by Ann Michaels
Chapter 2.
Among the Stars
As I caught the bus to school that day, all I could think about was what, an amazing place a museum actually is. Imagine: we humans are the only animals who can know some of our past and think about our future. As far as we know anyway! Museums allow us to get an idea about that past and yet, those collections of bones and stuffed birds and animals, are so very fragile. And, the fossils we find are only the remains that managed to survive - against the odds. Much of our past has been lost and ruined by the effects of the environment and time. It can never be recovered. Imagine though, if parallel universes actually exist and the asteroids that resulted in the dinosaurs becoming extinct, never happened there. But, then, perhaps, we humans wouldn't exist there at all.
At school, I sat down with my friends Dion and Lala at lunchtime and as I ate my falafel sandwich, I told them about my nocturnal adventures. As I was telling my tale, they both sat shaking their heads, which made me feel like I was at the fun park with those clowns with the open mouths. You know the ones where you put the balls in the mouth? They were not impressed and said that what I was doing was dangerous, and I could get hurt. Blah, blah, blah.
During art class in the afternoon, we had to do some paintings in the style of Picasso. Picasso is that character who decided to do a load of his paintings in geometric shapes, like squares and triangles and stuff. He also went through a period when he just wanted to paint everything blue, and at another time, pink. Whatever! I decided to paint the huge dinosaur skeleton that I saw at the museum last night, in his cubism style. The result was pretty gruesome, actually.
While we were painting, Lala and Dion, who are brother and sister, and twins, said that they were staying with their granny tonight. They wanted to know if I wanted to 'sleepover', as they would be up late, because their granny was having one of her Salons.
'Yes please!' was my answer. It was Friday, and tomorrow was the weekend. Yah!
Mum and I actually lived with my granny, Granny Herbert; she was my dad's, mother. My dad had gone walk-about when I was a pretty young. We hadn't seen him since. And so, Granny Herbert decided that we would be better off living with her in Darlinghurst, and luckily, mum agreed. Granny Herbert, was the type of granny who knitted dresses for the doll which sat on top of the toilet; made scones for 'afternoon tea' on rainy, autumn days, and gave teenagers on the bus 'a piece of her mind'. She also shared her opinions about the prime minister, loudly, at the doctor's office and often took tuna casserole to the homeless people in the park. Dion and Lala's granny was a famous artist and legendary bohemian, named Hortensia Goldenvine. Her 'Salons', as she called them, included some of the most interesting people on the planet. And now, I was invited to one!
When I arrived home from school in the afternoon, mum was still at work and granny was earbashing the hearing-impaired, neighbour, next-door, about the dire state of the nation.
I realised that I would have to change my usual routine, if I wanted to go to the Salon tonight, so, after having something to eat, I did my chores and then got stuck into my homework. After that, I checked on granny who was still with the neighbour at the fence, and then, ran up the stairs, had a quick shower and flopped onto my bed, and went straight to sleep.
I awoke at 11 p.m., after having a weird dream that I was flying on the back of a white rabbit to Mars. Then flew out of the window, down the tree and raced off up the street toward Paddington. I arrived, breathing like a winded horse, at the sandstone, terrace house, just as Sir Bazza McDogel opened the door and looked out with a look of supreme bafflement. I popped into view, and he smiled. He lifted his felt hat from his head, bowed theatrically and called back inside, 'she's here'.
Dion and Lala emerged and drew me inside. Dion looked like a boiling kettle and said 'Hell! Granny is going to be impossible now!'
'Why's that?' I asked in puzzlement.
'Because, she predicted that you would arrive at that very moment', answered Lala. 'She believes that she is psychic.'
'Just dumb luck,' said Dion looking grim. Dion believed in science and he often tried to explain how randomness creates coincidence. Granny Goldenvine refused to listen. She preferred to believe that her thoughts could control and predict happenings in the world around her. 'You're boring,' she would drawl loftily to Dion, and then, they would both break into riotous laughter and agree to disagree.
Sir Bazza McDogel was standing at the end of the long, dark hallway wearing his green, felt hat, an orange and black, polka-dot scarf, with his hand planted on his hip. He was like a human sign-post, leading the way toward the sitting room, containing the crush of people.
'Come along my dears', he intoned and we shuffled on into a room of sandstone walls, art deco lamps and many old, green, leather Chesterfield sofas, carrying various guests, like stranded canoes.
Seated at a small, grand piano, on the far side of the room, was a famous piano player, who had had a movie made about him a few years ago. He was playing a piece of music by Chopin and muttering happily to himself. A few people were dancing about in wigs and sky-high shoes, and throwing feather boas toward the ceiling.
'That's Petros Troubadour, the famous moral philosopher', whispered Lala loudly into my ear, as she surreptitiously pointed at a neatly-dressed man, intently, talking to a women in a superbly cut suit and pink, bowler hat. 'He's talking to that famous, human-rights lawyer, Amala Kaur.' I merely nodded, as we made our way toward Granny Goldenvine, who was perched majestically on a throne-like chair, wearing flowing chiffon robes, decorated with a riot of giant, purple and yellow flowers.
'Darling! How are you!' cried Granny Goldenvine, sweeping her hands out toward me. 'Come here by me my precious!' I did as I was bid and Granny Goldenvine turned me about 'Well, dearie, you haven't grown much have you?' Then, she clapped her hands and a waiter dressed as a Pierrot clown strode over and led us away to a room, where a large table groaned beneath mounds of delicious food.
I began to load up my plate with, sushi, rice paper rolls, and lasagne.
'Don't tell me that they don't match!' I said, glaring at my friends. Then a waiter asked me what I would like drink. He soon presented me with a glass of apple juice. Dion, Lala and I then make our way over to an empty, headache-inducing, yellow chaise-lounge, and sat down. It was hard as a rock. I felt like a bird on a perch.
All about us, interesting conversations buzzed about; although, nearby a rather large woman in a crushed, velvet dress, which resembled a flour sack, with feathers in her hair, droned on and on about her 'sensitivity to all types of art.' Dion rolled his eyes and mouthed 'that dress makes a liar of her'.
Dion can be a bit mean sometimes.
A man in skin-tight red and white striped pants and long, wispy, grey hair, strolled over to us, 'any of you dudes and dudettes know how to sing?' Lala began to flutter her eyelashes and her hand shot up like we were in class. She said, 'I always win karaoke contests.'
'Since when?' countered Dion. His eyes flashing.
Stripy Pants Man ignored Dion and took Lala gallantly by the hand. He led her to a small room and gave her a microphone. Various people were sitting, expectantly, on foldout chairs and so, Dion and I joined them.
'Just ad-lib to the music lassie. Sing whatever enters your heart and mind,' said Stripy Pants Man earnestly. 'This is the most honest and pure form of expression there is'.
Lala looked pretty blank.
Stripy Pants Man took his place behind a synthesiser, which has been placed on a stand and began to play what sounded like a random collection of sounds and noise; Lala began to warble and hum and sing various bits of tunes. Soon, her eyes fluttered closed, like she had gone to another place. Or, by the sound of the 'music', perhaps, another planet.
When the agonising performance was over, Stripy Pants Man took Lala's hand and they bowed to the audience of five people, including Dion and me (the rest had run away). He had tears in his eyes, as he bowed low. He clapped reverently toward Lala, 'I am
truly overcome', he said. More than once. You would think he was at La Scala, or Royal Albert Hall. At least.
We went back to the main sitting room and the moral philosopher, Petros Troubadour, was engaged in dialogue with a short, round, bald man dressed in a light blue, plastic looking jumpsuit. 'I am entitled to my opinion', the short man barked, a little too loudly, as we passed.
'You make no attempt to justify, or provide any evidence for that opinion', explained the philosopher evenly.
'Why should I! It's my opinion', roared the man.
The philosopher sighed and seeing us, called out, 'what do young people think about red herrings?'
Dion said, 'red herrings are used to mislead or distract in a book, aren't they?'
'Not just in books', the philosopher growled enigmatically. The short man turned the same colour as a well-cooked red herring, and marched away. His jumpsuit squeaking with each step.
I turned slightly and I could see Professor Fortunatus from the museum, engaged in intense conversation, with a man in a tweed suit, sporting a most magnificent, handlebar moustache. 'That is Dr. Orlov' whispered Dion, 'Very important palaeontologist - scientist who studies fossils and such', he added, importantly. Like I didn't know! Which I didn't. But whatever!
I couldn't catch the professor's eye, so I went and sat near Granny Goldenvine and patted her Siamese cat, Birdie, who was curled up asleep in a jewelled cat bed. The rude thing merely cracked one eye and went back to sleep. That's cats for you.
I noticed that Dion and Lala appeared to be arguing about something, but I couldn't hear what it was all about. So, I just kind of spaced out for a while, until Granny Goldenvine tapped me on the shoulder, with her folded paper fan.
'So, how is that adorable grandmother of yours luvie?'
'Er?.what?.my grandmother?'
'The one and only Alberta.'
I couldn't believe that this glamorous and well-connected woman actually knew my grandmother!' My grandmother! Who only seemed to be interested in knitting doilies and complaining about people.
'She is pretty well, I guess. She gets plenty of energy from bullying other people about', I added.
'Granny Goldenvine impaled me with her narrowed, icy blue eyes, 'Alberta is one of my dearest friends and I won't have her spoken about in that way.'
My eyes must have goggled, as Granny Goldenvine explained, 'Alberta and I met back in the 1970s, when we got involved with the green-ban movement'.
I was still confused.
'The green-bans were demonstrations, led by some very courageous men, against the destruction of some of Sydney's most important buildings and sites. Believe it or not, the government actually allowed many wonderful parts of our history to be razed to the ground, so that ugly glass and steel skyscrapers could be thrown up. But, they were planning much worse?? The Botanical Gardens was to become a car park and the beautiful Rocks, was?.'
Granny Goldenvine flicked her fan open and began to flap it rapidly in front of her face.
'Anyway, you get the idea; Alberta, your grandmother and I were engaged in protest?.for a very worthy cause.'
I couldn't imagine my grandmother chaining herself to a tree, or, an old building, but, I must admit that I liked the idea. I liked it rather a lot.
A rap artist strolled into the main room from the kitchen, wearing a white overall with paint dripped on it. Chains and keys were hanging around her waist, here and there, and she was sporting some seriously dark, sunglasses. She began to rap and stride about. From what I could gather, the rap was about growing up in the 'burbs' and 'bein' bored'. I was bored too, so I wandered off to look for Dion and Lala.
I found the twins outside in the courtyard dangling their hands in a pond full of goldfish and staring up at the moon.
'I would love to fly to the moon', sighed Dion
Lala laughed and began to sing in her warbly voice:
'Fly me to the moon Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars'.
Dion laughed and thumped his sister playfully on the arm.
'No really! Just imagine walking around up there with no gravity and looking down and knowing that every other person in the world is down there on that blue ball hurtling through space.'
'Well, when you put it that way!' Lala laughed.
'And, you reckon I do risky stuff!' I blurted. 'When, actually, there is no way you would get me up on that spooky-looking, round rock!'
Dion looked at me in utter amazement; apparently, he thought that everyone spent their life dreaming and hoping that they would be shot into space.
'Come on,' Lala said grabbing us each by an arm. 'Let's go and find Sir Bazza McDogel.'
We found Sir Bazza chatting happily with a well-known Queensland politician, who was wearing white shoes and a too snuggly-fitting, tan safari-suit. Sir Bazza saw us, as we approached, and bowed theatrically.
'Hello me dears, may I present my very good chum, Senator Orson Carte. A most capital fellow!'
'And one, who is well known for misappropriating public funds', whispered Dion darkly, under his breath.
Sir Bazza and Senator Carte did not appear to hear Dion's rumblings, but I felt nervous and so pretended to sneeze very loudly and then apologised like crazy. Sir Bazza took several, tottering steps backwards, whilst extracting his polka-dot handkerchief, from his top pocket.
'My word, what a veritable Vesuvius you are young lady!'
I sought to change the subject and so cast around in my mind for some suitable topic of conversation??..but my mind was blank. I merely stood there with my mouth agape. Luckily, Lala came to my rescue.
'Have either of you gentlemen visited the new sculpture that has been purchased by the Art Museum? Granny absolutely adores it, but what are your thoughts, Sir Bazza'?'
'Ah, the Fred Loons piece, you mean?'
Lala nodded and waited politely for Sir Bazza to continue.
'It is a masterpiece! It is outstanding! A metaphor for the modern age. That is what it is!'
'Eh?' Grunted Senator Carte 'What does this sublime art piece look like?' He looked around at us each in turn.
Sir Bazza began to shuffle about and hum and pull his collar, and look uncomfortable.
'It looks like a toilet, but it has gold toilet brush placed upside-down inside the bowl', Dion answered matter-a-factly.
Senator Carte snorted rudely and said, 'I'm just an old cattle rustler and wouldn't know much about your sophisticated, city ideas'. We knew that he meant the opposite. It was obvious that he didn't think much of us 'city slickers'.
Red in the face, Sir Bazza looked uncomfortable and began to crack his knuckles, but then, he broke into a little tap-dance. His dance inspired the rap singer, who began to rap along to Sir Bazza's dance. Then, the piano player joined in, with a happy, jazzy tune and the synthesiser began its sibilant whisper. Lots of people, including us, found ourselves tap- dancing too. Boy! It was fun! We danced for hours.
Sometime, in the early hours of Saturday morning, Lala, Dion and I, fell into our beds, in the large, attic room and slept till lunchtime the next day.