but already knew it would be the same as the rest. He turned, trying to wriggle out of the chair, and saw his parents looking at him.

  ‘Sorry, Jack,’ called Simon’s father. ‘He can’t sit still a moment.’

  Simon shot his father a slit-eyed stare, which was duly ignored.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Tarden, putting his hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘The devil and idle hands and all that. Good to meet a fellow explorer.’ He barged Simon back to his parents’ table. He smelled of seawater kept too long in a shallow container.

  Simon’s mother reached out for him. Her eyes were red-ringed. ‘Don’t just run off like that,’ she said. ‘We need to know where you are.’

  Simon nearly spoke, but his father cut him off with a quick glare. ‘Won’t say a word while we’re in the car, but as soon as we stop—’

  Simon slid back into the seat. It wasn’t worth the trouble to defend himself.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Tarden. ‘Good to see some life passing through. Normally just the same faces over and over, once the weather turns. What brings you here, anyway?’

  Simon held his breath. He braced himself for his mother’s reaction. Tarden rocked back on his heels, comfortably, like he was talking to old friends.

  ‘Actually,’ said Simon’s mother, ‘we’re visiting someone.’

  Tarden rocked forward again. ‘Really.’

  ‘My mother, she lives here. We’re visiting her.’

  Simon’s parents joined hands under the table.

  ‘Who’s your mother, then? Might know her.’

  ‘Iris. Iris Shamar.’

  Tarden’s face dropped, for a moment losing its tautness. Simon’s parents—looking at each other—didn’t notice. Tarden wiped his hands down the front of his overalls as if they were covered in something he didn’t like. ‘Iris,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know her?’ said Simon’s mother, the edges of her mouth creasing into nearly a smile.

  ‘Well, I know of her,’ Tarden said. ‘She’s up at Ned Gale’s place, by the water.’

  ‘Ned Gale?’

  ‘Good bloke. Owns a bed and breakfast. Nice place. She stays there.’

  ‘Sounds right,’ said Simon’s father. ‘Rings a bell.’ He brought out his phone again, held it up. ‘Still nothing.’

  ‘Won’t have much luck with a mobile,’ said Tarden. ‘Whole town’s a black spot as far as that goes.’

  ‘The whole town?’

  ‘Yep. Council kept saying they’d do something about it, but then they got eaten up by amalgamations, so—’

  Simon’s father nodded.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Tarden. ‘I’ll let you finish your meal. Just give us a yell if you need anything else.’ He turned to leave.

  Simon’s mother spoke. ‘Where is…where’s the bed and breakfast?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The B&B. Where Iris—where my mother is staying. How do we get there?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tarden. ‘Right. You just follow this road and there’ll be a turnoff on your right. There’s signs. Can’t miss it.’

  ‘Not far, then?’

  ‘Nah, not even five minutes in a car.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Simon’s mother rubbed her hands against her legs.

  ‘Staying long?’ said Tarden.

  ‘Ah, we’re not quite sure,’ said Simon’s father. ‘It’ll depend. Won’t it sweetie?’ He tried a smile.

  ‘Is there—’ Simon’s mother let her voice trail off. She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Is there anywhere we can go? Beforehand?’ She inhaled quickly, as if about to sneeze.

  ‘Um.’ Tarden looked at Simon’s father, at Simon.

  ‘I mean is there somewhere nice we can go for a while? After we check in. Before—’

  Simon’s father cottoned on. ‘Any local attractions?’ he said. ‘Sightseeing spots? It’d be a shame to come to this part of the country without seeing what it had to offer.’

  ‘Well, there’s the beach, but at this time of the year it’s not much to look at.’ Tarden rubbed his chin. ‘There’s the Magpie, though. Lovely in the evening. Couldn’t really let you leave town without seeing that.’

  Simon immediately pictured a giant bird, sitting atop a building in the main street. Brown eyes, wings clenched.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon’s father. ‘The Magpie.’

  Tarden bunched up a smile. ‘Magpie Lake. Lovely this time of year, specially since winter’s slipped in early.’

  Specially, thought Simon. Specially since.

  ‘Magpie Lake,’ said Simon’s mother. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Go down there myself of a morning,’ said Tarden. ‘Set some traps. Clear water, yabbies, beautiful. Bit later you get the sunset, too. Pretty spectacular. Be some rain coming in later, maybe, but it should be beautiful about now.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ said Simon’s father, his teeth appearing white from behind his beard. Tarden’s hands disappeared behind his overalls.

  ‘How do we get there?’ said Simon’s mother.

  ‘Well,’ said Tarden, ‘I usually take a shortcut from my place. It’s not far as the crow flies, but it’s only a dirt road. Pretty rough going.’

  ‘We’ve got all-wheel-drive,’ said Simon’s father. ‘They take it over boulders in the ads. Right up the side of a mountain.’

  ‘Well that’s the ads,’ said Simon’s mother. ‘Is there another way?’

  Tarden nodded. ‘Just keep to the main road, like before, but turn left at the servo.’ He pulled a hand free, swiped it through the air with his pink palm. ‘You’ll see a line of trees. Just follow them along. Easy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘We’d better get settled into our room, then,’ said Simon’s father.

  ‘They’ll sort you out when you pay for lunch,’ said Tarden. ‘They’ll give you a key, then you just head around the corner, where the motel entrance is.’

  While his parents said their goodbyes and thank-yous, Simon hung in the periphery. The day—the week, the weeks to come—pushed up against him with an enveloping, empty pressure.
<
br />   The sun crackled low off the windows of the parked cars outside, casting strange reflections on the wall. The light broke through the lace curtains; the shapes moved and grew, like embers from a broken fire.

  Simon was in charge of the room keys. His father had presented them as they got back into the car, like some sort of apology. It was always something like this. A dollar coin here, an extended bedtime there. Little gestures that meant nothing to Simon, but a lot, apparently, to his parents. He examined the keys. Two of them, identical, hung off a carved wooden keyring shaped like a turtle. The turtle was surprisingly lifelike. Even the eyes seemed real.

  The car rounded the corner, going all the way around the large building that housed the Ottoman. At the other side, it turned into a pub, with a locked double-door, long glass windows, a small verandah. A thin driveway ran up beside it, with a Vacancy sign beckoning them in. The motel was a horseshoe of repeated doorways surrounding an empty, pot-holed bitumen carpark.

  Simon’s mother sighed. ‘This is—’

  ‘This is why they don’t have a website,’ said Simon’s father. ‘Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves, though.’ He parked the car and they got out.

  Simon stared at all the identical windows. The sky reflected back at him in repeated blushes of pink and orange.

  ‘Still in charge of that key, Simon?’

  Simon said nothing. He held up the key between thumb and forefinger, letting the turtle swing in the air.

  ‘Room eight. You can open the door if you like.’

  Simon slumped up onto the concrete landing. It was lit feebly by a stripe of naked bulbs: one bulb, Simon worked out, for every four doors. He found their room and slid the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and the room let out a smell a bit like lavender. It reminded him immediately of the sachets of dried flowers his grandma used to keep in every drawer in her house. Potpourri. Nothing had its real smell, even there.

  Simon heard his parents rolling their cases across the concrete. He glanced back at them and his heart stuttered. For a second, something was very wrong. He knew it was just the strange light playing tricks, but for one moment his parents became different people. The shadows on their faces inverted; the familiar shapes of their expressions disappeared. It echoed a deep fear that played on him in silent moments, in dreams: that his parents were strangers, that nothing was real.