by Fiona Wood
‘Now what?’ asked Jess. ‘I said the wrong thing? There’s no little light?’
‘There’s a light.’ Walking again. ‘I wonder if that’s where “carrying a torch for someone” comes from.’
‘Nuh, that seems more likely a pre-electricity thing. Dragon-fighting era,’ said Jess.
As they approached the cinema, Billy was already there, leaning against a wall, next to . . . his father.
Billy saw her, but carefully wasn’t acknowledging her. She detoured Jess into Brunetti’s. ‘We’re going to browse pastries for a few minutes.’
‘Suits me.’ They had barely finished admiring the first display case of miniature cannoli when Billy came in.
‘Sorry, he was sticking like glue. Making sure I went into the cinema.’
‘Which is where I’m going,’ said Jess. ‘I don’t want to miss the ads. Have fun, kids.’
‘Thanks, Jess,’ said Vân Ước. ‘Meet you back here when the session gets out.’
‘Actually – we’ll be there,’ said Billy, pointing to the gelati counter at the back of the long cafe. ‘After the movie. If you’ll let me buy you an ice-cream to say thanks.’
‘You say thank you with ice-cream?’ said Jess. She looked at Vân Ước. ‘Any doubts I had are officially gone.’ She smiled mischievously and walked off.
‘What doubts?’ Billy asked Jess’s back. ‘What doubts did she have?’ he asked Vân Ước. ‘Why would anyone have doubts about me?’
‘I think you’ve answered your own question,’ said Vân Ước. She tilted her head to one side, as though considering exactly how to best express it. ‘It’s that touch of the arrogant prat . . . ’
‘You don’t think that about me anymore. Now you know me . . .’ Billy said, holding her hand.
‘Now I know you, I think you’re okay.’ Her smile was brimming over, totally blowing the moderate impression that ‘okay’ should, ideally, convey.
They walked along Lygon Street, past the restaurants, mostly Italian places, and clothes shops, mostly high street chains, and cut back to Swanston Street, where they jumped on a tram.
‘What if we see someone?’
Billy leaned in and kissed her. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
Vân Ước sat up straight. ‘Me neither.’ She tried to mean it.‘Where are we going?’
‘I already told you: secret special place.’
When they got off at the stop near Billy’s house, she was surprised, slightly alarmed, and excited. Had he managed to empty his house? Were they just going to spend some quality time in his room? They certainly wouldn’t get anything else done, if that was his plan.
But they headed into a street one along from Billy’s. About halfway down that street he led her along a bluestone-paved laneway that turned a corner and, rather than leading to another laneway of back fences and garages, opened onto a tiny street tucked into a hidden parallel zone between the two streets she knew.
Billy smiled in satisfaction at her delight. The houses were Victorian-era terraces, some single- and some double-storey. Light glowed in glimpses of windows through hedge-lined wrought-iron fences. Only about fifteen houses sat on either side of the street, an odd little subdivision carved from large original allotments. But what gave the street its otherworldliness was the dark-leafed orange trees that lined it, almost meeting overhead.
Walking along the narrow roadway, enveloped in the sharp orange-blossom scent – citrus, astringent, sweet and deep – was like being in a dream. This could not be real. Vân Ước stopped, closed her eyes, stretched out her arms and spun in a full circle. They continued along slowly as the dusk began to gather, hands loosely linked. At the other end of the street, Billy stopped Vân Ước, covered her eyes gently and turned her around. When he took his hand away she opened her eyes and saw the sign – Atienza Lane.
‘What’s the story?’
‘People who live around here come and pick the oranges in season, and Mel asked one day. She and I spoke to a woman who used to live right there . . .’ He pointed to the second-last house over the road from where they were standing. ‘One of the original families in the street came from Seville, where there are, apparently – I haven’t been there – heaps of orange trees planted in the city streets. The family offered to supply trees for the whole street if everyone would look after the tree outside their house. And people did. It’s not like it’s a council-approved tree, but this is so tucked away here, nobody official noticed, or if they did, they turned a blind eye. And the family loved it, because the street smelled like home to them. You know – once the trees grew up.’
Vân Ước smiled. ‘They put down roots.’
‘And – last bit of intel – they’re Seville orange trees; the fruit is bitter and rough-skinned, but great for marmalade. According to Mel. Whose marmalade is the best.’
‘I love it.’
‘And it seemed like a good place to kiss you.’
‘That’s what it smells like.’
‘Like . . .?’ He kissed her.
‘Like a kiss feels, when you’re on the very edge of falling in love,’ she whispered, then shut her eyes, and fell.
They walked across the river on the footbridge, along Birrarung Marr to the riverbank directly across from the rowing sheds, to the hawkers market – pop-up stalls selling food from Vietnam, Laos, Malaysia, China . . . It was the last one for the season, while daylight saving was still in place and the evenings were long.
She looked around and spotted Henry’s stall. There was a queue waiting for food. She waved to Sherry, who was serving, and saw Gary’s red bandana. He was cooking satays on the compact grill. Henry was standing around looking good. She took Billy over.
‘I’m officially at a movie, or I’m dead – so please don’t blow my cover. This is Billy.’
They shook hands, smiled, and hey, man-ed each other.
‘Let me grab you something to eat. What would you like?’
‘You choose something for us,’ she said, adding, to Billy, ‘It’s all delicious.’
When Henry reappeared with two loaded noodle boxes, she reached into her bag for her wallet; she was giving herself carte blanche with the contingency fund tonight. This might be a oncer, she figured, so she should live it up. Billy put his hand over her hand, reaching into his pocket. Henry put up his hand. ‘It’s on me. Worker’s bonus.’
In each box was a cucumber, vermicelli and mint salad with peanuts and fine shreds of chilli, two mini sticky red-bean dumplings, and a bunch of chicken satays, fragrant from the grill.
‘You are awesome,’ said Vân Ước.
Henry smiled in agreement.
They found an empty bench under a plane tree. An illuminated party boat cruised along the river, rippling coloured lights across the water; people on the boat were dancing. They could hear floating fragments of a band playing further along the riverbank. It sounded like the Darjeelings.
They ate the delicious food in silence, only punctuated by Billy’s satisfied groans of omigod-that’s-amazing pleasure as he ate. Vân Ước was amused to note that these groans had a lot in common with the groans that accompanied him kissing her, as though she, too, were omigod-that’s-amazing delicious.
She’d read somewhere once that it was likely that someone who truly appreciated the sensual pleasure of food would also be a good lover. Based on that assessment, Billy’s potential was excellent.
When it was time to head back to Carlton, they decided to cut through the city taking only laneways, if they could. After skirting the back of Federation Square, they lane-walked the whole grid north, right up to La Trobe Street, starting at Oliver Lane and finishing in Exploration Lane. They crossed over to the Carlton Gardens, stopping for an irresistible – despite her aversion to public affection – lamp-lit embrace.
Billy wrapped his arms around her. Standing so
close together their softness, hardness, arcs, declivities touched and met with a sense of perfect fit. He felt . . . right. She kissed him, shadowed by the tree, and fell, lost and new, into the vivid response her body had to his.
‘Do you know what’s weird?’ he asked.
‘My heartbeat accelerates when I kiss you, even though I’m standing still?’
He shook his head. ‘I never knew falling in love would be this – easy.’
‘Me neither.’ She felt floaty-dazed from the impact.
‘It’s like I’m addicted to you, and it happened like that.’ He snapped his fingers.
And here was the familiar pang of doubt – her awareness of exactly how sudden was the onset of Billy’s love – but she put it firmly out of her mind. This was their date, a couple of uninterrupted hours together that might never be repeated, and she was going to enjoy it, even if it meant wearing blinkers.
‘It should come with a warning brochure, like habituating pharmaceuticals,’ he said, as they hurried across the road into Grattan Street.
It was only half an hour before they had to meet Jess, and Vân Ước had one more thing she wanted to do.
They stopped outside Readings. ‘Okay, it doesn’t quite compare to the orange blossoms, but this is one of my favourite smells.’
Walking inside, she inhaled deeply. Fresh books. ‘My plan is we separate and choose a book for each other. Five minutes, then meet back here at the counter.’
‘I can bear five minutes apart, I guess.’ Billy turned away after kissing her softly on the lips, as though parting for a longer time. The girl behind the counter gave Vân Ước a really nice smile, a smile that would be aww, if it turned itself into a word.
They wandered deeper into the shop. She went first to check for copies of Jane Eyre on the shelves. Prospective readers should have access at all times. Tick, three copies.
She went from the Bs to the Ms, looking for the book she’d decided to buy Billy. Flypaper by Robert Musil. She took the slim volume from the shelf and dipped into it, confirming it was as she remembered, and wondered what Billy was choosing for her. She could see his head a few stacks away.
At the front counter he revealed his choice, The Life of Charlotte Brontë by Elizabeth Gaskell. The perfect boy had chosen the perfect book. She looked into his eyes. I feel akin to him, – I understand the language of his countenance and movements . . . I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.
They smiled, kissed, paid, exchanged books, and crossed the road to meet up with Jess.
As she and Jess rode home on the tram, Jess was full of having met and sat next to Eliza, from Vân Ước’s class. She’d talked to Eliza, spent the interval with Eliza, shared Maltesers with Eliza.
‘So what’s she like?’ Jess asked. ‘Eliza.’
‘Nice. She runs. She’s a fanatically good runner.’
Jess smiled enigmatically. ‘Yeah. I’m going for a run with her on Saturday.’
Vân Ước looked at her sideways. ‘You don’t run.’
‘I do now. Does she like girls?’
Vân Ước shrugged. ‘No sign of being into boys. Might this be the end of the in-waiting period?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jess. ‘A girl can dream. A girl can go for a run with another girl. How was the date?’
Vân Ước filled Jess in. ‘And then – you were there for the last bit.’
‘For my money, you can’t end a date on a better note than a double cone of dark chocolate and mulberry gelati,’ said Jess reflectively. ‘And the way he looked at you when he said goodnight at the tram stop . . .’
‘And now that’s it. Goodbye, happiness.’ Vân Ước slumped back in her seat. ‘I think this is the slough of despond. I’m in it, right now. Or it’s in me.’
Jess gave her the classic puh-leeze look: a soft-centre of incredulity, coated in get-a-grip. ‘One, I don’t think it is the end. And, two, you’ve never needed a boy to be happy, and you don’t now.’
‘He’s my ultimate mew, without a doubt in the world. I have a strong preference at this particular point in time that I get to kiss him some more. And if I don’t, my immediate, day-to-day happiness quotient will be diminished. Severely.’
‘Fair point.’
‘What would you do? Real answer.’
‘Me? I’d ride the wish train.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure! Particularly because I don’t believe it. But you? You’re not going to be happy with that. You need to dredge the misery. You need to unwish the good times. Your problem is’ – Jess smiled and bumped her shoulder sideways into Vân Ước fondly – ‘asking what would freakin’ Jane do? It’s given you an excess of honesty. You’re too ethical for your own good.’
‘I’ve always been honest. It predates Jane.’
‘She made it worse. Hey, maybe you secretly don’t want the good times. Did you ever think of that, my cray friend?’
‘I want the good times.’
As they were getting off the tram, Jess paused, puzzled, and said, ‘Isn’t it early for orange trees to be blossoming?’
chapter 51
Curled up in her bedroom chair that night, she thought about boat trips, putting down roots, bitter marmalade and what makes home home. How many times do your feet have to press down on a path before they make an imprint, before pieces of soul start sticking? What makes us belong in the place we call home? Who had said that someone you love must be buried in a land before it could be considered to be your home?
That morning, she had knelt on the rough asphalt footpath, meticulously brushing away the grit encircling the silver disc she was photographing, knowing she must look odd, but she didn’t care; everyone around here knew her; these were her streets, hers to walk, hers to photograph, to transform. Her very DNA was somewhere in that footpath from childhood skinned knees.
And there was her light bulb moment for her art folio.
It was seductive, the idea of where we walk absorbing us, something of our self being drawn down into the earth with each step we take. What strands might be pulled from our soles as we walk the streets, tired, hopeful, frightened, happy, full of the beauty of what is around us, full of the sorrow of what we are escaping, or returning to.
It seemed that the paths hummed with the energy pressed into them.
Feeling planted here was the gift her parents gave her.
The gleaming silver chainmail of her footpath discs.
The green and purple jewel-like glass that illuminated the last wave of migrant rag-trade workers, who were eventually superseded by women like her mother, out of the old Flinders Lane workshops, into bedrooms, living rooms and garages.
The luscious green privilege of the school oval.
Hers, to interpret and offer back to the world. What it means to me, she thought, is what it means to everyone. Belonging where we stand. Knowing that where we stand is home.
Some time in the future the big folio breakthrough might be a comfort. But now was not that time. What could possibly provide comfort now?
She went, once more, through every detail of the date. One perfect date is better than no perfect dates. But she would have preferred a few more than one, and would even have settled for a larger number of meh dates. Because a meh date with Billy would at least have meant more time with him, and, already, in anticipation, she felt sorely cheated on that front.
She took the wish vial from its hiding place, put it on her desk, and sat back on the chair without bothering to put on the light. She slipped down into the realm of full-wallow self-pity – from self-pity at the state of things about to change with Billy, to self-pity that she couldn’t really justify her self-pity when she compared her paltry plight to the true peril faced by her mother and her aunt.
Sad and pissed off wove themselve
s together in one heavy blanket of righteous misery.
She looked at the wish vial, a sliver of silver catching the glow of light that washed soft the city sky at night.
Pick me up. Pick me up. Pick me up.
Shut up.
Her wish phrasing had been idle and careless, forming itself without her having to think about it.
She wasn’t about to wish, now, that Billy didn’t find her fascinating, or prefer her to all other girls.
She wasn’t going to wish for something different, and perhaps create a different tangle of problems.
No, Jess had come up with the right word: she was simply going to wish to unwish the first wish. That would bring her back to a neutral reality. Back to the time when Billy didn’t know who she was, or care who she was, didn’t notice her.
Back to the land of true things.
So, that was all she had to do.
Easy.
And, plus, she totally didn’t believe in it anyway.
Times a thousand.
So.
There was nothing at stake, really.
There was no wish!
It was a simple case of: Billy Gardiner loves Vân Ước Phan.
It must be.
Why was it, then, that she’d been sitting here for two hours, in the dark, feeling so bleak, putting off the moment, the simple action, of picking up a small glass vial?
Because even if it were a fraction of a chance that she had, in fact, wished Billy’s affection into existence, she was going to miss it like breathing.
She did not want to lose it.
But she wasn’t prepared to live with the possibility that his affection was based on a careless wish, i.e. a lie.
Those two things were never going to be reconcilable no matter how long she sat there staring into the deepening night.
She picked up the vial.
She held it for who knew how long.
She held it until it was blood-warm.
With a deep breath that turned into a sob, she unwished the first wish.