Questions of Travel (43 page)
ROBYN LOOKED UP AT
Laura and said, “Two secs? Just have to finish off these cards.” There were dozens on her desk, sorted into piles marked Authors, Booksellers, Media, and so on. Produced by a famous aid organization, the midnight-blue cards showed a dove hovering over the word
Peace.
The 2003 card had featured a golden star and a scroll that wished
Happy Christmas.
An uprising spearheaded by HR had judged it
inappropriate to a multi-ethnic, non-denominational workplace.
There had been emails and meetings; the guilty one in Publicity had been identified and reduced to tears. More people than usual wound up not speaking to each other. That was why Peace reigned in 2004. Peace was up there with dolphins and Nelson Mandela, what was not to like?
Before reaching Robyn, the cards had already been signed by some of her colleagues. There were those who had chosen to scribble a brief message, but Robyn noticed that Quentin had just signed his name. Robyn didn’t offer a message either—who had the time? not a senior leader, that was for sure—but she followed her name with a big blue
X.
That was so her: distinctive, efficient, warm.
Laura examined a book called
Managing Brand Me.
“Great, that’s out of the way.” Robyn put down her pen. She cast a cautious glance at the open door and lowered her voice. “Get this: Paul Hinkel’s going for CEO.”
Laura returned the book to its place. She was able to ask, with just the right amount of casual interest, whether Robyn was sure.
“He emailed me and Quentin. He thought it was”—Robyn’s fingers made scare quotes—“
right to let us know.
He thinks the experience of the interview will
help him grow professionally.
”
Laura observed that if Paul wanted to waste his time, why not? “From senior cartographer to CEO? I don’t think so.” She produced a little laugh marinated in scorn.
“Who knows how the mindset works around here?” Robyn said grimly, “Paul’s got all the right accessories. Wife, two kids, mortgage in the burbs.”
“One kid. He’s got one kid.”
“Well, he’s about to have another. Didn’t you know? Due any day.”
A cold part of Laura’s brain informed her that it was November. Nine from eleven made February. February was Bali. Bali had been budgeted for: seven
nuits d’amour.
No one had mentioned a baby.
“Anyway, let’s go eat. I’m starving,” said Robyn. And because Laura Fraser was just standing there looking vague, “You coming?”
Laura’s mind swooped slowly back into the office. It perched on Robyn’s desk and looked around. It noted a blue felt-tip and a black one, a Wite-Out pen, three fluorescent markers, a stubby pencil, a green Derwent with a broken point and—
“Is that my pen?” asked Laura. She crossed to the desk. Her fingers closed around the plump plastic casing of a four-color Bic.
Robyn stared. A memory stirred: something to do with the Bic. But the sudden swerve of the conversation had confused her.
“Well, is it?” barked Laura. “It looks like my pen. You can’t get these from stationery. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
“It’s
my
pen,” said Robyn. Because all at once, she was totally pissed off. First Cliff Ferrier, then Paul Hinkel and now, unbelievably, Laura Fraser. Walking in here and claiming she owned stuff. Robyn’s hand shot out, grabbed the Bic and returned it to her desk.
The two women glared at each other.
Robyn recovered first. One of the things Robyn Orr was famous for was her cool. Breathe out, she commanded herself silently. In a light voice, she suggested, “Lunch?”
On the way to it, they were rather subdued. Robyn was thinking, A pen! But it was the kind of thing that excited editors, they got off on fancy pens and making fancy marks on paper with them.
Laura was remembering Paul Hinkel’s malodorous declarations of love. No wonder he had been afraid: one of the people he had run from hadn’t yet been born. What the unborn had in common with the dead was that there was no calculating what they were owed. The budget could never be balanced, but anyone who lost track of the numbers was a fool.
PAIN AND ROSALBA HAD
pincered Carlo into agreeing, finally, to a hip replacement. December came, and a last feast. Carlo busied himself with fresh linguine
ai frutti di mare,
stuffed peppers,
parmigiana di melanzane,
giant grilled prawns. Laura filled glasses with prosecco and all the vases with purloined gardenias, grandifloras of course. These days, it was with something approaching joy that she observed the slow deaths, by strangulation or thirst, of the plants on the roof. Only the gray olive, raised to adversity, squeezed out grim leaves. Everything up here would die one day anyway: why not now? What were pomegranate and oleander, bougainvillea and jasmine if not decorative deceit? They deluded like bells, frankincense, silver candlesticks, a patient, painted statue in a niche. So what if their high priestess neglected to polish? Their god had absconded first. Never again would paint-dazzled Drummond call down the stairs for Carlo and beer. It was a kindness, really, to stamp out the garden’s promise of renewal. Growth was a falsehood, it embroidered the plain truth of ending with leaves. That morning, with the harbor winking like a con artist, Laura had pushed a stolen pink frangipani into her hair. Her laptop came to life on the kitchen table, and Carlo sat before it, ready for enchantment. Quite calmly, Laura noted the date in a corner of her screen: Rafael Hinkel had completed his first week in the world.
After lunch, Carlo joined Caruso in a duet:
O dolce Napoli, o suol beato.
There were Camels and
babàs;
the liquid in the shot glasses was sticky and foully green. They were knocking it back when Carlo said, “Why you sad?” Laura opened her mouth to deny, but Santa Chiara fixed her with a cold blue plaster stare. So Laura said that she had decided not to come back to McMahons Point after her holiday. “I’m going to look for somewhere closer to work, I’ve been thinking maybe Surry Hills.”
By Christmas, Carlo would have his artificial hip and be in rehab; after that, he would recuperate in Haberfield until Rosalba could be persuaded to let him go. Alice Merton had already agreed to water upstairs and down while Laura was on holiday; it would fall to her to expose the dereliction on the roof. If Carlo forgave, Rosalba would not. There would be no coming back for Laura, no more nightingale above the harbor, no more garlic and lilies and rosy afternoons. In the bay window, dolce Napoli, supine in a sea-blue shirt, was blowing a smoke ring. On the mantel, the peacock feathers were all eyes. Oh God, how could I have ruined his garden? thought Laura. This had become a recurrent theme. But the anguish that bit at intervals, sharpening its teeth on the presence of Carlo, was velvet-mouthed as soon as she stepped onto the roof. There she only surveyed, justified, conjured fresh deceits. The two states of mind flourished in her like plants that grow peaceably side by side and have no bearing on each other; her ongoing inertia fed both. The house was her accomplice, with its discrete geographies of downstairs and roof.
Guilt rushed to assure Carlo that she wasn’t deserting him. “You won’t need me next year. Your new hip will have you powering up those stairs.”
All he offered was an equable
“Sì, certo.”
“You don’t mind that I’m going?” She was just a tad piqued.
“You no happy, no good you stay.” He remarked, “Long time, you no happy.”
“Work gets me down,” said Laura eventually. “It’s nothing to do with you or this house, you know I love it here.”
“Sì, certo.”
The terminal droop was Rosalba’s best. Carlo Ferri was vain, sentimental, pig-headed, capable of cruelty, but he was never ironic. In a preposterous future, Laura knelt before him on a roof crying, I’m sorry, Carlo, I’m sorry.
She ate the last
babà,
swallowing misery.
Wiping her fingers on her skirt, she rose to find their record. “No,” he said. “Is not necessary. Is okay—you go.”
“But I would like to. Please.”
It was true. She wanted to. She undressed slowly, slowly displayed her luxuriant flesh. The afternoon thickened, the record stuck, Carlo gasped, it was all as usual. But:
You go. You go.
This time, Laura hadn’t mistaken his meaning. No one was asking her to stay.
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY, HELD
by tradition on the second Friday in December, was raging through the office. Even the Ramsays were present, fresh from their yoga break on Mustique.
He
loomed in silent gravitas over the turbulence; at six foot four, Alan Ramsay was used to flying above the weather.
She,
clad briefly in silver, spoke only to senior leaders but showed her tiny teeth to all. The back of her skull was as square and flat as any Balkan war criminal’s, but the back of Jelena Ramsay’s head was the last place anyone looked. The photograph taken when she was crowned Miss Croatia Underwear had been widely circulated at Ramsay. At seasons of workplace angst, when pay wasn’t reviewed, say, the unkind drove pins into her paper eyes. Others, no less savage but more technologically proficient, turned to Photoshop for relief.
Jelena Ramsay was never in Ravi’s vicinity. A crowd always swirled between them, so he glimpsed her, like a goddess, in distant flashes. Laura Fraser, on the other hand, came and went like the music pumping out from Sales. Ravi had spotted her there earlier on, in the space that had been cleared for dancing; she was gyrating with Robyn Orr. Laura’s white arms rose and fell—they were contained in black netting. It gave her the look of something dragged from the sea.
Materializing afresh beside Ravi, she shrieked her
plans for Sri Lanka
into his ear. She was doing everything he had suggested, going from Colombo to the south coast, where she promised to visit Nimal’s Internet cafe, then traveling to an ancient capital and a fortress carved from rock. Crystal Bowles, slithering past in an emerald-green caftan with a drink to match, flicked her hair and her eyes; Ravi wondered if he would have the nerve to ask her to dance. Laura bellowed of frescos and ayurvedic massage. Ravi had no interest in her holiday beyond a vague native pride in her choice of destination, but she continued to shout at him. Then there was a lull in the music, and she muttered, “Your hometown—it’s near the airport, isn’t it?” She had yet to finalize her bookings, she said, and could easily alter her plans. “We could meet up. If you’d like to, of course.”
Ravi answered at once that the beaches in the south were far superior to those on the west coast.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Laura. “To tell the truth, I don’t care where I go.”
Pride gave way in Ravi to an equally vague rage. He had a vision of a horde. It ate, loved, frolicked, trampled unthinkingly; at its head strode Laura Fraser. He saw the rooms of childhood forced open, despoiled, laid bare to the light. She loomed over him, sly and suggestive, and—I’d like to kill you, he thought.
She was saying hastily that of course a visit wouldn’t be convenient. “How silly of me. It’ll be Christmas, you’ll be busy with your family, you must be longing to see them.”
Laura ended on a screech because the music had started up again. To hear her more clearly, Ravi looked into her face. Having imagined her triumphant, he now saw that the multitude she led was in flight.
Pray for them, child,
commanded Brother Ignatius.
Going here and there, far from home.
Like many another victor troubled by instant capitulation, Ravi felt he had behaved badly. The red ring spluttered on Laura Fraser’s finger. Netted in black, she was a tower besieged.
Ravi wasn’t finishing up at work until the following Friday. But many of his colleagues seemed to think that this was his last day. Throughout the party, people came up to him, hugged him, asked for his email address, urged him to stay in touch. How lucky I am, thought Ravi, and found himself shivering. In Sales, one track ended and another began. It crept out from Ravi’s bones. The last time he had heard it, it was playing on Freda Hobson’s Discman. The remembered texture of those days received him like a pillow: a cottony compound of grief, music, fear. When he opened his eyes, Crystal Bowles was before him. ‘Would monsieur care to dance?” He followed her turquoise patent-leather slingbacks past the mobile bar in reception. Under the mirror ball, she lifted her shoulders and made boneless passes with her arms. “
La
la, la la la la,
la
la,” sang Crystal, while Ravi’s feet tried to follow the rhythm of her hips. Her palms were slipping down her thighs: “
Dance
me, la la la la,
dance
me.” His obedient hands reached, but the music broke off. Crystal slid away.
People were massing at the foot of the stairs; the Ramsays waited on the landing. Switches were being hit. When only the staircase hung in light, Alan Ramsay began to speak—a phenomenon that disturbed, as if an Easter Island statue had come to life. But Alan brought the glad tidings that the global upturn in sales meant Christmas bonuses for all. There were cheers, although some of those present, occupied with trying to squint up his wife’s skirt, missed the moment. As for Jelena, she had long been in the habit, when men made speeches, of looking divinely blank while noting the lie of the land. In another century, there had been a mountain village where the wine, like the bread, was black. What remained of that was a dream in which Jelena opened her wardrobe to discover that she owned no shoes. But recently her husband had made her watch a documentary about North Korea. She had been struck by the twin portraits that oversaw everything there: the Great Leader and the Beloved Leader. From her vantage point on the landing, Jelena had spotted a wall in reception that would be perfect. Gilt frames, or would a nice veneer with beading be more elegant?
When Alan, applauded, had reverted to stone, Tyler Dean leapt lightly up to the landing. His big shorts flapped about his knees. Jelena Ramsay took a step back to accommodate them, but her smile didn’t move an inch.
He would be quick, promised Tyler. “I know there’s serious partying to be done. But I totally had to say—Ravi! Where are you? Come on up!”
The crowd parted. Willing hands shoved Ravi up the shining stair. When he arrived at the landing, “Dude, it’s been stellar working with you,” said Tyler. “We’re all sorry you’re leaving, even though we’re stoked because we have a place to crash in Sri Lanka now.” This caused much merriment below. “Anyway, this is from all of us to say we’ll miss you and thanks for having been part of our story.” He handed Ravi a bag.
Ravi drew out a box and saw, in wonder, that it contained an iPod. Far away, the mirror moon glittered in Sales. Closer at hand, Jelena Ramsay was giving off violent twinkles; Ravi turned to her, half dazed. It was a casual occasion so Jelena was wearing only a single strand of diamonds, but Ravi had the impression he should kneel. Jelena widened her smile but lifted her chin to show that none of this had anything to do with her. So she had stood when they were herding her brothers, even the little one, into the trees.
Demands were floating upwards, and, “Speech, dude,” said Tyler. He touched Ravi on the elbow, turning him towards the crowd. Ravi said thank you, more than once, and told his colleagues that he would miss them. “I have been very happy in Australia and working with you.” It was okay as an exit speech, but a joke would have been better or a complete breakdown. Pale masks, friendly and avid, gleamed up at Ravi from the darkness. They wished him no harm but wouldn’t have minded him making a little bit of an arse of himself: it was Christmas after all!
The iPod had been Damo’s idea; Tyler had contributed a fifth of the cost. An outrageous private whisper continued to inform him that he had failed Ravi Mendis. It was outrageous because the truth was the other way around: it was Ravi who had failed to rescue Tyler’s career from the straight, flat highway to Loserville. In the end, rescue had come from Tyler’s old webmaster. Restructured out of Ramsay, Dave Horden now worked for an awesome outfit that made video games. The interview for creative director was scheduled for Monday, and Tyler had been assured that all he had to do was show up. So he really couldn’t have said why the last thing he felt like was a party. He punched Ravi’s shoulder in a kindly sort of way and started clapping. Gripping a paper bag, descending into obscurity, Ravi wanted to howl, Please keep me from making a terrible mistake.
When he had recovered, he was standing at the back of the crowd and Cliff Ferrier had ascended the stairs. Pineapples and hula girls frolicked on Cliff’s shirt. Jelena had disappeared, and Alan was informing a distant horizon that Cliff’s resignation was a great loss. “I’m sure you all feel that Cliff’s irreplaceable. I certainly do. So we’ll be replacing him as soon as we can.”
This was received with dutiful titters, while Alan observed that it was a matter of prioritizing the priorities now. “Over the next few days, Cliff and I’ll be meeting with all the candidates for CEO, and we hope to have news for you about that before too long. But as it happens, this week marks a very special anniversary. Twenty years ago, when Ramsay wasn’t much more than a stapler and a photocopier in my attic in Glebe, Cliff signed up for the ride. We’ll be sending you off in style when you go next February, Cliff, but what we have for you tonight is a special trophy to honor your two decades at Ramsay.”
Jelena Ramsay was now perceived to be wending her way down from the floor above. Her shapely ankles appeared, stepping stiffly in their silver shoes. She was moving with care, encumbered by a bulky form. When she rounded the bend, it was visible to all: a china vase molded and painted to resemble a naked female torso. Jelena came to a halt, shielded by rosy nipples and golden fronds: a life-size parody of the glories they obscured.
There were wolf-whistles and screams of delight. Crying, “My favorite hobby—ikebana!” Cliff seized his prize. Ravi’s hands, too, had shot out: they were warding off something. “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” came the roar. Fleeing from it, Ravi almost collided with a chair. But a monolith grabbed his wrists. Laura Fraser steadied him. He thought he would throw up on her, but her flesh smothered him just in time.
Netted arms waltzed him past the mobile bar and through Design. There was singing above Ravi’s head: “
La
la, la la la la,
la
la.” The mirror ball menaced, but Laura whizzed him through Finance, steering between a room divider and a tank of orange fish. Off to his left, the stationery cupboard undulated and vanished. A filing cabinet could easily have finished them off, but she twirled him to safety through the downstairs tea room. “
Dance
me, la la la la,
dance
me.” They swept past This Month’s Top Ten, but it was a near thing with Returns. At a fire door, she released one of his hands and fumbled. Then they were through and into the car park. It was empty: responsibly mindful of their intention to end the night rat-arsed, no one had driven to work that day. “
La
la, la la la la,
la
la.” Rain must have fallen because the concrete was shining. The moon had been left behind in Sales, but the security lights snapped like stars. They swirled across the car park on a loose diagonal until the hibiscus fence put an end to it. “Dance me to the edge of love,” sang Laura Fraser. There was something wrong with that, but Ravi couldn’t remember what it was.
The trumpet vine, in luxuriant leaf, was no longer in flower, and Laura had stopped singing. Still her netted arms clutched.
She was unused to exertion. Her flesh moved in slow waves.
Ravi farted.
It just popped out: a little odorless explosion. A bodily full stop, it put an end to a bodily conversation. What can two people who are more or less strangers say to each other after a fart? It provoked humiliation in one and embarrassment in the other. The night was rather chilly, after all; they noticed it at the same time. Thank goodness Laura could cry, “Ravi! Where’s your iPod?” and loosen her hold. An absence was something to talk about and pursue. He must have dropped the paper bag as he fled. The fire door had swung shut, so they had to retreat up the side of the building. The smokers sheltering under the awning at the entrance hailed them. “Think I’ll stay here and bot a ciggie,” announced Laura. “Sing out if you need a hand to find your iPod.” Ravi could picture her creaking down to peer under workstations. But they weren’t after the same thing.
