‘Gold medals to us.’
‘Which snake can kill you, Dad?’ Nell asked.
‘One taipan contains enough poison to kill a thousand men. That’s what it says here.’
Clark felt as though he were in an ancient tomb, dazzling, decrepit, sombre as time. All this death but it didn’t touch him. Outside, the sun was killing half the city’s plants; the rivers were drying up; the whole world was dying. His beloved childhood house was about to be sold, but Clark was unfazed. The taipan could have burst from its cabinet and sunk its fangs into the Asian tourist, and Clark would have remained calm, all-powerful.
Sylvia went to find the toilet and Nell marched out of the gallery through a different door. They found themselves at Kids’ Island, a fenced-in playground jammed with luridly coloured apparatus, toys and dress-ups. Every single parent and child that had come to the museum had ended up in here. The noise was deafening, an unbroken communal screech, like feeding lorikeets. Clark unlatched the gate and entered with Nell. He stood against the wall near a woman in a dark green dress with fatty shoulders. She was saying enthusiastically, ‘Yes, yes, it’s a very safe environment, it’s very cut off,’ to somebody that Clark couldn’t see. And he watched Nell playing on the slippery dip, happy in the cacophony like a man in a cloud of confetti.
Nell shot out of the slippery dip’s mouth and tramped over. ‘Where’s Sylvia?’
‘I don’t know. Do you want me to go and find her?’
‘Yeh.’
He turned to the dark green dress. ‘Would you mind watching my daughter for a minute? My partner seems to have gone missing.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘I’ll only be here another ten minutes.’
‘That’s fine. Thanks.’
Nell dived into the tunnel below the slippery dip. A boy was waving a seagull glove around. ‘I’m gonna peck you!’ he declared.
Nell found a snake and rammed it on her hand. She poked it in the boy’s face. ‘Well, I’m gonna shoot you with venom! In the eye.’
Clark left the playground, latching the gate behind him. My partner. He contemplated the possibility that he wouldn’t see Sylvia again and began to panic. He hadn’t seen her for about fifteen minutes. How could she have got lost? The toilets were right here. But maybe she went into different ones. And maybe she had gone, freaked out. He was more and more conscious of how illicit her time with him was. He wandered around in circles in front of the toilets then the door opened and Sylvia was standing before him, smiling. They stood in the alcove talking quietly.
‘Where’s Nell?’
‘Playing. Where were you?’
‘Here.’
‘I got really worried. Nell was asking after you.’
‘How sweet.’
Clark glanced around, stepped forward and put his arms around her. ‘She sent me to find you,’ he whispered into Sylvia’s hair, inhaling her smell. Her eyelashes flicked against his forehead like little insects. She took his head in her hands and began to kiss him. He was like a teenager with her, instantly hard. ‘Is there anyone in there?’ He nodded to the toilet door.
‘No.’
Sylvia led him in. Clark recalled a gay party he had gone to years earlier with Leon. The first time he had taken ecstasy and the only time he had gone out with his brother. He had never experienced anything like it. The toilets were a hive of activity, a whole world unto themselves. Prowling predatory men outside the men’s, stink of piss, treacherously wet floors, out-of-it people. How afraid he had been, and fascinated. He had fled the men’s then followed a couple of guys with a reassuringly non-sexual air into the women’s. Every cubicle had two or more people in it; another party was going on in here, as unremittingly salacious as the men’s, yet light-hearted. He waited for ages then was finally in a cubicle, surrounded by sounds of snorting, giggling, groaning, shuffling. The toilet was blocked but he didn’t care because adjacent he could hear two women having sex. He lifted the seat and unzipped but was so distracted by the sound of them that he couldn’t piss.
Sylvia took him up the end to the disabled cubicle and the moment they had latched the door, somebody entered.
‘Phew!’ Clark whispered.
Sylvia grabbed his belt and pulled him over to the wall, whispering insinuatingly, ‘What about your daughter?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
He pressed up against her. Serenely he watched a clip of the dark green dress taking his daughter by the hand and leading her outside to where a male accomplice awaited. Take her. The next clip showed Sylvia kissing a woman, their breasts pressed together. There was the sound of a toilet flushing, running water. He sucked the laughter out of Sylvia’s tongue. He imagined her DNA coursing down his digestive tract and a million little Sylvias hatching in his gullet. He undid their zippers and pushed between her thighs and she slid her hands down the back of his jeans, clutching his arse, kissing him deeply.
Forty-six degrees. Each day hotter than the one before, the heat moving stealthily into every corner of the house. Going into the pantry, days after the cool change, and finding pockets of hot air trapped like bad memories on the top shelf. No refuge, no respite. Marie lived in the rumpus room with the television. She watched the evening news. I love God, said the newly elected Christian independent, and I love my family. The dams had dropped to thirty percent. Skeletons of livestock littered dry watercourses. In her muggy upstairs room, Marie stretched out naked, her body melting against every surface it touched.
Half her herb garden died in the heatwave. On the hottest day, the lavender bushes were scorched. She hadn’t gone outside till six-thirty and was covered knees to head, still her calves burnt. Even standing on the deck in the shade the very hair on her arms had seemed to singe. What visitation was this, so close to the auction? None of the buyers showed much interest in the garden but this blitzed expanse would surely shear thousands off the price. Like a storm, the event approached her with its own momentum.
She spent the late hours of the day pruning, then washed off the dust with a swim. The lawns of the reserve crunched beneath her feet like toast. The news said the heatwave death toll was three, all elderly people in the outer suburbs. But the death toll of plants must have been in the millions.
David was wearing a navy jacket and the same mild, spicy cologne. He had a tan and his hair was clippered so short that his bald patch was imperceptible. He looked younger and more masculine. ‘What a lovely balmy Sydney night,’ he said as they walked into the building. ‘And you look ravishing.’
‘Thank you.’ Marie got into the lift with the heat of his eyes upon her. They rode up to Level 41.
The restaurant wasn’t how she remembered it. Surprisingly, it resembled a boardroom. Plain, functional, almost austere. A young woman in black was sitting on one of the couches, drinking a mini-bottle of Moët through a straw. But the room was irrelevant. What mattered was the panorama of night harbour wrapped around the steel and glass cylinder like a black scarf shot with diamonds. They walked to a window table and Marie handed her shawl to the waiter with a thin moustache. David ordered champagne and antipasto. It arrived almost immediately.
‘I’d like to propose a toast for the sale.’ David lifted his glass. ‘Everything ready for the big day?’
‘Yes. My son-in-law is handling it. They’re auctioning on site, and I’ll be on a bushwalk.’
‘In the lap of the gods, hey? You aren’t in the least bit curious?’
‘Morbidly. That’s why I’m keeping away.’
‘And where are you going to buy?’
‘I’ve decided to cross the bridge. I’m not sure where to exactly.’
‘Good idea. The eastern suburbs is just about the only place that’s going to survive this downturn.’
‘You don’t think things will get better?’
‘Oh, sure. It’s only a matter of time.’
He was pretending not to look at her breasts. She sat with her shoulders back, looki
ng straight at him, enjoying his tortured avidity. The champagne had immediately penetrated the walls of her stomach and was fizzing along her arteries straight to her head. She ate some prosciutto and rockmelon. The waiter reappeared, elegant in his charcoal jacket with his vintage moustache and bottle opener angled rakishly into the wide pocket of his apron. His attentive hovering was directed towards Marie, even as he stood beside David.
I think I’ll have the spatchcock. Marie?’
‘I’ll have the skate.’
‘Excellent choice, madam.’
‘And a bottle of the Wirra Wirra.’ David slid his glasses to the end of his nose and looked up. ‘It is the 2004, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘I think things will only get worse,’ Marie said, when the waiter had gone. ‘We’re running out of oil. The war has sucked the American economy dry. We’re addicted to fossil fuels. The evidence of climate change is irrefutable and we’re not doing much about it.’
‘Well, the Chinese dragon is certainly going to torch us. And when it comes to the environment, they make us look like saints.’
‘And we’re mortgaged and indebted to the eyeballs. Just like the Americans.’
‘I’m not. I think it’s irresponsible.’ David rested on his elbows and contemplated Marie over his fingertips. ‘Did you know that the Dutch economy is one of the strongest in the world because of individual savings? The stingy Dutch! Saviours of the national economy.’
‘Well, I’m indebted to my eyeballs.’ It occurred to Marie that it might be her turn to pay tonight, which would set her up for another public shaming. Then again, it was David who had invited her. ‘But I’ll be bailed out on Saturday.’
‘Be careful.’ David wagged his finger.
‘What about your business? How will you survive?’
‘I really don’t care. I’m not a materialistic person, Marie. I have my little flat and a house down the coast. I don’t own many shares. I have my objets d’art, but I’m not fanatically attached to them as such. They all pass through my hands at one stage or another. I’m a highly adaptable, frugal person. I might even retire to New Zealand. Buy a little farm. You didn’t know I was a good bushman, did you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have to show you some time.’
‘What about twenty years from now? What do you think our grandchildren will have to contend with?’
‘I’m not worried about my Rosie. She’s a genius. She’s going to save the world.’
They leant back for the arrival of their perfectly manicured meals. The waiter filled their wineglasses then settled the bottle into its bucket with a snug, wet crunching. A boat strung with lights in the shape of a dragon glided beneath the harbour bridge. David was watching her with a cheeky, slightly lascivious grin. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Lady Randolph Churchill. Show me.’
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Marie unbuttoned her cuff, revealing the dark green end of a vine on her wrist. Further back, on her forearm, bloomed a passionflower.
David reared away and glanced around the room. ‘How far up does it go?’
‘All the way.’
‘Show me later, show me later,’ he said, waving his hand. He lowered his voice and pincered his wrist. ‘I thought it was just a small thing here …’
Hopelessness began to fill Marie like cement. She set her face and picked up her glass. ‘Tell me about your overseas trip, David. Where did you go?’
‘I wasn’t overseas. I was in the desert.’
‘In this heat?’
‘Yes. Mad dogs and Englishmen and overworked dealers. It couldn’t be helped.’ David ate with his head down, not looking at her, carefully placing a portion of each vegetable onto the meat on his fork before placing the combination into his mouth.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Balgo. Off the Tanami Track. An obscure place that hardly anyone’s heard of.’ He put down his cutlery. Again that look of dread and excitement crossed his features. ‘All the way to the top?’
‘Yes. Was it a buying trip?’
‘I don’t call them buying trips per se. There’s more to it than that.’ His eyes roamed the room, bright, conspiratorial, then came back to rest on Marie’s breasts. ‘And here? It is, isn’t it. My god.’
Marie wanted to do up all her buttons. ‘It must be beautiful out there,’ she said in a clipped voice.
David looked at her cagily. ‘Actually, it’s a mess. Alcoholism, petrol sniffing, domestic violence. The communities are completely dysfunctional. It may as well be overseas. It is another world. A third world.’
He was trying to impress her with his brush with misery. She was supposed to act girlish and naïve while he dealt with life’s harsh realities. Next thing she knew, she’d be keeping his dinner warm. At least he could still take her out and not have her make a scene. Marie sawed at her skate, hating her politeness as much as his rudeness. Deep in her blood, deeper than tattoos, the program to obey. She tried to scoop up the celeriac purée but most of it drooled through the prongs of her fork. Her posture was gradually closing in on itself, shoulders drawing towards one another protectively. At the table adjacent was a woman with pale pink lips outlined in maroon, giving her mouth a pushed-forward look. Her legs were angled in this direction, through the split in her skirt. David’s eyes flicked over, took them in, flicked back onto Marie’s breasts, then her face. A new expression was growing on his, like a weed sprung after a day’s rain. He continued in a tone that was something between pleading and threat, ‘There is nothing beautiful about women walking around with black eyes and children stoned out of their minds at midday, and raped babies.’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘Did you know that petrol sniffing now costs our health and justice systems almost eighty million dollars a year?’
A hot prickle ran over Marie’s skin. Shame bloomed deep inside her. She looked around at this five-star corporate diner, remembering it was a client of Ross’s who had brought them here in thanks for a successful campaign. They had sat in a large private room. Glaxo Wellcome, someone like that. A monumental Western Desert diptych stretched across the wall. There was a table of half-a-dozen or so men, two or three women. She would usually end up talking about gardening at these lunches, if she talked at all. The private room was still there, the door to it opened by a passing waiter, showing it to be empty tonight. At the table behind, another couple had just been seated. Marie noticed that almost every table in the restaurant was for two — everywhere were sleek couples in suits and pearls; at night it was clearly a place for romancing. A fog of disappointment had descended over her and David’s table. She couldn’t tell if she disgusted or attracted him. He was acting as if she did both. I’m going to get through this dinner, she thought with resolve. I’m going to eat and drink my fill, and hold my own. She remembered the curve of his arm when they danced at the Joneses’. The piercing eyes and amused mouth — mischievous, yes. And opportunistic. Predatory even. And she had wanted to be taken by him. So this was what it felt like. David flicked at his sleeve. There was something of the wounded child in his expression as well; she fought off the instinct to comfort. ‘I meant the place, David. The art. I thought you would have been looking at art.’
‘I bought some prints. When they’re not drunk, some of them are very fine printmakers.’ He lifted the wineglass to his pursed lips.
‘Well, that’s saying something. I was a bit of a drunk not so long ago but I couldn’t print to save my life, drunk or sober.’
David sank his head between his shoulders and glared out from the trenches at her. ‘I did Anthropology at university, you know, Marie. And I’ve travelled to almost every country on this planet, not to mention Aboriginal communities around Australia, and I refuse to buy this romance about indigenous cultures.’
‘I’m not selling romance, David. I’m not even giving it away.’
A couple walked past, the man and David exchanging brief nods.
‘That was the head of the Commonwealth Bank,’ David said when the man was out of earshot. ‘God, if only he knew!’ He smiled owlishly at Marie. ‘You are a feisty one, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like it!’
The waiter glided in to pour the last of the wine. Again, he gave Marie that look. It was more than respect — it was warmer, filial but comradely. Marie wished she was eating dinner in the kitchen tonight. David’s eyes were like wet tissues on her breasts. She hunched tighter, pressed her face to the view. Below her, like the languid leg of a woman, the long dark shape of Bradleys Head stretched across the shining water. If she leant out further she could see a cluster of lights around the foreshore of her house and garden. How small and irrelevant it seemed from up here.
‘You wouldn’t know that half the city had burnt, would you? Looking at it from up here.’
‘I had to go to Windsor today. You should have seen it. A lunar landscape, completely bleached.’
‘I feel like we’re living on the edge of an apocalypse.’
David laughed as though she were being silly. ‘The councils have already started replanting. How was your fish?’
‘Delicious. Aren’t most of the market gardens that supply Sydney out at Windsor?’
‘Oh yes, food prices will be going up. No doubt about it.’ David pushed away his half-finished meal. He sat back with his napkin still tucked into his collar, creating a warped dickie.
The waiter came to clear. ‘Dessert, madam?’
‘I’ll have a look at the menu.’
‘Sir?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘None for me either, then.’
‘Go ahead, Marie, go ahead!’
When the waiter had left, David lowered his voice and said, ‘So, all over your arms now, are they? And where else did you say?’
Marie cringed and kept her eyes on the menu. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘I saw a bloke once who’d had himself tattooed all over, even his face. They were all blurred, ooh it was dreadful. He might as well have been black.’
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