by Alan Duff
Sonny took his time checking out the door at the far end of the huge living area with its comfy sofas and one of the coffee tables a big plate of glass on a pyramid piece of marble about the most unusual piece of furniture a man’d ever seen. At the paintings everywhere, some of them as big as a fuckin dining table, though not this dining table, with its twelve chairs Sonny’d counted and that didn’t include the extra two, one at each end. He stopped at each painting, found himself playing a pretend game of a prospective buyer, or an art critic; thumb and forefinger under his unshaved chin – gingerly because of bruising from the punches he received – roving eyes all over the splash of vivid colours, surprised at how many different textures were there, at the build-up, seemingly deliberate, of paint at various points. Going, Hmmm, now … let’s see. Giggling to himself. And glancing self-consciously, to start with, over his shoulder in case Jube was lurked up somewhere spying on him.
Was the game he was enjoying more, since the art he didn’t understand. Could see the colour appeal, but what the hell they were about he couldn’t guess. Nor could he see what Jube’d early been spotting of vague women shapes, not only the shapes declaring themselves to be women but Jube’d seen their fannies. Or why else’d he cried, Lookit the vees! Hey, it’s a cunt. Only cunt round here’s him, Sonny aloud.
The vases, the carved figurines, the variety of solid objects of art in the recesses, Sonny felt he more understood. Least in terms of their beauty being immediately apparent; didn’t need no fancy wording nor education or breeding to understand that a figure of a young woman in black wood was a tribute to physical perfection and womanhood in its youthful prime, and maybe a man even saw the innocence too. Just as he saw in the variety of vases each with a shape that kind of echoed the shape of that woman in black wood, yet of course was nothing like the carved figure and yet for some reason that was the message came across to a man, a thief playing art appreciator.
With no more objects or paintings left to study, Sonny took himself over to the wall of windows to take in the view. Of city-tall buildings down there mirrored in the still harbour. The town asleep, damn near all. The witches’ and thieves’ hour was this just after four o’clock time. (Man, whole fuckin town’s asleep, having their dreams, some’ll be nightmaring but most won’t. And here am I standing here admiring the view like it’s mine. And my mate’s downstairs doing God knows what, but he’d better find something cos I haven’t forgotten his bet.)
He browsed through the book titles, and for some reason got scared; as if his ignorance would be exposed at just about every author name unknown to him; he who in his world had been beaten up for being a bookworm library-goer in prison. Shaking his head at how relative it all was. A name, Doctorow, pausing his eye for just a moment. Nope. Don’t know of him. Name after name, title after title, all of them unfamiliar. So he grew depressed. At his ignorance and these people’s unattainable opposite enlightenment. And he sighed and moved away from the bookshelves, shrugging, Okay, may as well be what I am, as he opened the door that Jube’d joked might be a walk-in safe. Chuckling wryly to himself, Might be a walk-in nightmare too. Thinking of a ferocious dog that’d kept silent all this while till the first thief made the mistake …
6
It was a study, and you could’ve swung a few cats in it. Desk a huge timber job with a computer screen and keyboard and some other set-up Sonny had no idea about. This to one side, left of the chair on roller wheels. Bookshelves everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Desk looked straight out a window that showed Sonny’s own intrusive reflection. The wall front of the desk had paintings, old-looking and real scenery not like the modern stuff elsewhere. Sonny stepped forward to look at a framed certificate, had his heart leap: the guy, a Gerald David Harland, was a Master of Laws, that’s what it said. Underneath it read: Given Under the Seal of the University of Auckland, 1972. Sonny wondering what he was doing that year – Oh, I know. My first borstal sentence. A sixteen-year-old, remember that, Sonny? Had him shaking his head at the comparison; had it, this magnificent house and the taste and quality everywhere, had it all explaining itself. Why he, Sonny the burglar, was here. Why Gerald, the master at his law, was master of this house. And never never would the twain meet. Certificate below the first said the New Zealand Law Society, and then the guy’s name again, and that he had a licence to practice for 1992.
Society. The word belted Sonny in the gut: this guy belongs to a society. What society do I belong to? I’m nobody’s child, as the song goes. All of us are nobodies’ children, every thief, every lowlife tattoo-marked hopeless case of prison time and so-called free time holed up the days and sordid nights in Tavistocks bar and bars like it. May as well be from the moon where me and this guy’re concerned. Standing there in a state of shock and total inadequacy. So much so he felt drained, weak, gone of the will to do anything further against this entity enshrined on the wall there, enshrined in the everywhere of this fantastic universe of residence in which he – Master of it – evidently got to work in as well.
He looked at the books … Land Law … Law of Contract … Company and Securities Law … Guide to New Zealand Income Tax Practice … and two long line-ups, one Statutes of New Zealand, the other, numbering one to twenty-seven, Statutory Regulations. Sonny shaking his head, overpowered by it, the knowledge – the power – this man must have. The same guy in the photo downstairs in his bedroom with his queen of a wife, the both of them with the looks; as if having money and status wasn’t enough, they had to be given looks on top. And as if even that wasn’t enough, they had to be given the serenity, maybe even the arrogance, of their higher class, their greater breeding. Enough to make a Jube wanna punch em out. Enough to make Sonny close to weeping.
And when he dropped his eyes to fight off the urge to weep, he noticed he stood on a silken-like spread of rug that near covered the entire floor area. Had to be Persian. Had to be worth a fortune. Yet he couldn’t get himself to start rolling it up. Not a hope. Just stood there staring at his rough running-shoes, his blood-spotted jeans, his black-gloved hands hanging limply at his sides. The same image that took him when he managed to lift his head and saw himself in the window. The class, the quality of backdrop and surround he was forlornly stood in. He forced a smile. Out loud, Hey, I look like the wind juss blew me in, hahaha. The chuckle soft and poignant.
He got an anger up then – (have to, or I’ll curl up and die) – tried the desk drawers. Locked. Went out to the kitchen and took a while to find a box of tools in a walk-in pantry, where there was all this foodstuff such as he’d never seen before, in cans and packets and jars, a lot of it bearing foreign-languaged labels. One plastic container had fuckin snails in it. A tin he picked up said it was smoked snapper from Japan; and there was a whole shelf of oils: walnut, olive, peanut, sunflower – heaps of the stuff. Like stepping into yet-another world, another dimension to this house, its unreal occupants. On the way back to the study he paused at the photograph on the piano, stared at it for some time. Shaking his head as he tried to imagine what it must be like inside their heads, the mother and her two precious-looking kids, the girl with them braces things not inhibiting her confident smile one lil bit. He was good and angry in his inadequacy by the time he got back to the study.
First drawer he forced open had him reel away. At the brown folders with green ribbon ties; these might be files on murder cases, on anything. Though when he scanned the writing on the one he grabbed, it said something about Bank Parabas, written in black pen, and below it Futures. Futures for what? What manner of man, of law job was this that he had files on a bank’s future – and in the plural. Shook his head, I dunno.
Second drawer jemmied was more of the same. A file read Banque Indosuez, which Sonny figured must be to do with the Suez Canal area, which he thought was in Egypt somewhere. Bor-ring. Down to the third, with a set of three more on the other side. He was down on his knees, could smell wool and a kind of oily smell quite pleasant. The pattern of the rug he was kneeled on was reall
y detailed up close, he ran a hand over it, felt as silken as it looked, but he figured it couldn’t possibly be silk, he thought silk was flimsy. Like the woman’s panties that crazy Jube’d held up to his nose, and he was doubtless down there now doing more’n just smelling the underwear. Animal. He levered the third drawer open.
Only thing in it was a large brown envelope. Read: Brothel Drawings. Commissioned by Marquess of Salisbury. Photographic Prints. So, taken by the word brothel, Sonny took out the contents. Nearly had a heart attack: it’s porn! At the sight of the first of several pictures showing a man shoving himself into a woman from the standing position with she seated on a little table. Sonny stared in disbelief. The woman had one leg wrapped around the dude’s back, the other half off the floor. His shorts were down enough to free his rampant sexuality, and the picture of it entering a hairy divide was at once repulsive and a turn-on. Sonny shakingly looked at the next.
Two women and a guy. (Man, what a dream.) The guy underneath one of the women, who was kissing him passionately while the other woman, to the side of them, was positioning the guy’s cock into the woman’s explicitly depicted cunt lips. Sonny as hard as the guy in the picture.
Going over in his spinning head: This is wrong. This guy’s a lawyer and he’s got pictures like this. Yet keenly aware of his own excitement. And further staring started the question in his mind: Is it that bad? Try the next one.
Little midget guy, looked more like a boy, another lucky dude with two women. One woman holding his penis with one hand and holding up the leg and open thighs of the other woman for obvious invitation to the midget to enter. None of them looked bad. Like in evil. Hell, Jube looked ten times worse’n these people. The women in fact had pretty faces and sweet smiles, and their hair was tied up in similar buns all plaited together how must have been the style in them days, since it was clearly from a past era, maybe last century. Looked English, from all the lace and stuff clued around.
Last picture was just stunning: two naked people, woman and man, with the man standing and holding the woman with one of her legs supported by one of his shoulders, held by his hand, his other hand just visible supporting her weight on her lower back. They were kissing. He was fully inside her, Sonny could see the guy’s balls, it was like a mirror. Of himself, of every man how he must look to a third eye when engaged in the act of fucking. He stared harder and close at the faces. Decided it wasn’t fucking, it was loving: her eyes were closed softly, and their meeting of lips looked gentle and yet passionate. And for some reason there was a fully clothed woman in the picture down her knees supported by one arm on the floor with the other in the act of wiping the doorframe. Sonny couldn’t figure it. Was hardly that interested either.
Back over the pictures again, Sonny noticed a weird-looking woman in the first, in the side foreground; she had a long nose in profile and her pose was real strange, as if she was creeping discreetly past the act taking place behind her. A broom rested against a tall vase near the screwing couple. The vase could have been straight out of one of the cubby-hole recesses of this house. The man’s penetration could not have been more clear. Nor erotically done. What with the woman’s dress hiked up around her midriff, a breast hanging free and the guy buried into her far shoulder as he went hell for sweet leather. Man.
He noticed the midget guy had a tender reached-out hand touching the controlling woman’s face. The guy’s eyes looked utterly for the woman he was touching. Her concentration on hand on his cock was more serene than anything. And the other woman wore a welcoming smile.
Jube’d give his right arm to see these, it occurred to Sonny. So he took one last look at each then put them back in the envelope and slid it under the files in the drawer above for good measure in case Jube walked in. Knowing that the lawyer guy would have to know for sure that his secret was known to at least one thief. Smiling at that thought because it gave Sonny a surge of confidence.
First two drawers the other side had more files. Sonny took a deep breath on the final drawer, expecting more sexy material. He wondered if the guy’s wife knew. If she was maybe part of whatever sexual behaviour this kind of thing inspired, or reduced them to. Found himself hoping it didn’t in fact reduce them: it’d spoil all their exquisite taste, even perhaps the physical beauty they both enjoyed. He paused as he tried to conjure up what a husband and wife might get from looking at these drawings. Didn’t seem to Sonny it’d have em bringing out the whips and metal chains. In fact it was easy to see the turn-on, even if it was impossible to imagine these kind of people in the act of fucking. Or even making love. Impossible. Especially the woman.
He was still stiff. And horny as hell. Half hoping he’d find something spicier, half that he’d find much along the same lines. Wondering then what Jube had discovered downstairs. Maybe this couple are sex maniacs; you read about it in the papers sometimes, of some aristocratic lot from England found involved in wife swapping and sex orgies. Come to think of it: what is a Marquess of Salisbury? But he didn’t know. And his watch said it was closing on five and time was running out. He worked the two screwdrivers in and levered the drawer open, jumped in alarm at Jube’s voice behind him, Oi! followed by his smart-arse chuckle. Whatcha found? At the same time the drawer came open to reveal another large brown envelope. So Sonny’s heart pounding that it’d be more of the sex stuff and dreading taking the envelope.
But Jube was standing over him, and his long arm came down all tattooed, and knuckly fist took the envelope. Which had Sonny saying, You ain’t seen nothing yet, as he decided on showing Jube what else of the presumed same he’d found before Jube found it himself; asking himself why he wanted to hide this in the first place.
Jube was tearing at the envelope that must be sealed, unlike the one Sonny was bringing out from under the files. Here, check this out. He handed the envelope up to Jube, but with one of the pictures first removed for Jube’s instant attention. Sonny stood up. Jube dropped his envelope on the floor, it fell with not a whisper onto the rug. Jube’s mouth was open. His eyes as wide as the swelling around them would allow. He walked slowly over to the desk, where he pushed aside a magazine whose name Jube read out scornfully, The Economist, eh? The fucking Economist, that’s what this guy shows the world he reads. Glancing over his shoulder at Sonny for a moment. Not Penthouses, oh no, we couldn’t have that. Turned back to the desk, and Sonny moved around so to see what Jube was going to do, as well as his face when he took in the pictures.
He’s a lawyer too – Sonny watched Jube stiffen. He’s a wha’? A lawyer. Look, on the wall right in front of you. Jube straining his neck unnecessarily to look at the certificates, turning then a face on the rise to anger. First we find the Penthouses – his jaw was trembling so much he had to pause – then I find pictures of his wife in – Nah, come on, you’re kidding me aren’t ya? Sonny in before Jube could finish, it was too unbelievable. This whole fucking house was, everything in it and about it, from the layout to the contents to them fuckin snails in a plastic container in the pantry to the sexy pictures that Jube was already seeing as porn. But pictures of the – of that woman? Nah, man. Sonny grinning at Jube, but Jube not grinning back. It’s true, Son, as I stand here, I’ve got em in my pocket – a brief smile of triumph, then back to his angry look – and now – stabbing a finger Sonny’s way then swinging it up at the frames and finally at the pictures as he spread them out – a fucking lawyer? And he had this? The finger drove downwards at the pornographic display.
What to say? Sonny thinking. Then – Hey? what about these photos, you for real? I’m for real, Sonny Mahia. Jube’s eyes glued on the spread of pictures, his head going from side to slow side, a quick glance up at the certificates, clicking of his tongue, back to the pictures as Sonny asked, How about these photos, bro? Ya gonna show me? But Jube wasn’t listening, he was just going, Wow, oh fucking man alive, but I do not belie – He stopped, grabbed the envelope they’d been in, looked at it and read aloud: Marquess of – Marquess? Ain’t that sumpin hoity-toi
ty high up? England somewhere? Yeah, I think it is, man, think it is.
But Sonny wanting to know about the other photographs. Then the joke struck him: Hey, Jube, how bout you show me yours; I’ve already showed you mine? Took a moment for Jube to get it, but then he gave a grin. In my own good time, cuz, my own good time. Aw, come on, that ain’t fair. They porno? Might be, Jube with a grin. Come on, Jube. But Jube was back staring at the others. So Sonny finished off ripping open the seal on the envelope he was holding, expecting more of the same as Jube was getting his eyes off on.
A marquess. A lawyer. Penthouse mags, pictures of his wife as on the day she was born. Sonny, the fuck is going on here ya think? Just as Sonny pulled out the contents of the envelope he’d opened.
Then they were staring at each other. Then at what Sonny held in his hand. And Jube had a picture in his own hand, the one of the man and woman in standing copulation, kissing as they did. Jube had it to make a point. But the point got blown away by what Sonny found. Then Jube, in as soft a voice as Sonny’d heard from the man asking, Son? The fuck is happening to us?
At all that money in Sonny’s hand. Only thing Sonny could think to say was: Now you gonna show me the photos?
They didn’t know what next to do. Say. Had to swap over the respective objects in each other’s right hand so they could shake; was Jube’d started off the gesture, and Sonny having to hurry over his hand-to-hand shuffle then grab Jube’s out-thrust mit. Puddit here, Son. The tall guy’s voice still as quiet as a mouse. Sonny too when he croaked back, I think we mighta got lucky, Jube.
But no sooner was the handshake over than Jube turned and smashed his fist into one of the glass-framed certificates. Master! Now tellus who’s fucking master! Yet he was laughing. And so Sonny’s alarmed frown went to a grin, then he too was laughing. They were holding hands and bouncing up and down as Jube swung them round and round.