Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  'For an aerobics chappy, that's a bit rich, Sweetness and Light.' I pointed out his hypocritical prejudice.

  'Aerobics is for housewives. Bread and butter for me, darls.' Sean spoke, unfazed, as if he didn't take the aerobics classes himself; as if the housewives didn't adore him. 'It is not as though the girl was a gymnast. Anorexia among gymnasts, now that was a genuine worry. They have to stay young and pretty.'

  'You're an ordinary misogynist like the rest of your gender? Aren't you?' I mumbled into the towel.

  His verbal diarrhoea annoyed me, I tried not to listen. My cerebral pores had already absorbed the reality of fascist stupidity and racism in Australia with the possibility of ugly violence in the near future. Lack of generosity of spirit tends to get me down. Even my own. Detective work did something to satisfy a righteous zeal in myself, yet I needed self-absorption, focus, single-minded concentration to swim, ride and run, keep fit, have a chance of winning. Later it occurred to me that he was nervous about something, chatting thoughtlessly so as not to say what was on his mind.

  On a dry part of the property which was bought to become Lesbian Nation, Ilsa lives above a lake in an old Bondi tram, set up on sleepers, and now chopped fuel has a neat place beneath the floor. A skinny crooked chimney puffs smoke from a pot-belly stove. The lake was a dam, a controversial piece of work at the time it was dug. The tram was pulled in under the scornful but amused scrutiny of radical gurls by the same unwelcome men, but not for Ilsa. Now there are wood ducks and cranes as well as other migrating birds. She keeps a conscientious record of them all. A brush turkey regularly scratches up her vegetable garden and generally makes a nuisance of itself.

  'Endangered my fat foot!' Ilsa abuses the native fowl affectionately.

  Ilsa Chok Tong is spectacularly chair-minded; she reads a lot. Books line the walls beneath the windows and make little towers on occasional tables. She has a wing chair and an armchair placed for the angles of natural light. A little kitchen is at the drivers end. At the back a bed hides in a muslin tent. Five kilometres by winding walking track connects her to Rory's house on Lesbianlands. Both women can trace their ancestry back to the same goldfields in Victoria. While the male O'Riordans still treasure their Eureka flag, Ilsas fathers family is part of the Melbourne establishment. Her mother is Latvian. Ilsa reads The Accidental Tourist, and then reads Miss Macintosh, My Darling and doesn't miss a word. She reads The Dream of Red Mansions. She also reads the science fiction and detective genres. But is equally entertained by chaos theory and quantum physics. She has read Utopia and Herland. Handy's Gods of Management and Plato's Republic. She reads legislation if she's curious about an Act and orders it through the mail. She studies the algebra of artificial intelligence, the biology of botany. She uses the common names of trees only to explain. She does not read Chinese, but both French and Latin are easy for her. When other gurls are getting high, Ilsa reads. She is tolerant and serene. Mostly silent in company, she can be impatient and passionate, high-handed and arrogant. She walks carrying a staff. Through Lauraceae and Myrtaceae, Pittosporaceae and Urticaceae, Moraceae and Dilleniaceae, today, she makes her way into the rainforest.

  Ilsa comes across the fallen Toona ciliata that Virginia White is working on. Ha ha, she barks. She peers down the deep gully; not even modern equipment would get it out. The forms that both Virginia and the wood itself suggest unsettle her. Majestic and classic, evidence of hours and hours of chiselling, axing, shaping and sanding. What is the point? Ilsa loses interest and turns back.

  Inside the cosy draperies of her den on dusk, she sits down and reads Shakespeare, anywhere: the sea being smooth,

  How many shallow bauble boats dare sail

  Upon her patient breast, making their way

  With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage

  The gentle Thetis, and anon behold

  The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut,

  Bounding between the two moist elements,

  Like Perseus' horse; where's then the saucy boat

  Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now

  Co-rivall'd greatness? either to harbour fled,

  Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so

  Doth valour's show and valour's worth divide

  In storms of fortune; for her ray and brightness

  The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze

  Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind

  Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks…

  Ilsa decides to read Troilus and Cressida from beginning to end. Aloud and alone, tomorrow among the acacias.

  A high carbohydrate meal, piles of pasta. To bed early, up early.

  A phone call from Meghan Featherstone's ex-girlfriend came just as I was about to retire. She dumped some pretty dire emotional baggage on my eardrum, which continued to vibrate for some time afterwards. Unlike the nose, the ear does not share tissue with the brain, and words themselves don't necessarily convey factual or logical truth, especially not when they're shouted with vindictive spleen. When I replaced the instrument, totally flummoxed, I had no idea whether this outpouring of swear-words was water off a duck's back or heavy shit. For Meghan. It did strike me that if you were a well-off lesbian living the ups and downs of serial monogamy, there could be quite a few girls with whom you had lived long enough, who had a right to half your assets. But this woman did not even give me her name or that of the solicitor she threatened, a character who did not sound real at all, rather constructed from American network TV.

  Before bed I went through a few yoga positions. Then, sitting still, emptied my mind by concentrating on the breath going in and out of my nose.

  17

  …the Port Water triathlon…

  On any ordinary day, Virginia is up with the birds, always using her body as much as her mind. For Cybil, rising out of her warm and cosy bed before light, dressing at speed, down at the paddock at dawn like a strapper or bookie's scout when the horses' breath is steam, it is special. The quest for the best of the best, the Aussie battling competitive spirit starts in the playground and ends in the bronzed god of the surf, the Ironman, she reads in the Paradise Coast Triathlon Club newsletter. She notes the times of the winners in last year's event for each age and sex group. Virginia overhears technical jargon and talk of tactics, the instruction of coaches, the encouragement of friends, lovers, spouses, kids and family. She senses the nervous anticipation of others as she puts her old Malvern Star on the stand. She marvels at the professional bicycles with their elbow-rests and spokeless wheels. She listens as an official spells out the rules.

  Cybil loves to hustle. She is all coquettish charm as she takes bets from doctors, dentists, mothers, sons, gamblers, health nuts, used car salesmen, fishers and gawkers. Having aroused the attention of the officers at the PCYC tent, she manages to laugh off her illegal activities as a bit of harmless fun but she wasn't going to tell the cops who was who or how much. What could they do? Give the money back? To whom? Five dollars here, ten dollars there. Keep it? What about the form of the runners? Doesn't matter, she will take any bet; against the time, against the field. She allows the punters to suggest their odds, except in obvious cases where she has to cover her stake; in other instances she cajoles folk to risk a bit. She rakes in the money and writes slips, tearing the pages from a receipt book with a flourish, all signed CC. Making the most of her brush with the law, she comes away with policemen's bets. She gathers in quite a few dollars against her dark horse with the rusty bike. Into the romance of running numbers, she scurries about with her leather pouch and tickets in her hat. Busy as a bee.

  Whether out of blind loyalty or knowledge, the gurls back Virginia, though. Cybil won't take a large wager from them. Her odds are short on Margot Gorman in the open section. She has a quick chat with Tiger Cat, glances at the pupils of her eyes, takes in the six-pack of muscle between the two pieces of her outfit and shortens. Anyone from out of town is an automatic favourite. Virginia, amus
ed by her industry, sits by her bike and daydreams until it all begins. Looking forward to the sheer fun of competition, her mind is more relaxed than it has been in months. The tension of younger women around her recalls her trepidation before her opening in a lovely sculpture park south of Perth. The exhibition was composed of abstract pieces that she named after parts of the human body, formed from chunky jarrah. Giant elbows, shoulders, foot and knee, the smallest three cubic metres. The nervousness she felt then, even though she had a commission—or was she nervous because it was commissioned?—she doesn't feel now. Sensing failure, she prayed the wood itself would save her skin. The black sculptures were scattered around on green acreage with white-limbed gums screening the modern gallery where her drawings, her aesthetic philosophy, her notes and photographs were mounted in frames. It happened to be a success. The toast of the town and ecstatic, the artist herself saw a dismembered giant-woman, Gaia in bits.

  The man with the megaphone is speaking. She strips down to her Speedos and has a number painted on her thigh and upper arm.

  The Port Water triathlon was 750 metres swim, bicycle road race eighteen kilometres, and the foot race ten. Sean's cynicism about those young athletes who take triathletics too seriously contrasted with my envy. Although the sport began in 1974 in San Diego, California, I did not start until I was in my thirties. Full of zest and charisma. Great for television, specially cable. Gorgeous competitors, not wearing many clothes, plenty of places for advertising logos on the buoys, the clothes, the barricades, the tents and hospitality marquees make the companies happy. Today plastic colour flapped in the fresh breeze. State Emergency Services personnel in bright orange and red did point-duty, on the water in blow-up life boats, on the road in fire trucks and rescue vehicles, and on foot around the bike enclosure and running course. Spectators were a pretty fit mob themselves, casing the sport for a hobby? You actually don't get a good view of a triathlon if you are there to watch. Women are of particular voyeuristic interest, but I think they're just as attracted to the beauty of the boys' bodies too. Australians, a journalist wrote, are exceptional at it. And he was right. It might have started in California, officially, but it's quintessentially Australian. We have the climate, the lifestyle and the culture for it. Coastal country towns and tourist destinations host different series and championships during the season. The ocean backdrops make great vision too. Big names are always threatened by newcomers with the lights of future prizes in their eyes. It's egalitarian, and hard at the top. Someone like me, on a good day, could take out a triathlon.

  Specialist bikes have narrow hard tyres like compacted rubber. They have aluminium frames or light steel, broad aerofoil moulding and plenty of room for advertising, suspension seats, worth a lot of money. Tiger Cat had a new one! Handlebar rests, long tube drink holders in the middle of them, so there is virtually no movement of your head while racing if you want to wet your whistle. Mine is a good road-racing bicycle, with a detachable elbow-bar for the crouch and balance adjusted to my style. Tiger Cat was at the gym the other day, batting her eyelids at Sean Dark. He prefers to perve on young boys. She is the type of woman who achieves power through sex. Cat fucked the men at the academy, not because she was a nymphomaniac, as they said, but because, as she said, she was claiming power as a woman. She does the seducing, hence she is proud. Cat enhanced her feline name for the television show The Gladiators. And kept it. But why is she hanging around? She said she left the Police Force years ago. She said she was competing to give me a run for my money. Wearing her beach volleyball outfit with enough advertising showing off her midriff, she was strutting her stuff. She looked the part because she was the part; dedicated to her body; on the same wave-length as the cameras and the viewers in their lounge-rooms. Trim, taut and terrific from all the power work, sun-lamp tan and blonded hair corrugated like a male lion's, curled into wrinkles, everything is in proportion, except her eye sockets, which are too close together and too small. Incredibly, the eyes seem to swim inside the lids. Gives me the creeping willies. Bitch. She was prowling around the lesbians, talking the talk. To give the gurls their due, they didn't look impressed.

  Rory and crew were there in the park in the dawn light, setting up a picnic breakfast. Had they all come to watch me compete? Shy of the bike paddock, looking the same, even though hair might be long, drippy or dyed while others were bald, or so unkempt they wore dreadlocks, dressed in unironed, darkish coloured clothes. I noticed one of Rory's mates had entered the race. A lesbian-of-the-lands oiled the chain of a rusty five-gear ladies bike, wearing a woolly, striped poncho over togs with Australia in caps across the bum. Club triathlons attract all sorts of competitors in all sorts of costume, some with mountain bikes, a hobby characterised by enthusiastic amateurism. Like the city-to-surf in Sydney, they all have their own goals. It might only be to finish. About five of us were on the professional female circuit. According to the local TV station, I was the favourite. My riding slippers are already attached to the pedals, I checked the clips were secure. I lined up my Nike Airs neatly for the run. I am as fast with lacing as I am with changing tyres, but I don't like having to do either. I chose and used the Velcro pair.

  Sweetness and Light hovered around, side-glancing the lads. Rory came over and I asked distractedly where she stayed.

  'Got the gurls to gather after a night of luxury in the Coast & Country Family Motel!' she responded cheerily. 'Some dykes who were at the Orlando Ball also stayed there. They're here to help decorate the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras float, and when Dee asked how long they had been dykes, they said, totally affronted, "We're not lesbians, we're gay"!'

  Sean laughed, and informed us that he was going over to the float when he was finished here. But I was psyching myself up to win. Rory slapped her daydreaming mate, 'Good luck, VeeDub,' and wandered off. Winged Victory gets a small invocation as a bit of a ritual before every race from me.

  The marshal with a megaphone called all competitors to the jetty. Tiger Cat had greased her hairless limbs. Virginia, I remembered her as Orlando, was all skin and bones and stringy knots of muscle and veins. Goose-bumps, hairy legs, huge feet and hands, rubbing herself. I smiled. She whispered, 'I feel like a kid again,' and grinned. Several young ironwomen horsed about. I stretched. The instructions. The gun. For the first twenty metres of a triathlon, bedlam in water, other swimmers' splashes get up your nose, the jostling for position is brutal. By fifty metres, the ones with a chance are hitting their strokes and you have a moment to look around. Tiger Cat's swimming was all shoulders and paddle-steamer arm action. She was beside me, to my right, my better breathing side. I decided to breathe to the left every third stroke and the right now and then. It slowed me a bit but I kept my rhythm. Having racers in front of me gave me a route to the first buoy. I ignored her antics, figuring they would wear her out before me. For all her pretence, she had trained for this event.

  When they dive from the pier into the marina of the Resort Yacht Motel, and swim straight out to the first buoy, Virginia feels the bliss of a moment in linear time. Light, afloat, as the weight of the past and the future lifts off her shoulders, leaving her free to roll them through the smooth brine of the estuary, totally involved in the present. She spreads her toes. Her webbed feet flip her along like an outboard motor and her knotty hands, muscled by woodwork, throw bowls of water back with ease. Her arms skim the water like gulls' wings. In the long stretch to the second buoy she overtakes all in front of her. She has to pause to gauge her way: another length and then straight back to land, she remembers to concentrate, and goes for it.

  Confined by the conditions, the course, she is unfettered. She is not mad. She is in tune. She is so thoroughly in tune she busts through the melody to the rhythm of chords. Within the safety of the race, having to make no choices other than those she could execute, having nothing to do except go fast, Beetle, go fast. Go fast. She might have been racing Jeff when they were nine, or eight, or seven. They did it all the time, on grass, sand, rocks, sea and b
ikes, most of the daylight hours of their childhood. Taking spills and getting up, no tears, no adults fussing.

  The gurls on the land see the water as a mess of splash and arms. When Virginia, hardly a ripple on the surface, breaks free, they give voice with uninhibited energy. 'It's as though she's swimming with flippers on,' 'Come on, Beetle,' 'Don't slack off, you mole,' they yell. 'Beetle, do it.'

  Between the second and third buoys I spied a couple of swimmers a fair distance ahead. An iron-girl, myself and Tiger Cat were within five lengths of each other as we went around the last buoy. I looked up at the shore to choose my line and go for it. Rory and her mates were cheering. I couldn't believe it, not an amateur. She must be a mermaid. 'Beetle'? The short, compact body of the girl left the water neatly, immediately in front of me. She ran through the sand on her toes, thighs working beautifully. I did not push myself for this stretch. Two-thirds of the race to go. Tiger Cat passed me.

  By the time we were wheeling the bikes for the road, I was ahead of both. Rory's friend was way up the hill. Bike was my best leg. I accelerated out of the company of Tiger Cat and the young pro. I thought I could reach Virginia on the downhill or through the tricky acute-angled turn into the factories. Legs pumping, all the rest of the body centred, I closed in when we came to the sharp corner, about ten metres behind. Her old bike handled nicely but was awful to look at. She rode like a kid. 'She's got to skid,' I thought. I calculated to stay on the bitumen even though it sharpened and lengthened the bend. She went right into the shoulder, through the gravel, no sign of using her brakes, no weight on her pedals, a brave lean into the curve from her seat effectively cut the corner, making up a lot ground through sheer, careless guts. She was happy, free and fearless. So balanced, she took her hands off her handlebars to glide down a slope and give her back a rest, casually pedalling. I passed her at that point and sprinted through the town, back to the bunting of the bike yard.