by Alison Booth
As she opened the front door of the house, she thought for a moment that she heard Jim’s voice. So sharp was her shock that her heart began to race, until she realised the voice was only from the television that Lisa or Joanne must have left on.
‘Is that you, Zidra?’ Joanne emerged from the kitchen and darted into the living room to turn off the television. ‘Typical Lisa, she leaves everything on when she goes out. The iron, the TV, the radio, sometimes even a tap.’
‘I’m getting that way myself. I sometimes even forget where I am.’
‘You’ve got an excuse for that after all that’s happened. Are you okay? Your hands are shaking.’
‘I’m good, really I am.’
‘I’ve got something for you. A letter. It got caught up in my mail and I only noticed it when I sorted through my stuff first thing this morning. Sorry about that. Thought it was all bills but I was wrong.’
Zidra followed Joanne into the kitchen. ‘Not important, I hope,’ Joanne said. ‘But anyway it can’t have been here for more than a couple of days.’
Zidra took the airmail envelope. Jim’s letters used to come once a week, month in, month out, year in, year out. She inspected the envelope. No sender’s address on the back but there was a Vienna postmark so she guessed it was from Philip Chapman. In the days when her mother taught the piano, Philip had been her prize pupil, and he had become the first person in the world to record the Talivaldis Variations.
Little things brought back the past so vividly. A letter, a connection. A sharp pain as all that was lost came flooding back. Her biological father had composed the Talivaldis Variations not long before he died. She’d never really missed him; she’d never really known him. Philip playing her father’s music seemed much more real to her than her father ever had, but it was Philip’s connection to Jim that made her eyes fill with tears.
Though her vision was blurred, sounds impinged on her with great clarity. The creaking of the staircase under her weight; the slap of her heels against her leather sandals each time she put a foot down; a bird calling from the shrub outside the back door; the telephone on the landing outside her bedroom stuttering into life before being picked up downstairs by Joanne.
She stretched out on her bed. The envelope was so light that there couldn’t be more than one sheet of paper inside. She retrieved a nail file from the bedside table and slid it under the flap. With a quick jerk she slit the envelope open and removed from it the single page.
Dear Zidra,
You will be back in Sydney by the time you receive this. I was devastated to hear this morning about Jim, and the memorial service too. My mother wrote but I’ve been on tour and so the letter only reached me today. Such a terrible shock; such a terrible loss. What a horrible thing war is.
I’ve felt inundated all day by those old memories, especially from the days when Jim and I were boarders at Stambroke College. How I hated that place. It was thanks to him I got through all that.
I know you loved him too and must be suffering from this awful shock. I wish I could have been there for the service. Jim was one of those rare creatures, a genuinely good human being.
With love from
Philip
She stood and walked to the window. It framed an ultramarine sky and row after row of terrace houses stepping down the hill. She opened the sash wider and leant out. By craning around to the right she could just make out the eucalyptus tree three doors away. It was covered in pale yellow clusters of flowers and reminded her of Jingera and the bush by the lagoon.
Philip had blossomed since he left Stambroke College years ago, and that had been thanks to Jim. Holding on tightly to the window frame, she no longer saw the view. Instead she glimpsed the lonely path she would take stretching out before her.
What would Jim have felt when he’d begun his final journey, in the instant between capture and getting a bullet in the head? Or had he been shot in the middle of a battle, with no warning that his life was to be snuffed out? She hoped the latter. No time for fear or regret or pain.
And how was she going to cope, now that hope had gone? She’d have to force herself to get on with her own journey, and to negotiate it as well she could. She’d have to bury herself in her work, and become more and more single-minded. She would seek out the truth, be more willing to take risks, trust in her own judgement. Her career – and she knew she would never marry now – would become a vocation and maybe that would eventually bring her some happiness.
She refolded Philip’s letter and put it in her chest of drawers, next to the shoebox full of Jim’s letters that she’d accumulated over the years. Then she shut the drawer firmly, as if by doing so she could shut off the past. Wasn’t the best way to deal with grief to keep busy? To fill your days, your nights? To leave no time for remembering?
Not long after dinner that evening there was a ring at the front door. Zidra turned on the verandah light before opening the door. Her old friend Stella Papadopoulos stood there, reeking of Mitsouko. Zidra had first met her during university orientation week when they’d each been trawling around, deciding which clubs to join, and had started talking in front of the Labor Club stall.
As usual Zidra was struck by how narrow her friend’s face was, and how emaciated, apart from the wide nose. It was as if all the flesh of her face had been concentrated here, leaving only a thin layer of muscle and skin to clothe the rest. Her body was lean as well; narrow shoulders and hips, and arms that were so slender that her sleeveless dress gaped at the armholes, exposing glimpses of olive skin and a rather ancient-looking red bra. Her eyes were black, as was her gravity-defying hair that nonetheless glowed like a halo under the bright verandah light.
‘Come in,’ Zidra said. ‘I was just about to make some tea.’
‘Can’t stay long. I’m running late for a meeting. But I’ve been thinking about your Hank.’
‘My Hank? I hardly know him.’
‘That’s not the impression I got when you introduced me to him at the Gladstone pub the night of the march.’
That was a lifetime ago, Zidra thought as she ushered Stella into the kitchen. She and Hank had spent a couple of hours talking and drinking with Stella and her husband, Nic, before Hank had whisked her out to dinner, his arm around her shoulders as if they were already lovers.
After putting the kettle on, Zidra flung open the window. There was something wrong with Stella’s sense of smell if she didn’t notice how strong the Mitsouko was. It was making Zidra’s nasal passages tingle and eyes water, and any moment now she’d start to sneeze.
‘Maybe you should find out a bit more about Hank, that’s what I’ve been thinking. After all if he’s working for the US Consulate, he might be CIA.’
‘Didn’t you once tell me that the trouble with you journalists is that you see conspiracy everywhere?’
‘Well, Zidra, maybe you’re right to see conspiracy everywhere. And you can bet that the CIA and our security people are sharing information. So you need to be a bit careful.’
‘I realise that, and of course I’m careful. Anyway, I’ve hardly seen Hank since I got back from Jingera.’ She couldn’t bear to say since Jim’s death. Time was now divided into two periods: before she last went to Jingera and after she got back. She added, ‘We’ve just had lunch a couple of times, that’s all.’
‘He hasn’t come around here again? Sorry, that sounds like prying, but you did tell me you were seeing him a bit before Jim came back.’
Zidra opened a cupboard and got out a couple of cups and saucers. ‘Like a biscuit?’ she said. The last time Hank had dropped in was the week before Jim returned for that abbreviated visit. It had been late at night, after eleven o’clock, and she’d let Hank into the house reluctantly.
‘I’ve just come from a dinner,’ he’d said. ‘Work of course. I was passing on the way home and I saw the light
on. So I stopped on an impulse.’
I’ll bet, she’d thought, but she took him upstairs to her bedroom. Foolish girl – it seemed like a betrayal now. But how could she have known then that her feelings for Jim were reciprocated? What a lost opportunity that was.
Hank’s glance that night had been like a movie camera, panning around the room. ‘Didn’t you have a typewriter here last time?’ he said.
‘Still do. It’s on top of the chest of drawers, behind the clothes.’
‘Last time it was on your desk. Don’t you use your typewriter at home?’
‘No, or only for letters. The typewriters at the office are better. This one’s just a clapped-out portable Olivetti.’ She’d been glad she’d taken all her work material back to her office in the Chronicle building. Only a couple of days had passed since she’d decided to do all her writing there and to keep it locked up in her office filing cabinet at night. She’d added, ‘I keep all my stuff in the office. Absolutely everything.’
‘Not quite everything. Certainly not your gorgeous body.’ And then he’d put his arms around her waist and run his hands over her buttocks, pulling her close.
At this moment the whistling of the kettle returned Zidra to the present. ‘Did you say you wanted a biscuit?’ she asked Stella.
‘No biscuit and I like my tea weak,’ Stella said.
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Zidra poured the boiling water into the teapot.
‘You seem distracted. What are the lunches with Hank like? Does he ask you lots of questions?’
‘No more than you do.’ Zidra managed to smile although she didn’t feel like it. Since she’d returned from Jingera, Hank had been kind, had seemed to understand that their friendship had shifted into a new phase, and she’d liked that about him. Yet now she thought about it, his interest in where she kept her work, on that last night they’d slept together, did seem excessive.
‘I know how you could check up on Hank,’ Stella said. ‘Remember Samantha Browning?’
‘Yes. She had a room on the same floor as me in Women’s College.’
‘She’s working at the US Embassy in Canberra.’
‘Really?’ Zidra put the teacups on a tray and led the way into the living room.
‘She’s a secretary there. She could get hold of Hank’s entry in the US Foreign Service Register.’
‘Have you kept in contact?’
‘Yes. Christmas cards and the odd phone call. We went to Sydney Girls’ High together, and she’s one of the few girls I keep in touch with.’
‘I haven’t seen her for four or five years.’
‘I could ring her and ask her to get a copy of Hank’s entry. All’s fair in love and war.’
‘I’ve got absolutely no idea what you mean by that.’ Zidra frowned at Stella. Surely she wasn’t fantasising about her relationship with Hank.
‘I’ll call her tonight,’ Stella said, ignoring the frown. ‘I’ll get her to post a copy to me.’ She put down her cup and stood up. ‘Sure you don’t want to come to this meeting? It’s the local Labor Party. It would do you good to meet some new people.’
‘No, I stay out of all that now. Can’t be seen to be partial to one political faction rather than another.’ Although she’d started slogging through her contacts in political groups, checking if they’d been infiltrated, she certainly didn’t want to be seen at any meeting in Stella’s company.
‘That’s bullshit and you know it. You could be there for your work.’
‘Precisely, Stella, and that’s just what I don’t want people there to think.’
Stella laughed. ‘Fair enough. Thanks for the tea. I’ll call you when I get lucky with Samantha.’
Two days later Stella phoned Zidra to say she had the information from Samantha. On the way home from work that night Zidra dropped into Stella’s tiny terrace not far from where she lived in Paddington. Stella and Nic had bought the house recently, with a loan from Nic’s parents to cover the deposit, and they were slowly renovating it.
‘Come in,’ Stella said. ‘Mind the missing floorboards there. Nic did a bit of rewiring last weekend and he hasn’t had time to nail them down again.’
Zidra stepped over the gap, through which she could see rough dirt and some fresh wood shavings, and followed Stella into the kitchen. On the kitchen bench, between the paint pots and unwashed dishes, her friend had placed a photocopied page from the US Foreign Service Register.
‘I reckon you’d need special training to tell from this if Hank’s CIA,’ Stella said. ‘He was born in October 1937, so he’s older than he looks, and he’s not married. He’s got an undergraduate degree from William and Mary College in Virginia and a postgraduate qualification in international relations. And he’s fluent in Spanish, Portuguese and Italian apparently. Then there are various assignments and promotion dates.’
Zidra inspected the entry. Might Hank’s time in military service be a clue? She had an idea that CIA trainees were drafted for longer than usual. Or perhaps it was shorter. To the right eyes this information might indicate if he was deep-cover CIA, but there was no way she could make any inferences without getting advice. Dave Pringle, the foreign editor, was bound to know how to interpret the material. ‘I can’t decipher any of this,’ she said. ‘But I know someone who can.’
‘How?’
‘By checking how long Hank’s spent in military service. How rapid his promotion’s been. His assignment pattern. That sort of thing.’
‘Do I know this person?’
‘Just a colleague who used to work in Foreign Affairs.’
‘Maybe you’ll let me know what the verdict is.’ Stella handed Zidra the page with Hank’s details.
‘Of course, but I’m not planning to see Hank any time soon.’ After brushing a few crumbs from the paper, Zidra folded it up and zipped it into the inside pocket of her handbag.
And soon she forgot all about it, for events in her life were to develop a momentum of their own over the next few weeks.
Chapter 22
The following afternoon Zidra knocked on Joe Ryan’s office door. His feet were resting on his desk. As usual it was littered with papers. In one hand he held a lit cigarette and in the other the telephone receiver. He waved her into the room and she sat opposite him. His side of the phone conversation was limited to the occasional yes. Eventually he banged down the receiver, muttering to himself, ‘Useless bloody bloke, that, and a terrible talker too.’ After easing his feet off his desk, he stubbed out his cigarette with some vehemence and said, ‘What can I do for you, Zidra?’
If only she could return later when he might be in a better mood, but it wasn’t possible to back away now. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask, if you’ve got a minute.’
‘What’s that?’ He began to shuffle papers around his desk.
‘Have you ever faced a conflict of interest? You know, like when you’re investigating something that a friend may have told you. And you know that if you pursue it you’ll put that friend in danger.’
‘All the time, Zidra. It’s the journalist’s dilemma.’ Joe leant forward and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘Is there anything in particular you want to discuss?’
‘Not really, but maybe I should fill you in a bit about my friend Lorna Hunter.’ Not much though; she wanted to firm up the story a bit more before telling him all she knew. And anyway, while craving his reassurance, she also wanted to stay independent.
When she’d finished, Joe said, ‘The trouble about reporting, Zidra, is that you’re all the time filtering information. You’re all the time drawing on stuff people tell you. Following things up. Using people that you know and people that you don’t know. Maybe you’re exploiting them a bit.’
‘Friends as well as acquaintances,’ Zidra said. Once more she wished that her best friend wasn’t one of
her crucial sources; better by far that it had come from some other contact.
‘Well, you know I’m here any time you want to talk things over. But seeing you has reminded me of something else I wanted to say.’ He began to shove around his heaps of paper again, eventually retrieving a crumpled packet of cigarettes. After pulling one out, he thought better of lighting it and stuck it behind his right ear. He continued, ‘You’re really good at winkling information out of people, Zidra. They tell you things they wouldn’t say to others. It’s your empathy, sympathy, call it what you like. Just you remember that when you’re feeling low.’
‘Thank you.’ His kind words brought unwanted tears to her eyes. She stood up; before she was even out of her chair, Joe’s left hand was on the telephone receiver, his right hand dialling a number. Once the call was through, the Ryan feet would be up on the desktop again, and the cigarette transferred from behind the ear to his mouth.
Zidra stepped through the door into the Ladies’ Bar of the little pub in Darlinghurst. Lorna was the only person in the room and there were two glasses of lemonade already waiting on the table in front of her. After hugging Lorna, Zidra retrieved from her bag an envelope containing the photographs Chris had taken at the march. Both were of Mr Ordinary but it was hard to make out his features. Even though Chris had managed to take one of his face in profile, the image was blurred. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘Yes.’ Lorna’s face crinkled as she returned the pictures to Zidra. ‘It’s definitely John.’
‘He followed you along the street for maybe fifty metres, snapping you with that ruddy great telephoto lens. Did he contact you again?’
‘Yes, a couple of days ago. I wasn’t wearing the tape because I hadn’t known when he’d get in touch, though I’d kept all the stuff in my bag. So I told him I was running late for a lecture, and we arranged to meet afterwards. By that time I was all wired up.’