The Port Melbourne docklands are filled with bustling activity. Faulkner jumps from the tram which sits at the end of the line, several others around with suited men, women in floral dresses, climbing aboard or disembarking. On the pier a jazz band plays Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. The sound of it hits Faulkner in the stomach; it reminds him of Lucy. The sun is shining, but heavy clouds are rolling in over the bay. A steamer with huge wheels and towering funnels, painted blue and white, is anchored by the side of the pier. Faulkner runs along the pier, dashing in between the strollers. On the prow of the steamer stands Laurence, staring off into the distance, the wind whipping his wispy hair. There is no sign of the rat, but Faulkner can sense that he’s around.
There is a tremendous sound of a horn, and boatmen unwind the thick ropes that attach the boat to the pier. Faulkner breaks into a sprint. The great wheels start to churn. A boatman steps in front of Faulkner, hand up to indicate for him to stop. But Faulkner steps left.
“Hey!”
Faulkner leaps the blue and white water and scrambles onto the boat. There is a pain in his chest. Christ, he thinks, I’m not getting any younger. He begins to climb up to the foredeck. Laurence stands alone; there is no rat. Perhaps Laurence has escaped Melbourne, city of monsters.
Faulkner lights a cigarette. “Heading somewhere are we?”
Laurence freezes, his eyes widen, and then Faulkner leans up against the rail beside him.
“Relax, it’s only me.”
“What are you doing here, Faulkner?”
“I thought I better send you off. Sorry about that cut you got yourself there.”
They stare out at the sea for a long while as the steamer cuts into the bay. On the far side of the bay, the megalopolis of Point Lonsdale can be seen: another great collection of buildings, rising into the sky above the shimmering water. For a moment the sun disappears behind a cloud, and then comes out again.
“Looks like a storm is coming,” says Faulkner.
“There’s been a storm coming for years,” says Laurence. “The question is, where are you going to be when it breaks?”
“I’d be with my friends if I had any. Now the only ones I have are communists and broken-down dream-dust dealers.”
In front of the steamer a few of the sharks that populate the bay warp in and out of existence beneath the water, dorsal fins circling.
“Look at those things, Laurence. They’d eat you up without noticing, wouldn’t they?”
“You know,” says Laurence, “they just keep producing new sets of teeth. So if they break some, no big deal. Another set comes right through.”
“No wonder they live around here.”
One of the sharks surges out of the water for a moment, baring its blood-red gums, its yellow teeth. It crashes back down, a spray of water flying high into the sky.
“Leviathans,” says Faulkner quietly. Then he adds: “Believe in heaven?”
“Dunno.”
“Just wondering if she’ll be waiting for me.”
“Who knows? Even if she is, she’s probably up there doing her own thing. She always had her own mind.”
They look out over the thousand small waves that emerge out of the sea for a second and then disappear again.
“So you were working for the Chinese?” says Faulkner.
“Of course not.”
“Well, the communists.”
“Look: I was working for the secret service, sure. I just thought it was the wrong thing to do, to invade China. Didn’t the communists help beat the Axis powers in World War Two? Can’t they work out whatever they want to do? It’s nothing to do with us. I mean, whatever they’re like, those Chinese communists, it’s up to the Chinese to get rid of them, if that’s what they want. And, well, I was thinking this and the next thing you know, I kind-of told the Communist Party about the plans to invade.”
“And so now you’re running.”
“It’s the secret service, Faulkner. You don’t just walk away.”
There’s silence for a minute, as Laurence and Faulkner look out over the bay.
Eventually Faulkner speaks, louder, without turning: “So, was it you? Did you kill her?”
Behind them stands the cadaverous man, Victor Jackson. He holds a gun.
Jackson laughs: “So, Laurence, what do you reckon? You want to come back in, or not?”
Laurence and Faulkner slowly turn.
“Sure,” Laurence says, “I want to come back, Victor. I want to come back and let you guys in the service work me over. I can’t wait.”
Two women, arm in arm, all floral dresses, each holding an umbrella to keep off the sun, come around the deck, take a look at the scene. “Oh, my god.” They scamper back.
“It’s war, Laurence,” says Victor Jackson. “It’s war between us and the Chinese, and you’re a traitor. Who knows what you told. We’re going to find out one way or another.”
Faulkner steps forward.
“Whoa there.” Victor points the gun at Faulkner. “And you...I know all about you, boy. Remember what I told you about life, about it being nasty...and short. Don’t shorten it now.”
“Well, you’re an educated man, Victor. Me, I’m kinda uneducated. But I still know what’s right. I still know you killed my China Doll. And I always thought you were just a crooked cop. But I guess the cops weren’t really your first priority, were they?”
“Well, maybe I killed her and maybe I didn’t.”
“If it wasn’t you it was someone like you: some faceless man; some trained killer.”
“Now you’re sounding like the commies yourself. So, Laurence, you going to come in, or am I going to have to kill you here?”
“You’re going to have to kill me here.”
“Righto.”
A shot goes off and all three of them stand there, as the smoke slowly curls from Victor’s gun. Everything seems silent after the explosive noise of the gunfire.
Faulkner leaps and reaches out as Victor turns the gun in what seems an agonisingly slow movement. Christ, thinks Faulkner, I’m not going to make it. Another shot goes off, but Faulkner lashes out and strikes something. The gun clatters on the ground and Faulkner crashes into Victor and then rolls clumsily on the deck.
By the time he’s up, Victor is already at the gun, bending over. Like a bear, Faulkner stumbles forward and stomps. There’s a crack and Victor groans as he pulls his hand away from the gun which is still under Faulkner’s foot.
Victor lashes out with a fist, but Faulkner, still stumbling out of control, is already past him and the blow glances off his shoulder. He turns and the two of them, both searching for breath, stare momentarily at each other. A coldness has come over Victor’s eyes, now squinting and rat-like.
Above them clouds cover the sun and everything seems grey and cold. Faulkner feels something soft on his face. He touches it and finds it’s wet. It has started, ever so gently, to rain.
I always seem to be in the rain, he thinks, at the precise moment that Victor charges him, his body low, and Faulkner, with the deftest of little moves, an almost inconsequential flick, takes Victor’s hand, twists his own body, and sends Victor flying over the railing and into the sea. Victor’s body hits the water with a crash and the prow pushes past him. An arm is raised in the churning water, and then a half-submerged head, which courses along the side of the boat and is caught up in the churning wheel. The body, like a wet rag, is picked up and suspended by one of the wheel’s great blades, which spins rapidly, the body just a fleck of colour, and strikes the water with a splash. And then there’s silence.
“You’re quite a number yourself,” Faulkner says to himself. Faulkner looks to the sky which is now black and bruised. He turns back to Laurence. There’s no blood to be seen, but Faulkner knows it can’t be good. He steps over and Laurence is coughing and wheezing and his pale complexion seems whiter with the death-sheen that Faulkner recognises.
“Looks like I’m gonna get there before you,” says Laurence and coughs ag
ain. “Look after yourself, son. If it makes you feel better, she really liked you.”
Faulkner nods as he looks down. “I wonder why,” he says.
“You know why,” says Laurence but Faulkner can’t stand the discussion and doesn’t reply. A moment later Laurence closes his eyes, his body starts shaking uncontrollably, as if he is having some kind of fit, his breath rattles like a train over a bridge, and then he stops breathing altogether. Above them the heavens open and the rain becomes a torrential downpour of cold, cold water. Laurence’s face is terribly old and lined around the eyes, as if there are canyons on his face.
The clack-clack-clack rolls out over the land as the train, a great mechanical beast, rattles on. In a carriage Faulkner leans back, the bottle of Chinese dream-dust on a white-clothed table before him. He rocks gently with the motion of the train. The rattle reminds him momentarily of something which he pushes from his mind. In front of him lies a paper. “Heavy Defeat on Chinese Coast” and “Labour Party refuses to end war”.
From the window Faulkner can see the great inland sea, glistening in the midday light. Everything is painted in brilliant kaleidoscopic colour: tall red and yellow flowers emerge from swamps, the grass-lands are a deep and luscious green, the sea water a light aqua, darkened only by the shadows of schools of fish moving restlessly beneath.
Three giant lizards, eight-metre long goannas, drink at the edges of the sea; one of them cranes its neck to peer at the passing train before returning to the water.
Around the curve of the coast the Inneminkan Metropolis rises, a hundred futuristic spires gleaming in the sun. Between them what looks like kilometres of industrial works—great arrangements of interlaced piping and tanks—runs along the shore.
The lush Australian heartland, centre of industry, thinks Faulkner. What a strange country this would have been, without the inland sea: just a far-off hell, dry and dusty, the big nowhere. But there’s no plenty here for me. Oh no. No inland pleasure-garden will satisfy me. Not now, not after all that’s happened. There’s only one place for me, and that’s to go back.
Faulkner leans forward, pours a small pile of dream-dust into his hands, and sniffs it. Slowly he places his head down onto the table before him, and closes his eyes, and he slowly slowly fades to the past where he dances with Lucy in the middle of a room, a band playing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes behind them. Chinese lanterns throw a warm glow on the wooden floorboards. Lucy’s red dress, with golden dragons on it, shimmers in the light. Even Faulkner’s suit seems sharp and clean. The forms of other dancers are silhouettes moving softly around them.
“You’re quite a number,” says Faulkner.
“Don’t make me throw you again.”
“Well, I always like it when you’ve got me on my back.”
“You know who wears the pants in this relationship.”
“Definitely a number.”
“What’s on tomorrow?”
“Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Let’s just have tonight. You and me and tonight.”
And the world descends back into darkness, like a ship sinking slowly beneath the waters.
TALES OF CAELI-AMUR
Lovers in Caeli-Amur
Anton Moreau stepped from his carriage, dressed in his finest suit, his long sleeves puffing out from beneath his jacket, and held his breath in anticipation. House Arbor had always held the most famous balls in Caeli-Amur. The Directors constantly tried to outdo each other in opulent decoration, sumptuous food, and extravagant entertainment. And this would be the night of Anton’s greatest triumph.
He passed along the wide street, where bulb-trees lined the sides like marshals standing to attention, and drifted with other guests through the gates of Director Lefebvre’s mansion. As with most House Arbor buildings, the walls were covered with Toxicodendron Didion, which reached out ominously towards the passersby, green fronds waving, hoping to wrap the guests in their deadly embrace. Sometimes when the Toxicodendron was cut back, the skeletons of thieves were found hanging within the vines’ wiry branches.
The gardens of Lefebvre’s mansion were immaculately sculpted, with olive trees lining the walls. On the front lawns the guests—men in bright red coats, women in grandiose dresses—watched as jugglers tossed burning sticks in the air, contortionists squeezed their way through impossible frames, and sleight-of-hand magicians sat next to thaumaturgists, daring the crowd to decide who was the real and who the fake. Arbor was obsessed with appearances, with fronts, with displays.
Anton walked into a grand entrance hall with great staircases, its floor a massive mosaic depicting an augurer, her hair wild and matted, as she overlooked the rugged and dry mountains to the west of Caeli-Amur. The design was in the manner of the ancients, and there were frescoes—painted in emerald greens and solar reds—on the walls.
Guests conversed excitedly as they examined each other and each new patron who entered the mansion. A woman in a corner pointed towards him and whispered to a friend, for Anton himself was part of the entertainment. For Lefebvre, Anton’s presence was a display of exoticism and excitement, allowing the respectable gentlemen and ladies of the House to return from the ball whispering to each other about the gratificationist-assassin who believed that true life could only be found in the attainment of immediate pleasure.
As he crossed the floor, Anton felt someone grasp his forearm roughly.
Madame Demoul, her face set coldly like a statue’s, looked up at him. “You bastard.”
“So nice to see you,” said Anton pleasantly. He would have to get rid of her quickly, before she made a scene.
“I’m just like the rest of them, aren’t I? You seduce us and then throw us away when you’re sick of us.” She spat the words out, her head craned forward.
Anton looked around and smiled at other guests. Chatter echoed around the hall, concealing his conversation. “Jeana, you were always special. The months we had together—you remember how we embraced. How could you say that was not real? But we were forced to stop. You know that. Your husband, he suspected.”
“I’ll have you killed. I’ll have your throat cut in your sleep.”
Anton leaned in and touched her hand briefly. “I loved you.”
Madame Demoul seemed to shrink, and her eyes filled with tears. “Please come back to me. Please...”
Anton smiled at more guests as they passed by. “Send me a message at café La Tazia. Perhaps enough time has passed.”
Madame Demoul looked at the floor. “I can’t. You’ll hurt me again. I’m just one of your whores.”
Anton nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
Madame Demoul’s face was wracked with emotion. “I will, I will send you a note...”
“Now go, before anyone suspects.” Anton spoke with authority.
Madame Demoul turned and hurried away. Hopefully the pathetic creature would leave him alone for the rest of the night.
Anton continued on into the ballroom, where couples danced in intricate patterns, circling each other like parts of a great machine. On a stage along one wall sat a small orchestra, playing a sophisticated minuet.
Across the room stood a delicate and childlike woman, her golden ringlets piled on her head in a great tower, a beauty spot painted on one cheek. She talked to two other gowned ladies, one of whom apparently said something humorous, for the delicate woman threw her head back and laughed gaily. Her mouth smiling slightly, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth, she glanced across the room, and Anton caught her eye. He struck that half-smile that he knew made him look devilish, and for several seconds she held his gaze.
There she is, thought Anton: my conquest for the night.
A servant requested his presence with Director Lefebvre himself. The man passed Anton a note: “Be prepared.”
As he began to follow, Anton looked back at the woman. This time she smiled devilishly at him but then broke eye contact as if he bored her.
Anton smiled to himself. It seemed this would be a challenge.
Lefebvre dominated the smoking room the way he dominated everything. As was befitting a Director of House Arbor, he sat, tall and grey-haired, his nose straight, his eyes impenetrable.
Behind Lefebvre stood his cold-faced adjutant, Jean-Paul, while a number of Officiates lounged in chaise longues, their attention directed towards him subtly: here the feet angled in his direction, there the head.
“Ah my trusted colleagues, let me introduce you to the gratificationist, Anton Moreau.”
An Officiate whom Anton had already met—a man called Villiers with a greasy sheen to his skin—stood up. “Please, take a seat.” He ushered Anton to a chaise longue and turned to Lefebvre. “I must say Director, what a wonderful collection of entertainments you have provided this evening.”
A young, fresh-faced Officiate, who seemed to have a permanent smirk, looked at Anton. “So Moreau, is it true you’ve dedicated your life to the search for pleasure?”
“That is something of an exaggeration—no one can seek pleasure solely. There are a great number of other things that one must consider. The point is to turn those other things to the service of pleasure. One acquires money—but what for?”
Lefebvre spoke and the room fell silent. “Loyalty, for example. Anton has always been faithful, hasn’t he, Jean-Paul?”
Lefebvre’s adjutant nodded silently. There was something about Jean-Paul that unnerved Anton. He could not imagine the adjutant enjoying anything at all. The man was a House fanatic: drawn from the impoverished countryside, narrow-minded and brutal. There was something mechanical about him.
When Lefebvre spoke again, the room filled with tension. “It’s a precious commodity, is it not? What do you think, Villiers?”
Villiers’ skin acquired a slicker sheen and the other Officiates looked on with anxious curiosity—something was happening.
“I could not agree more.” Villiers turned back to Anton, and changed the subject. “But I wanted to ask Moreau something. I understand that gratificationists seek escape in Lika-flowers and other such drugs.”
The Library of Forgotten Books Page 6