The Disappearances of Madalena Grimaldi

by Marele Day

  ‘The guy—Fabio—with the Chrysler. Remember we were talking about him last time?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘I know you said you didn’t have an address but do you have a surname? A contact phone number? Surely you’ve got an invoice, something like that.’

  ‘I doubt it. I’m a mechanic, not a secretary. I hate all that paperwork. I keep most of the records in my head.’

  ‘So what do you do when it’s tax time? Mail your head in, like John the Baptist?’

  ‘I don’t know John the Baptist, I’m a Muslim. I stick all the scraps of paper in the office in an envelope and give it to my accountant.’

  ‘How much was the paint job?’

  ‘Getting the colours, mixing the paint, the labour …’

  ‘OK, Danny, give me a round figure. I don’t need the complete inventory.’

  ‘Seventy bucks.’

  ‘Seventy bucks! For a line of paint half a centimetre wide?’

  ‘That’s a fair price, I’m not putting anything on it. You’re a regular customer.’

  I knew what he was saying was right. It was just that lately the Daimler had become a bottomless money pit. I wrote him a cheque. Sometimes I pay him cash but I have to have something to claim as a tax deduction.

  ‘A hundred and fifty,’ I said, giving him the cheque. ‘The second stripe’s not going to cost as much as the first because you’ve got the paint already. The rest of it is to buy half an hour of your time to look around the office and see if you can come up with anything on Fabio or the Chrysler.’

  ‘It’s that important, huh?’

  ‘It could be. You can ring me on the home number or the mobile.’

  I returned to Raf’s painting. Once again there’d been progress but the artist was missing. What did I have to do, watch the place twenty-four hours a day? I went over to the newsstand. Every newspaper had FIRE! on it in bold black letters.

  I don’t know if the guy remembered me from before or not, but he was amiable enough. We got talking about the painting. Then the artist. He told me Raf had gone, that he’d usually left by this time of day. Mostly he worked here during lunch hour, that’s when he got the best crowds. I bought the afternoon paper. It felt crisp and dry, like a desiccated leaf. One more degree of heat and the city would spontaneously combust.

  When I got home there was a message from Bernie asking me to ‘give him a ring sometime’. It was noncommittal, hard to tell from his tone of voice whether the news was good or bad. It was too late to ring him at work and I didn’t want to ring him at home. I had a shower to cool off and opened the French doors. It didn’t make a blind bit of difference to the temperature.

  I tried Rosa again. No answer. I tried her at John and Anna’s but all I got was the answering machine. Where was everyone, had they suddenly gone on holidays? I tried La Giardinera and got the answering machine there as well. The recorded message gave the hours of opening and invited the caller to give name, time, number of diners and a contact phone number if they wanted to make a booking. It was dinnertime. Why wasn’t anyone there?

  I tried driving to Lugarno but the police and fire brigade had set up roadblocks and I couldn’t get through. I came back to the pub in search of a few quiet beers. They weren’t that quiet—I was surrounded by conversation on all sides. The word on everyone’s lips was fire. They were talking about Ash Wednesday when seventy-two lives were lost in Victoria and South Australia, they were talking about the 1967 bushfires in Tasmania. I overheard the argument about eucalypts needing fire to burst open the seed pods, about spontaneous combustion. The stories of vandals sending kites into the air with their tails alight, whether a boy who had been caught deliberately lighting a fire should be charged with murder. Then they got onto other disasters. Granville. Cyclone Tracey. No-one mentioned the floods of 1985.

  Three beers and I was still stone cold sober. But hopefully it would be enough to give me a good night’s sleep. I went upstairs and got into bed.

  At 4 am I was jolted out of bed by the smell of smoke. I saw a brown haze everywhere. Jesus, the pub was on fire! I raced downstairs, into the bar, into the restaurant. But there was nothing burning. The smoke was coming from outside. In the north-west there was a dull red glow in the sky. The wrong direction for it to be the light of dawn.

  I went back upstairs and closed the French doors in an attempt to keep the smoke out. It made the room as hot as a furnace. And didn’t make a difference to the smoke. It found its way in, under the doors, through every little crack. Softly and silently its long wispy fingers crept into our rooms, our clothes, our hair, all the way into our lungs, our bodies. Whether you were sleeping or awake, you had to breathe it in. We had no choice, there was no other air but this.

  I woke up just after nine with the same smell of smoke in my nostrils, feeling decidedly unrefreshed. I reached for the phone and tapped out Bernie’s number.

  ‘It’s Claudia.’

  Bernie started explaining that the price had gone up. The job had taken longer than anticipated. As if he was a builder I’d employed to do renovations.

  ‘Is there a result?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you prepared to pay?’

  ‘Of course I’m prepared to pay,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘Then there’s a result.’

  Bernie told me that his contact had examined the records from the present back to 1985, for sickness benefits. There was an address for a Guy Francis Valentine c/- the Matthew Talbot Hostel but it changed in 1987 to a private address in Surry Hills. Then in 1990 the sickness benefits had stopped. Bernie’s contact had then looked at unemployment and other kinds of benefits till it finally occurred to him to try the old age pension.

  I could have kicked myself when I heard him say that. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t I suggested that in the first place? This was where he had found the address. It was still current. Since 1990 Guy Francis Valentine had been drawing old age pension cheques. And was still doing it.

  In those scanty records, change of address and change of pension, was the story of my father’s life, clearly laid out before me. ‘And?’

  Bernie knew what I wanted to hear next but he wasn’t saying it. ‘Claudia, if it was just between you and me, there’d be no problem. But … well, the person wants to know I’ve got the money before he’ll give me the address.’

  ‘How much is it? I can drop the money over right away.’

  Bernie told me how much it was. God, if I thought the Daimler was a money pit it was nothing compared to this.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Bernie. ‘And that’s just what my contact’s asking. I haven’t put anything on top for myself. Seeing as how it’s your father.’ Bernie sounded almost embarrassed.

  ‘Thanks Bernie,’ I said, ‘I appreciate that. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Give me a call when you’re near the building. I’ll come out for a cigarette.’

  The Department of Motor Transport, now known as the Roads and Traffic Authority, is in Rosebery, a working class area with few houses and lots of industry. Though the name has changed, the building is still the same. As directed, I gave Bernie a call on the mobile as I approached Rothschild Street. He told me to meet him around the back and gave me quite specific directions as to where he’d be. He’d walk along the street a little, to be away from other smokers also cast out of the building to carry on their dedication to the drug. I wondered if workers in the WD & HO Wills tobacco factory, not all that far from here, were allowed to smoke in the building.

  Bernie didn’t have to be that specific, he’s not difficult to spot. As soon as I turned the corner I saw him. The bald head, heavy-rimmed glasses and Russian doll shape were all there trundling along the street. Bernie’s shape always gave me a surprise, he had such a thin voice.

  I cruised along till I came up level with him. He leaned in the window. I showed him the bills so he could see it was the right amount, then he put them in his pocket. ‘You won’t be needing a receipt, w
ill you? I’ve left the book upstairs.’

  I looked at him with dry humour. ‘What about the address?’

  ‘Right. I’ll go and ring him. Copulator, Claudia.’

  ‘Bernie,’ I said, ‘get in the car. You can use my mobile.’

  He looked around furtively.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Bernie, it’s the address of an old age pensioner, not the French Connection.’

  He got into the car. I switched the mobile onto hands-free mode so I could hear what was said as well. Bernie tapped out the number. It occurred to me that the contact might become difficult, that he wouldn’t hand over the address till he actually had the money, but he must have trusted Bernie. He simply asked if Bernie had counted the money and when Bernie said he had, the contact gave him the address. I didn’t need to write it down, it rang out loud and clear in the van and finally tattooed itself on my brain.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ said Bernie with a flourish. He got out of the van and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Thanks, Bern, I’ll be phoning you. Oh, I’ve got something else. If you’re interested.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘American Chrysler, personalised plates—FABIO.’ I spelled it out for him.

  ‘Fabio?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Isn’t he one of those romance cover models?’

  ‘I doubt it would be the same one. How do you know about romance cover models?’

  ‘My wife reads them.’

  Sure, Bernie, sure. As soon as he was gone I grabbed the street directory and found my father’s street. I left the street directory open on the passenger’s seat and drove off, heading for Surry Hills.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  But at the first set of lights I caught sight of my own reflection in the side mirror. My eyes had the intensity of a crazy person. What was I doing racing up there like that? It was coming on lunchtime, the best time of day to catch Raf. I’d waited thirty years to find my father. One more day wouldn’t hurt.

  He was there. This time Raf was there, working on the tropical rainforest scene. His face was partially hidden by straight black hair flopping forward. He was dressed completely in black, apart from a dark blue velvet waistcoat with a silver thread through it.

  I put some money in the upturned hat. ‘I saw your Last Supper, it was really good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said graciously.

  ‘What’s this one called?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a name yet.’

  ‘What about “The Garden of Agharti”?’

  He stopped what he was doing. ‘You know about Agharti? So few people seem to have heard of it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘the kingdom under the earth. Do you believe it could exist here, in Australia?’

  ‘All things are possible,’ he hinted, returning to his drawing. ‘Thank you,’ he said in the same gracious voice as a passerby dropped some coins into the hat.

  ‘Is it possible for someone to live under the ground, do you think?’

  ‘Of course. If there’s air, something to eat and drink. In Agharti there is vril light which makes plants grow. According to the legend those people were completely self-sufficient.’

  ‘What about under Sydney? Is it possible to live in the tunnels under the city?’

  He looked up again, starting now to get the idea that I wasn’t just a passerby asking idle questions.

  ‘Kerry told me you and Madalena were friends.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  He was colouring in an area of green, rubbing the chalk over and over in the same place, giving himself something to focus on rather than the question I was asking.

  ‘No.’ But he did. He knew exactly where she was.

  ‘Is it Fabio? Is that who she’s worried about?’ A muscle in his jaw tensed.

  ‘Raf,’ I bent down close to him. ‘Is she all right? Just tell me if she’s all right.’ I was as close as I could get to him without actually touching. He kept chalking in the leaf, not looking at me. Some more coins were dropped into his hat but this time he didn’t acknowledge it. I stayed in close, I could almost feel his body heat.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like for Madalena’s mother, can you imagine what she’s going through?’ He wasn’t answering but he could hear me all right. I squatted there for a minute more then decided I’d pushed it far enough. I didn’t want to bully him into talking, didn’t want to use any tactics that might associate me with Fabio. I stood up. ‘If you see her, please ask her to call her home.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be seeing her. Like I said, I don’t know where she is.’

  I walked away. Into Hyde Park and down the path as if that was the end of it. But it wasn’t.

  I waited. By the fountain from which I’d watched this spot before. He continued with the drawing, occasionally looking up and thanking people for their donations. For seventeen minutes. Then he pocketed the money and put the hat on, pushing his hair behind his ears. He stood up, looked around, then walked into the station. I made my way back and joined the trickle of people entering the station.

  St James station was built in the 1920s and would have been very stylish then. The pedestrian tunnel leading into the station was done out in cream tiles with bottle green trim. Every so often there was an arched opening into a parallel tunnel, and a smaller opening at ground level, like a cat door.

  Raf walked along with a light step, overtaking an old lady slowly making her way with the help of a walking stick. She kept to the wall so as not to be a traffic hazard, but nevertheless a young dude cut it too fine and sent her off balance. Right into my arms. I managed to steady her. But it had given her a fright. ‘Oh, oh,’ she started sobbing loudly. People turned around to see what the fuss was. People including Raf. I was looking straight at him. He saw me and ducked through a nearby archway. I wanted to go after him but the woman was clinging to me as if I was a life-support system. Shit. ‘It’s OK,’ I assured her, ‘just try to keep walking.’ No, she didn’t want to walk, she wanted to lean against the wall.

  Of course, by the time she’d recovered, Raf had long gone. I went through the same archway into another pedestrian tunnel and followed it out to the street. He wasn’t back at the painting, there was not a sign of him. I came back into the station and looked around. He’d completely disappeared. He could be anywhere.

  ‘I’d like to see the station master,’ I said to one of the guards.

  ‘Is it a complaint?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Through there and up the stairs, first door on the right. You can’t miss it.’

  He was right. You’d have to be blind to miss the ‘STATION MASTER’ sign on the door. Through the glass panel I could see the station master at his desk, stacks of folders neatly arranged in front of him, others in overhead racks. He looked up when I knocked, put his pen down and came to the door.

  He was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, crisp white open-necked shirt with long sleeves buttoned up at the cuffs.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name’s Claudia Valentine.’ I told him I was a geography teacher researching a project on urban transport. Did he have any maps or diagrams of the station?

  ‘You’re keen,’ he remarked, ‘doing this during the holidays.’ He reached up to one of the racks and plucked out a large plastic folder. On the cover it said ‘ST JAMES STATION’. Just as he placed it on the desk his phone rang. ‘St James,’ he said, turning the folder round, inviting me to have a look. The folder was a bit like a school project itself. Everything neatly set out in plastic envelopes in the ring binder. Timetables, engineering specifications, statistics for commuters, tickets sold. And maps.

  One map was of the station and the area surrounding it—Elizabeth Street, St James Church, Macquarie Street—dotted lines indicating the pathways of Hyde Park. It mapped the pedestrian tunnels from Elizabeth Street and St James Road and the below-ground fan rooms. It also gave the plan of the station, the turnstiles and
the platforms below.

  Another diagram was of the stations and tracks in the inner city, from Central to Circular Quay. It was comforting to see the complex maze of city tracks set out so simply. I noted with interest that at the Circular Quay end of St James station there was a tunnel that appeared to lead nowhere.

  ‘How are you going?’ Having finished his phone call, the station master was turning his attention back to me.

  ‘Fine. What’s this?’ I asked, pointing out the dead-end tunnel.

  ‘There’d be a few of them under the city. Built at the beginning of the century. It was probably going to be one of the tracks on the eastern suburbs line. They were thinking of it even back then. Only took them fifty years to get around to it, then they put it through Martin Place rather than St James.

  ‘Some people reckon General Macarthur had secret headquarters down there during the war but I’ve been down there, I don’t think so. There’s no evidence of it ever having been used. There’s a big pool of water at the end of it, that’s all.’

  ‘Easy to get into?’

  ‘It’s not accessible to the public, of course. But staff go down there.’

  ‘Regularly?’

  ‘When something needs doing. We have people doing maintenance work on the lines that are used, but it’d be years since anyone went down into that particular tunnel. No need.’

  ‘Thanks for showing me this,’ I said, ‘it’s been very helpful.’

  ‘No worries. Do you need to photocopy anything?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Thanks.’

  Raf had spotted me, he’d be wary, alert. On the lookout. He may even have been watching me right now. He was going to lead me to Madalena but not today.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The address I had for my father was a block of flats opposite a threadbare piece of grass that was supposed to be a park. There was a bench on it, presently unoccupied. It looked like a good place for a kip. A couple of kids skateboarded along the footpath beside the park. Brothers by the look of them, the younger one trying to keep up with the jumps the bigger one was doing with ease.