Trust (8 page)

As Gerry finished his stretches and filled his chest with deep preparatory breaths, he took some of those earliest trophies from the cupboard of memory and polished their gleam. Miss Adams, the apple-cheeked history teacher with her pale pink, incredibly sensitive nipples; Mrs Bertram, geography, the first woman who’d let him know she wanted him to spank her. He could recall with perfect clarity the sharp report of his hand on her quivering white buttocks, the magically precise mark appearing redly on her flesh, her thrilled whimpering gasps. These were right up there, amongst the hottest memories of his life.

Satisfied, he popped the iPod buds into his ears and set off with Bob Marley’s rich triumphant voice pouring straight into his brain. Perfect! Music, and the smooth untiring rhythm of feet, legs, breath. It was akin to sex, the blissful absorption of his morning run. He
needed
this; it was when ideas and inspiration came to him, without which he wouldn’t be the architect he was, and Visser Kanaley would be just another boring little firm.

He certainly needed inspiration now, if he was going to produce a worthwhile design for the High Plains visitors’ centre in time for this competition. He’d only been to the site once, but thanks to all the photographs and topographical information online, he knew it well. In his mind, Gerry traversed the ground again, then lifted off for an aerial survey, seeing the access road through the mountains, the jagged ridges, the sheltered bowl in which sat the squat concrete box that was the existing visitors’ centre, plonked artlessly amid enormous boulders. Physically he was grounded, running steadily down familiar urban streets, but his inner eye was scanning the High Plains National Park, flying over the site like a bird seeking the place to build his nest —

His nest
. That was
it
! A bird’s nest, enclosing the boxy existing building – which could become the required administrative offices – in a rounded, rising form, sculpted yet natural. The winds would flow around it. Within the nest’s walls, there’d be a walkway – its timbers sourced from within the park itself – winding up, with strategically placed asymmetric windows offering enticing views, drawing people up, up. The upper level would utilise the solid foundation of the box below. He could not only see it, he was there, stepping it out. Information displays, a cafe, a viewing deck from which the drama of mountains and bush was spread out at last before the visitors: their reward.

Yes! Gerry lengthened his pace, bounding along now. He had a winner here, he could feel it in his bones.

Sweating, breathing from down deep, he turned in at the gate to the converted Richmond factory that was Visser Kanaley’s office, fished his key out of his pocket and into the lock of the artfully rusted steel door.
Huh?
Already unlocked! Yet he was always the first one to arrive. Dreading a break-in, Gerry wrenched the door open and took two huge strides through the vestibule and into the office proper. All good: the score of desks untouched, messy or neat just as their occupants had left them last night, and all the handsome white Macs sitting there, silent and waiting.

At the far end of the enormous open space, from behind the glass wall of the partners’ twinned fishbowl offices, one light was on, one screen softly glowing. Marcus Kanaley, sitting in front of it, raised his arm in greeting.

‘Marco!’ Gerry sang out, and loped up there. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with his T-shirt. ‘You’re in early.’

‘Somebody has to try and keep this place afloat,’ said Marcus dourly. ‘And having been awake since four, I thought I might as well stagger in.’

‘Yeah? Going by the look of you, I’m amazed to hear you had any sleep at all.’

‘Oh, great. Do I really look that bad?’ As Marcus stood and looked toward the mirror hanging on the wall opposite, Gerry noticed how his podgy belly strained at the lower buttons of his shirt. Marcus groaned and frisked his fingers anxiously at his dark, thinning hair. ‘God, what a horror show. Fat, fifty, and balding. I can’t bear it.’

‘Fifty-two, if I’m not mistaken.’ Gerry dropped onto the black leather couch and stretched his long muscular legs out in front of him. ‘Don’t tell me: you had a visit from John.’ John was the married man with whom Marcus had been having a clandestine affair for years. Too many years. Right now they were trying to break it off, again, as one or the other periodically tried to do; agonising attempts, which never lasted.

‘No,’ said Marcus testily, plopping back into his Aero chair. ‘I did
not
have a visit from John.’

‘Ah. In that case, you were lying there all night
wishing
you’d had a visit from John. Honestly, Marco. I probably shouldn’t say this, but don’t you think it’s time you just —’ he made a slicing motion with one bladed hand ‘— killed it? Moved on?’

‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ Marcus said. ‘Or
trying
to do.’ He glared unhappily at Gerry, and then his eyes welled and he swung around abruptly to dash the tears away, snatching a tissue from the box on his desk. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, mate. Shit,’ said Gerry softly. Face creased with sympathy, he watched Marcus break a large piece from the muffin sitting on the desk and stuff it in his mouth. ‘Seriously. Wouldn’t you be better off with someone who’s properly gay? This bi crap … If John can’t even make up his mind which team he’s batting for, what chance have you got?’

‘
Thank you
for that helpful comment, Gerald,’ said Marcus. ‘Can we not talk about this right now? I’m going to make a coffee.’

‘Good-oh. Make me one too.’ Gerry stood up, stretching his arms, elbows leading, far above his head, then ducked his nose toward his right armpit, sniffing. ‘Woof! I’m having a shower. Then I’ll fill you in on my latest stroke of genius: how we’re going to win the competition for the High Plains visitors’ centre.’

‘I’d rather you filled me in on how we’re going to pay the bloody wages bill next month.
That’s
what this outfit needs, not another dog-and-pony show.’

Poor old Marco, he really is blue
, Gerry thought as he soaped himself up in the shower at the rear of the office, next to the kitchenette.
And his looks are definitely going.
He ran his hand over his own flat belly, smug in the knowledge that
his
body was in as good shape as ever. Not an ounce of flab. Stronger than he’d been at twenty; erections like a stud bull’s. He stood with his legs apart and reached behind to wash between the cheeks of his arse; lifted his balls, a gratifyingly large handful, to wash beneath them; rolled back the foreskin of his uncut penis, rolling the head around with the pad of his thumb under the stream of water. Gerry liked his genitals. Plenty of admiring comments his tackle had earned.

‘
I can feel it, coming in the air tonight
,’ he sang as he dried off. Terrific song. One of his favourites. Humming the rest of the chorus under his breath, he tucked a periwinkle-blue shirt in to fresh jeans. He took his time combing his hair, using just enough product to hold it but still allow a boyish flop, and when it was right he spun 360 degrees before the mirror on the ball of one foot and gave his reflection a snappy wink.

Visser Kanaley’s dozen or so employees were now filing into the office. A cup of coffee sat fragrantly steaming on Gerry’s desk; he turned to Marcus, on the other side of the glass wall, to give him a thumbs up of thanks. Marcus nodded and held up his super-size calculator to show that he was preoccupied with budgets.

Gerry waved acknowledgement. All right, so Marcus didn’t want to hear about the High Plains project right now. No problem. He called Alberto in to his office and explained, not unkindly, the total concept change for the visitors’ centre. Firing off one rapid sketch after another, Gerry took him through the new vision and its iteration of the principles of interstitial envelopment. ‘High Plains Eyrie, we’ll call it,’ he said, and was well pleased by the way Alberto nodded eagerly. Gerry liked this mentoring aspect of his work. Watching Alberto walking quickly back to his desk, he thought,
This little project’s going to punch well above its weight, I just know it.

Visser Kanaley would weather the economic downturn. Marco would crunch numbers endlessly – look at him, the big old teddy bear, stabbing away at his calculator, all frazzled concentration – while Gerry had the vision. Theirs was the best of partnerships; it
worked
, it always had and it always would.

With this swelling sense of wellbeing and optimisim, so pleasantly familiar, Gerry turned to his computer and opened his email. Well, look at this: the organisers of the New York conference had sent the schedule through. He ran his eye quickly down the list of speakers: excellent, none of the big names who’d been touted as attending had dropped out. And
Gerald Visser
was up there with ’em.

As was
Marianne Zavos
. Gerry’s attention snapped back to that name. He smiled. He hadn’t seen the lovely and talented Ms Zavos since Prague – what, two years ago? Three? So, her career must be moving right along, if she too was to be a speaker at this conference. Maybe he’d send her a brief email: light, congratulatory – with the subtlest hint of anticipation.

Gerry’s eyes slid to the drawer of the small filing cabinet, with its locked upper drawer, that stood tucked in under his desk. He liked anticipation; it was part of the pleasure. But only part.

SEVEN

‘It’s an interesting idea, in its way,’ Belinda said, flicking the pages of Susanna’s proposal with her thumbnail. The kindness of her tone, along with the qualifier, made Susanna’s heart sink. ‘But I don’t think it’s worth pursuing for publication. For one thing, it seems to me that the relative lack of images of women at work in contemporary art simply reflects the decline of figurative representation in general. And for another, I’m afraid these issues are perceived, rightly or wrongly, to have been addressed back in the seventies.’ Belinda leaned forward and said gently but firmly, ‘No one’s hungry for this topic. It’s not sexy.’

‘Oh,’ said Susanna faintly. She liked her boss, a hard-working woman in her mid-thirties who struggled tirelessly to maintain staff numbers and conditions in an area that the university increasingly regarded as peripheral. She trusted Belinda’s judgement. ‘It was just a passing thought,’ she said, embarrassed, reaching across the desk to retrieve her failure. ‘Sorry.’

‘Wait up,’ Belinda said. She held the proposal higher, like evidence. ‘It also strikes me that this could make an excellent theme for your exhibition next year. All sorts of rich allusions. Consider Vermeer, for a start. Visually, I think this could really work.’

‘You do?’ said Susanna, lifting her head, attentive and hopeful as a dog whose owner has just picked up the lead.

‘Certainly. Especially in a conservative venue like the Booradalla gallery. Our annual staff and student exhibition is probably the most radical thing they mount each year, and you know how careful we are not to put in anything too challenging. Drawings and paintings of women engaged in domestic activities would be perfect for them.’

‘I see,’ said Susanna.

‘So, my advice is, use your idea for that. Voila – you’ve got a theme. Great!’ Belinda handed the proposal back, and Susanna understood that their meeting was over.
This is a life raft; why do I feel disappointed?
She was at the door when Belinda said, ‘Oh, did I see you carrying an armload of jacaranda blossom in from your car? It looked beautiful.’

Susanna nodded. ‘For my second-years. I want to get them thinking about recording seasonal ephemera: tie it in with cherry blossom viewing and Japanese woodblocks, for instance, and Monet’s waterlilies.’
I’m blathering
. ‘It’s about seeing their journals as more than a place to stick pictures out of magazines.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Belinda warmly. ‘This is why students love this course, Susanna. You’re a terrific teacher, you really are.’

Susanna smiled wanly, and left.

If I was a terrific teacher, these kids’ journals would have reflected that
, she thought as she walked around the room, dropping a sprig of jacaranda before each student’s place.
I’m not. I’m dull. A fraud, a failure.
The students had collected their journals from her table at the front and were flipping through them, some just checking the mark she’d given them, a few also reading her comments.

She launched into her planned speech about the seasons and their fleeting moments, about tapping into a sensibility shared both with other people experiencing that seasonal moment, and with a whole art tradition. ‘Smell it, feel it, imagine it,’ she urged, but was aware that her voice lacked the spark of inspiration she’d felt this morning, when she’d seen the branches of jacaranda hanging over the fence from their neighbour’s tree, dripping blossom, and had this idea. ‘Above all, draw it!’

Some polite nods, as they eyed the mauve bells cautiously.

She talked about Monet: one flower, one artist, and a series of sublime paintings that had enriched art lovers around the world, and about how even the Impressionists, for all their radical espousal of painting
en plein air
, had treasured getting permission to copy the work of the great masters in the Louvre. Artists had spent months and years in there, just drawing.

What am I squawking about?
Her stream of words slowed down, and then dried up. She sat at the front leaning her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. What was really occupying these young people’s minds? Not her rabbitting on, that was plain.
I might as well walk out of this room right now.

‘Are you okay, Susanna?’ asked hijab-wearing Noor.

‘Yeah,’ said Angelo. ‘Whassup, miss?’

‘I’m just wondering what the point of all this is,’ she said.

Her students looked sideways at each other. ‘The point?’ asked one boldly. ‘Of – of the journals?’

Susanna agreed, lifting her shoulders.
Yes, why not the journals?
‘I feel like we’re just not on the same page here, so to speak.’