by Linda Jaivin
I was still coughing and wiping my eyes on my sleeve when a hand tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to look straight into the eyes of a small policewoman with dark, freckled skin, a tough, sexy mouth, uptilted green eyes, a nose broad but not coarse and, I couldn’t help but noticing, great tits holding up her sky-blue uniform blouse. Girdling her tiny waist was a black belt of woven leather. Over her right hip was slung a holster with a pistol and over her left was another black leather pouch in the shape of an upsidedown pear. ‘Talk to you a minute?’ She indicated the corner of the room under the window with her chin, into which was pressed the faintest of dimples. I saw other cops leading those of us who were left—there were surprisingly few—into different parts of the room for interrogation.
I didn’t see that I had much choice. We sat down side by side on a springless couch. She took off her hat and placed it in her lap, shaking her head slightly as she did so. A few shiny brown curls escaped her loose plait and fell down around her pretty face. She pushed them back behind her ears. She crossed her legs under her navy culottes; they rode up, revealing choice little knees. My eyes were drawn to her ankles, not only because they were fine and shapely, but because above the left one was an exquisite tattoo of Botticelli’s Venus. Her shoes were no-nonsense black leather tie-ups.
‘The name’s Senior Constable Grevillea Bent.’ Her surname made me smile. She smelled nice, like lavender; I got a comforting whiff of her perfume through the acrid air. She pulled a small notebook and pen out of her back pocket. ‘You understand that you’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so?’
I nodded, wondering about the tattoo.
‘But anything you say might later be used as evidence.’
I nodded again. My eyes were still tearing from the smoke. She offered me a hanky. I dabbed my eyes and handed it back.
Flipping open the notebook, she stared at me from under the thick curtain of her eyelashes. I swear there was a sparkle in her eye, though it may just have been the effects of the smoke.
‘Name?’ she demanded, her pen poised above the paper.
‘Miles Walker.’
‘Artist?’
I nodded.
‘Can I see your artistic licence?’ she asked.
I blinked. ‘I…’
‘That’s a joke.’ Her mouth twitched. Her lips were made for mischief. ‘Look, Johnny. Uh’—she glanced down at her pad—‘Miles. I’m just doin’ me job.’ Sighing, she leaned forward. ‘Between you and me and the wall,’ she confided in a low voice, ‘I reckon all this is going too far. I mean, I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like, and I’ve always’—here her voice reduced to a whisper—‘been right fond of Fiona Hall’s parodical transformations of the detritus of consumer culture, as can be seen in her Coca-Cola can and sardine tin sculptures. And I don’t mind Lynda Dement either, particularly the way she breaks down the boundaries between quote-unquote acceptable and unacceptable representations of female sexuality. Of course, call me old-fashioned, but I like oil painting most of all. Nothing like oils to convey subtleties of light and depth and intensity of colour, eh?’
I swallowed, entranced. ‘Yeah, well…I’m an oil painter myself.’
‘Are you now?’ She didn’t sound like she was taking the piss. ‘What sort of painting do you do then?’
‘Is this for the record?’
She laid her pad down on her lap and folded her neat hands over it.
I explained my work as best I could.
‘Remember that Biennale a few years back?’ she mused when I finished. ‘Title was “Art is Easy”?’
I laughed. ‘False advertising.’
She smiled. For a moment, I forgot entirely where I was or why I was talking to this woman. All I knew was that I wanted to talk to her for a very long time. I wanted to release those mahogany curls and kiss that tattoo, and untie her shoes slowly.
She picked up her pad again and cleared her throat. ‘You know, I’ve seen a lot of bad art, but I wouldn’t arrest it. We should be concentrating on the real criminals. You know, economists, bankers, commercial television programmers, talk-back radio hosts, lawyers.’ She sighed and glanced down at the pad. ‘Are you personally acquainted with Ms Madeleine, uh, Ms Madeleine @?’
‘Maddie’s my flatmate, actually.’ Oh shit, I wasn’t going to say anything about that. My mind was churning with desires and propositions. ‘Can I ask you something?’ I blurted.
Her eyes lit up.
What was I thinking? I scrambled for a question more acceptable than the one dancing on my tongue. ‘Uh, what’s in that pouch?’ Trying not to blush, I pointed to the oddly shaped case over her left hip.
She unsnapped the lid and popped it open to show me. There was a clutch of surgical gloves in the top part and a pair of handcuffs in the bottom. I stared dumbly, unsure what to say.
Her eyes twinkled. ‘Kinky, eh?’ she observed.
That did it. I flushed red to the roots of my gingery hair. When I finally got the courage to look at her again, she had composed her features into an expression of professional cool, though the twinkle hadn’t left her eyes. ‘Look, Johnny. Miles. Let’s just get straight to it, all right? Could you tell me please what’s going on here?’
‘I don’t know about you, officer,’ I blurted out, ‘but I think I’m falling in love.’
She smiled, biting her lip. ‘The facts, Mr Walker. Let’s stick to the facts.’
Installation
I slept fitfully that night. My dreams were erotic and seemed to involve Senior Constable Grevillea Bent and her collection of rubber gloves. I had gone from desiring my best friend to fantasising about the prime minister to obsessing about a policewoman, but if these were signs that I needed therapy it’d have to be some other day.
When I woke up it was already noon. I had no time to lose. I splashed some cold water on my face while mentally composing a list of the things I needed to do. First I had to get to the art-supplies shop. I’d got out the door before I remembered that the envelope with the money that Oscar had given me was still in my room. At the shop I ran through my checklist twice to make sure I had everything. Back home again, I packed up my gear, organised stretcher wood into bundles, which I bound with gaffer tape, and threw a change of clothes rescued from the laundry basket into my rucksack. Satyricon. Why not? I shoved that into my bag as well. I remembered my toothbrush. As I was doing a final check of my paints box, I pulled out a tube of viridian and showed it to Bacon. ‘This is the colour of Senior Constable Grevillea Bent’s eyes,’ I told him. He yawned and licked his armpit.
I found Sativa sitting on the spool-table, spooning baby food out of a jar. She said she was waiting for a lift to Melbourne, adding, ‘Like, thanks for having me stay.’ She shrugged when I asked if she knew where her cousin might be. Sativa had slept in her room; Maddie had definitely not come home that night.
My watch. Where was my watch? I searched for it in my room and then the lounge, scrabbling through piles of magazines and junk, and knocking a pile of CDs to the floor as Sativa looked on. Thurston appeared. ‘Hey Miles,’ he said. ‘How was Club Apocalypso?’
‘A blast,’ I replied. ‘You haven’t seen my watch, by any chance?’
Thurston shifted in his ug boots. ‘Uh, Maddie took it the other day. Said she needed it for a timing device in a detonator.’
‘Great.’
It just occurred to me that the bomb that Maddie is planting on this ship may be using the works of my watch as part of its detonator. This is not a comforting thought. My watch is about as reliable with the time as Picasso was with women.
‘You can borrow mine,’ Thurston offered.
‘Ta.’ I realised with a start it was later than I thought. ‘Gotta run.’
Thurston noticed my pile of stuff. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’ I hated it when people gave me that sort of answer, but I didn’t have time to think of anything better, kinder to say. It was nearly 2.30 p.m. Refusing T
hurston’s offer of help, I gathered up all my gear and moved as quickly as I could out the door. The lift was stuck on another floor, as usual, so I took the stairs.
‘G’day, troublemaker.’ Julia’s voice made me jump. With a little twitch of her shoulder, she slid the strap of her camera into a more comfortable position. She was wearing one of those see-through tops. Her small, apple-like breasts were visible through the fabric. I tried not to stare. I thought, if nothing else, what I was about to do should at least get my mind off sex for a while.
‘Where you off to?’
‘Uh, nowhere. Out.’ I wasn’t too bad at keeping mum, but I was a hopeless liar. I broke out into a sweat. It was turning out to be a very hot day.
‘Out?’ She looked interested. I could do without Julia’s interest. She had a big mouth and she knew everyone. Julia had become friendly towards me once she realised that the brawl I’d sparked had attained legendary status. Two poets penned epics on the subject, a multimedia artist was working on a series of computer animations, and foreign documentary makers hung out at her place every night in the hope that something equally thrilling would happen. ‘C’mon, Miles,’ she persisted, ‘you can tell Auntie Julia.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Perspiration stung my eyes. ‘I’m just off to a, mm, friend’s studio.’ I shifted the pile of wood from one arm to another.
She looked at me suspiciously. It was a well-known fact that I didn’t actually have that many friends, and that I lived with most of them. I decided to switch tactics. ‘Thought you’d be at Club Apocalypso last night. ZakDot was looking out for you,’ I said.
‘Was he?’ She brightened. ‘Was he really?’
The topic of ZakDot took us down the rest of the stairs.
I don’t know what I expected. The sight of a limo parked on our street was already astonishing; recognising it as the same one I’d encountered that surreal night on the town was even more of a shock. The man whose card I’d chucked into the gutter now leaned against the car. He was puffing on a cigarette and looking up the street with narrowed eyes while muttering into a mobile.
Julia did a double take. ‘There goes the neighbourhood,’ she hissed. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ She didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Verbero. The infamous. Brain behind the no-brain. Controller of Destiny. Creep-o-rama. What’s he sniffing round here for anyway?’
I now knew why he’d looked so familiar—I’d seen him on the tube that night when Destiny Doppler was being interviewed by Trixie Tinkles. I needed time to think. I spun on my heels with the idea of dashing back inside. My movements were clumsy. Several lengths of wood escaped their bundle and clattered to the pavement.
Verbero strode over as I was gathering them up. ‘So. It’s you.’
I didn’t say anything. I still thought he looked like a rich pervert, and he clearly remembered the insult of the tossed name card.
‘Got him,’ he barked into the mobile before folding it away and reaching out for my bag.
I made a half-arsed attempt to pull away from him but now the fat bastard driver was on me as well. Julia watched the whole scene, her eyes round and her hands flattened against her cheeks in an almost comical imitation of Munch’s The Scream, as they efficiently relieved me of my gear and chucked it into the back of the limo and shoved me inside after it. Verbero jumped in after me, slammed the door and we were off. Through the darkened windows, I could see Julia still standing there, frozen to the spot.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I spluttered. ‘And g’day to you as well.’ The air-conditioning chilled the damp fabric of my shirt. I pulled it away from my body and flapped the cloth to dry it. I was furious, hot and humiliated—and, now that Julia had seen me go off with Verbero, I was convinced that none of the few friends I had left would ever speak to me again.
Verbero observed me coldly. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re late,’ he said. As the limo manoeuvred into the city traffic, he extracted a small silver case from his pocket. We were sitting across from each other on seats upholstered in what felt like kid leather.
Between us was a table, upon which he sprinkled a line of white powder from the case. With a silver razor blade, he chopped the powder and scraped it into neat lines. The blade went back into the case and out came a small silver straw. He snorted and leaned back. His eyes danced like a poker machine hitting the jackpot.
We turned down a side street at Sydney airport and parked outside a demountable building that was part of an air force base. This time, neither Verbero nor the driver offered me a hand with my stuff, which I struggled to lug into the building.
No sooner had we sat down than the pilot and copilot approached and shook hands with Verbero. He stood up and followed them out and I trailed behind with my gear. There on the glittering tarmac stood an alarmingly small plane, the VIP, which I later learned was nicknamed the ‘vip’ to rhyme with ‘zip’.
Greeting us at the top of the stairs were two male attendants in formal if somewhat dated uniforms of royal blue. Verbero settled himself into one of four pale grey leather armchairs at the front of the tiny plane. He didn’t particularly look like he wanted me to join him. I glanced around. Farther back in the cabin there was a table with sofas on either side, and then two longer sofas hugging the wall behind that. The grey armchairs were the most comfortable option. I sat down opposite Verbero, who ignored me.
‘A drink for you sir?’ The steward put down a bowl of pretzels and another of mixed nuts.
‘Sure,’ I answered grabbing a handful of pretzels. ‘Are they free?’
Verbero rolled his eyes. The steward nodded.
‘Could I have a rum and coke? I never turn down a free drink,’ I said, borrowing ZakDot’s line. ‘No telling how they’d react to rejection.’
No one laughed. I wasn’t very good at jokes. The steward smiled his professional smile and returned with a rum and coke and a martini. I noticed Verbero hadn’t even had to order his. I missed ZakDot. I never did get the chance to tell him what I was doing.
The little Saab climbed up past the wispy clouds. I watched the red-roofed houses receding below, the tiny aquamarines of their occasional swimming pools sparkling like jewels in a desert. The ship-shaped cluster of tall buildings in the city centre pitched and rolled below us and we were away. Verbero continued his project of supporting the Bolivian economy. My ears buzzed with the noise of the engines and my mind whirred with images: of Maddie throwing that bomb, of Grevillea Bent and her tattoo, of Julia with her hands clamped to her cheeks. My fears and doubts and desires bubbled away.
That’s why it took me longer than it should have to observe that the ocean was on our right hand side. We were heading north.
Verbero was staunching a nosebleed with a wad of tissues. ‘What’re you looking at?’ he demanded, when he tipped his face forward again.
‘Nothing.’ I poured the rest of the rum and coke down my throat and asked the steward for another. He brought it right away. An image of the little sweat stain that had seeped out between Senior Constable Grevillea Bent’s breasts floated into my mind and I got a hard-on. I imagined her leaning over her case-strewn desk at the cop shop.
Verbero hoovered up another line of coke. ‘She’s a beautiful woman, you know,’ he rasped, making the statement sound like a threat.
For a second, I thought he was talking about Grevillea Bent.
I nodded, not sure what the appropriate rejoinder would be.
Looking out the window again, I focused on the bleached khaki hills and irregular patchwork of farmland. Billabongs stared up at us like melting blue eyes. Gradually, the browns yielded to green and the scrub to rainforest. I thought about what colours I’d mix to summon up these subtle changes on canvas. I thought about Grevillea. I thought about Maddie. I thought about ZakDot. I thought about everything, in fact, except the task ahead of me. We swung inland.
We were flying over dense eucalypt forest when the plane began its descent. There was no city or even town in sight
. The top of the trees whipped about, dangerously close, it seemed, to the belly of the plane. Not a second too soon, a clearing appeared. I spotted a windsock, and a packed-dirt runway, and then we touched down. Dappled light played on ferns and trees as we taxied to a halt. The air-conditioning almost immediately surrendered to a fiercer, more humid heat. Despite a sense of foreboding, I felt on the cusp of an adventure, defiant and excited. An adventure. How many of those does an artist—or anyone for that matter—get to have in a lifetime?
‘C’mon, Walker,’ Verbero said. ‘De-plane.’
‘Is on de ground?’ I ventured.
His gaze was as reassuring as a dentist’s drill.
The other steward had opened up the luggage compartment and tossed out my gear. I winced as the box of paints hit the dust and rushed to grab the roll of canvas before it followed.
‘No, no, please don’t trouble yourself,’ I said to an impassive Verbero, who stood tapping his feet. ‘I’ll be right.’
Clutching my case of paints in one hand, balancing my roll of canvas and pile of wood under my arm, my rucksack slung over my other shoulder, I paused to breathe in the sweet smell of rotting vegetation and overabundant life. A flock of cockatoos exploded out of the trees and swept screeching over our heads.
‘We ain’t got all day,’ Verbero snapped.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said and fell into line. ‘I’d salute but my hands are full. You know,’ I added, ‘if your face ever froze in that expression you’d have a good chance of getting Diane Arbus to take your photograph.’
‘I twy and keep myself out of the limelight,’ he replied.
Behind us, the VIP took off again.
Crunching on bark and stepping carefully over stones made slippery with the clear trickle of a winding stream, I followed Verbero to another clearing in the centre of which stood a large Queenslander. A gorgeous, rickety, wooden-slatted house on legs with a great circling verandah. I recalled rumours that the prime minister maintained a fortress-like residence somewhere in the north-east. The press dubbed it ‘the Bunker’. I’d pictured a concrete building with gun turrets, underground rooms, massive iron doors. It was nothing like that at all.