Joyful

by Robert Hillman

  Your Tess

  Date: Thurs, 6 Mar 2008 13:12:56 +1000

  Sweet Understanding Monster—No, I’m practically certain that Portly Porpoise will let me have Joyful. This is not going to become a fleecing exercise—I won’t be demanding half the business and flat, things precious to him—only Joyful and Moore Street—none of the other properties. But I don’t know yet—can you bear to wait? One month? Please?

  Ever, Tess

  Date: Fri, 21 Mar 2008 9:04:34 +1000

  That’s your idea of being together? How is that different from what we’re doing now? Can you even begin to imagine how much frustration I feel when I can’t ring you—when I have to wait for you to go into Y to pick up your email?—driving up to Joyful not even certain you’ll be there? And you want to perpetuate this? No no no no no!! The original plan, please—what’s wrong with the original plan? Daniel, if you’re going to get irritable much much better to tell me now—much better. I can be one thing and another, certainly—but I can’t be convenient. These things that you dream up come like a bolt out of the blue and then I’m left thinking whether you deep down want this or not. Daniel, I can walk away from it, believe me I can. I’m infatuated in a way that I’ve never been before, I recognise that—but I can walk away—and I fucking will unless I get some clear idea of what you’re thinking of for us. Do you imagine I’m just a better educated version of Cardigan Girl?—because that’s a fear that comes over me usually a couple of times a week, even when I’m on air—that it’s not her who’s your bit on the side but me and I hate the way you make me feel this! I’ve always adored being some man’s bit on the side and now I loathe it—not just loathe it but it gives me panic attacks—I woke up last night bathed in sweat with a horror sitting above me like a block of iron. You look at me in that frigid fish-eyed way when I explain my situation and my needs with that fake amused expression as if I’m being pathetic, and not the slightest—not the barest concession to the justice of what I’m saying. Sometimes I catch your gaze when you’re not expecting it and do you know what I see?—contempt, absolute contempt—even hatred. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve had enough experience, Daniel—I know what a man’s face looks like when he hates the woman he’s with, that inwardness and secrecy and disgust and impatience with sharing covered up by a cheap little two-second smile. I go away detesting myself for letting you make me such a weakling—and for making me dish out such ungenerous things about Emily. I have never been one to denigrate other women—never—and now I’m trying to amuse you by practising sheer cruelty on that poor stupid creature—that’s all it is, my sad attempts to amuse you and get that fish look out of your eyes, just to see some warmth kindle there even for a minute. God knows I can’t deny she loves you, it’s not good honest lust with her anymore I can tell you. It ripped her heart into two pieces to do what she did for you. So guess what, Daniel—she’s yours. I know you read your work to her—God knows why but I know you do. Such a treat for her! It might all work out beautifully for both of you—I hope so. Don’t you know how transparent you are? Surely! What you’ve written is an ultimatum disguised as a reasonable suggestion, and you know I can’t possibly accept it, you know I’ve signed a new contract, you know what the program means to me—and so you’ve already made up your mind that I’ll refuse and then you can say with one of those deep deep sighs you save for these occasions when you’re compelled to at least imitate profound disappointment, Oh I tried, I tried, alas alas! All this macho Polish stuff doesn’t fool me for a second, Daniel—you’re a coward in the most despicable way—urging people—women—to invest in you what they hold dear and sacred then sneaking away from the consequences. And what did I expect—what? What was in my head? Your ugly ugly anti-semitism, your hatred of my friends, your cruelty to Leon, your laziness. What did I expect? And let me provide my own ultimatum in black and white: the original plan.

  T

  Date: Mon, 31 Mar 2008 11:11:07 +1000

  Beloved Monster—Mea culpa Mea culpa Mea maxima culpa sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry please please please please please ring answer something please Your Tessie

  chapter 7

  Evie

  THE EMAILS acted on Leon’s bowels like a purgative. He went hastily from the collection room to the toilet and shat explosively. Then cleaned up the mess in the bowl and ran the three-speed exhaust fan on full to clear away his stink.

  He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed himself in clothes fresh from the dry cleaner. He had no sense of what he might do; cleanliness was simply his way of doing nothing.

  He strode about the apartment rapidly, waiting for inspiration. His most pressing need was to remain in pain, because preserved in the pain was the intimacy of his feeling for Tess. To move on was inconceivable.

  He went back to the collection room, lit up a cigarette from the half-empty pack of Benson & Hedges Special Mild and stared at the images of his wife. The treasure trove of her belongings arranged on the carpet tortured him. Handling just one item among hundreds—her pantyhose in its supermarket pack, even that!—would have given him such pleasure, and now that pleasure was lost for good.

  The persistence of heartbeat and respiration exasperated him. The way his skin stuck to his bones, the way his face lay flat and ridiculous on his skull! Why should the machinery of the body persist in its business in this stupid manner! Fantasies of revenge on his heart and head tumbled in his brain: drenched in petrol, he bloomed orange and scarlet.

  The fantasies lasted for no more than a few minutes. He hungered for fresh pain. He would go to Evie and wring answers from her. He would find Daniel and beg him or pay him for what he could tell of Tess after the emails. She might have changed her mind about running away. She might have said, ‘You know, when it comes down to it, I can’t leave Leon, because I love him and he loves me.’ She might have said, ‘He knows special things about me.’

  =

  He drove in a daze through the daunting traffic of early morning. Other drivers, mad with purpose, roared past him. He was aware of angry faces. What was he doing wrong? A woman screamed from her little red car, ‘No right turn, fuckwit!’

  Really?

  He accelerated straight ahead but became trapped in the middle of the intersection. Car horns jeered. By a process he couldn’t fathom, he found himself gliding towards a tram. He swerved, avoided the tram but struck the kerb with a thud. The Peugeot convulsed once, twice, and on the last lurch hit the trunk of a tree.

  He had driven into Carlton Gardens.

  The face of a young man appeared at the window. Leon fumbled for the door handle.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly,’ said Leon.

  The young man was dressed in a red singlet, shorts and sneakers. A jogger? His expression seemed much more concerned than Leon felt the event warranted.

  ‘Christ, I thought you were fucked. How’d you miss that bloody tram? You’ve had a bit of a crack on the head, you know that?’

  ‘Tram?’

  ‘You were heading up his kilt.’

  ‘Unfortunate,’ said Leon. People were tentatively crossing the lawn to peer. And the Peugeot did look more of a mess than Leon could quite credit. As he stood staring, the airbag abruptly bloomed from the steering wheel. The small crowd cheered. A man stepped forward and held a mobile phone out to Leon. ‘Tow truck,’ he said.

  Leon mumbled for a moment, thanked the man then headed away as rapidly as he could manage.

  ‘Where you off to?’ the jogger called.

  ‘Public conveniences,’ said Leon, and kept walking.

  ‘Better get yourself checked out!’

  ‘Of course, surely,’ said Leon, and quickened his pace.

  =

  He found Evie at home, barely out of bed. At the door, she touched the huge bump that had developed on his forehead.

  ‘A tree,’ he said.

  ‘A tree?’

  ‘In the car. Banged into it.’

 
‘Where?’

  Leon waved a hand over his shoulder. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you get that seen to?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Can I talk to you for a moment?’

  ‘Okay, but do get somebody to look at that.’

  She led Leon to the kitchen and invited him to sit down. A mug of coffee sat on the table. She asked Leon if he wanted coffee himself, or tea. Would he like brandy? Leon declined.

  Evie was wearing the black and red silk dressing gown that Leon had purchased for her as a gift from San Francisco two years earlier. Her long fair hair fell about her shoulders in sleepy disarray. She apologised for not having come to see him and blamed it on Mick.

  Leon listened, feeling sorry for her in the way he always had, because nobody would ever love her very much, or not for long. Men were appalled when she took a holiday from bossiness and begged for affection.

  ‘I’m going to get pregnant,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ said Leon.

  ‘I don’t know who with. With whom. Anybody. You, if you like. Sorry. God Leon, get that bump looked at.’

  She stirred her coffee with her index finger. Her wedding ring, or partnership ring, Leon noticed, had disappeared from her hand. ‘I wanted to ask you about Daniel.’

  ‘I only met him once, maybe twice,’ she said.

  Leon said nothing.

  ‘He was an arsehole,’ Evie offered, without much conviction. When Leon didn’t respond, she went on. ‘I don’t know what I can say, sweetheart. He was an arsehole, Mum was worked up about him. I’d always assumed you knew about the whole thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s it. He was an arsehole, Mum thought he was heavenly and he wasn’t.’

  ‘How did he appear on the scene?’

  ‘He’s Dad’s half-sister’s ex. Anna. You’ve heard of her?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Dad invited him here. And he came. And Mum already knew him. That’s it.’

  ‘He’s a poet?’

  ‘Is he? I knew he wrote something.’

  ‘He was unpleasant?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Egotistical?’

  Evie put her head on the side and thought. ‘He liked it if you didn’t like him. He called Indigenous people “apes”, if you can believe it.’ She leaned back in her chair and pushed her hands up her face and into her hair. ‘And,’ she went on, ‘Mum was like his poodle. He’d sit where you’re sitting and spew out all this drivel and Mum’d look embarrassed and pretend he wasn’t being serious. And he was all over my tits.’

  ‘He came here? He handled you?’

  ‘Mum brought him here a couple of times. God knows why. So he could enjoy my tits, probably. With his eyes, I’m talking about.’

  ‘But he lived elsewhere. In the country. At Joyful.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My place at Yackandandah. Joyful.’

  ‘Why’s it called Joyful?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s a bit strange, don’t you think? “Joyful”?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘He lived up at that place near Beechworth. I didn’t actually know it was yours.’

  ‘What became of the Dellis? They were living there.’

  ‘Who are the Dellis?’

  ‘The man whose daughter killed herself. The Kurdish girl, the musician. Tess knew her. She befriended the father and mother and let them live at Joyful.’

  ‘Oh, them. I don’t know. I guess they moved out.’

  Evie must have been exercising more patience than Leon realised. She suddenly sighed deeply, exhaling with more volume than was necessary. ‘Is there any point to this, Leon? You know what Mum was like. Okay?’

  ‘You said that the other day. Perhaps I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, you should have. She was incorrigible. She was a freak. I had boyfriends when I was growing up who couldn’t take their eyes off her. Actually, I’m sick of talking about this. She’s dead. That’s enough, okay?’

  Leon murmured an apology. He attempted to stand, but couldn’t. Incapable of speech, he waved his hands to excuse himself. Evie, startled at first, all at once took on a new, pitying expression and came rapidly from her side of the table to Leon’s. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around him. She stroked his back and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry, sorry…’

  Painful though it was, Leon allowed Evie her impulse to comfort. He went so far as to hold her with a firmness almost equal to her own.

  Evie leaned back and looked up into Leon’s eyes.

  ‘Mum didn’t have a lot of love to give,’ she said. ‘Not proper love. She just didn’t. But she squeezed out every bit she could. When I was in school, she used to pick me up sometimes and take me to Alderdyce’s in the city and buy a fabulous afternoon tea and just ask me to talk about everything. She listened, too. And it was pathetic, of course, but it was the best she could do. That was the best she could do. I understood that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now she’s dead. So we’ll just forgive her. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Evie’s dressing gown was gaping and her breasts showing—the breasts that Daniel had ogled. She noticed, to Leon’s relief, and drew the gown tighter. He was relieved and was able to accept, without wincing, a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘You’re going to get a taxi?’ Evie asked at the door.

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘I could ring one for you.’

  ‘I’ll walk, I think.’

  ‘Leon? Don’t be a baby.’

  ‘Am I being a baby?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Me with Mick. You with Mum. We’re both being babies. You can’t stop people doing what they want to do. You just can’t. Even when it’s bullshit.’

  Leon walked along Rathdowne Street towards the city looking for a car dealer. Susie called him on his mobile to tell him that he was being sought by two policemen. She wanted to know where he was and what this story of a car crash was about. Leon said it was about nothing and that he was nowhere. Pressed, he conceded that he was in Carlton. Susie told him to come immediately to the shop. She hadn’t given his number to the policemen, but she would if he didn’t come straight to the shop. Leon promised that he would and rang off.

  He reached the city without finding a car dealer and was forced to ask a taxi driver.

  ‘Where?’ asked the taxi driver, a Sikh with brilliant white teeth and the physique of a circus strong man. ‘In so many places you will find car dealers.’

  ‘The nearest one,’ said Leon.

  He found a Toyota dealer in Preston and purchased a new Camry. The salesman’s initial heartiness was gradually worn away by Leon’s conditions of purchase: the car was to be paid for on AmEx and was to be made immediately available. The salesman told him that delivery would require a five-day wait and that only the deposit could be negotiated with a credit card. But polite obstinacy got Leon his way.

  Late in the morning of this day that had for some years been waiting patiently for Leon’s approach, he purchased a Melway from a newsagent and, in his new Camry, found his way by fits and starts to the Hume Highway, heading for Joyful.

  part three

  Sofia

  chapter 8

  Fan

  IN THE earliest of those cards and the letters from Sofia Delli lying on the floor of Leon’s collection room, she speaks of violin studies, of her admiration for Tess and all but claims her as a role model: ‘Adore adore listening to you!’ she says in her cheerful, looping script. She finishes with a phrase she explains is the Kurdish term for ‘prosper eternally’.

  The brief second letter thanks Tess for her reply to the first letter and especially for ‘the lovely words of encouragement’.

  In the third letter, written thirteen months after the second, Sofia reintroduces herself and tells Tess that she has graduated and is busi
ly making her way in the local music scene. She is one of two violinists in a quartet dedicated to twentieth-century Australian music. She gives the name of the ensemble (Crocus) and mentions the date of a performance at Dallas Brooks Hall, where Crocus will be playing in the foyer before a concert by a famous quartet from Prague. ‘Would absolutely make my day if you happened to come along!’

  The card shows a Maillol woodcut of a boy and a girl bathing in a stream. Sofia writes inside: ‘Happy birthday Tess from your Kurdish fan! I thanked you on the phone for playing our CD, but I want to thank you again. Hope you like this artist. The picture reminds me of the story you told a couple of months ago about swimming in the moonlight with your sweetheart when you were still a teenager. Warmest regards, Sofia Delli.’