Watercolours (15 page)

‘All right then,' she begins. ‘This story was told to me by my father, and it was told to
him
by my father's father. And it was told to
him
by my father's father's father …
all
the way back to a poor little village in Italy where your ancestors first grew silk. In those days every farm had to have a mulberry tree because silk was such an important resource for the country. The king couldn't get enough of it! So this is the story of how mulberries got their colour: the tragic tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, those desperadoes of forbidden love.'

‘Why was it forbidden?'

‘Because their families were bitter enemies. They were neighbours locked in a feud and they despised each other more than anything in the world.'

‘Why were they fighting?'

‘Well … they'd been fighting for so long nobody could even remember why. And that only made their fighting more intense.'

I frown. ‘That doesn't make sense.'

‘Who said it had to make sense? People rarely make sense.'

‘But —'

‘Shush! Just listen. Back in the days of Pyramus and Thisbe, parents were very strict. They had complete control over their children.'

‘The kids were like slaves.'

‘They were
very
well behaved. And of course the parents of Pyramus and Thisbe wouldn't let their children see each other.'

‘Because of the feud.'

‘Exactly! So for months and months these two passionate souls could do nothing but make love through the garden wall.'

I pull a face. My mother sighs.

‘Make
love
, not have
sex!
There's a difference! And in those days there wasn't much in the way of contraception so a stone wall was probably as effective as anything. But finally they couldn't stand it anymore and decided to steal away from their families in the dead of night and meet in the cemetery.'

‘Was it haunted?'

‘Probably. So the beautiful Thisbe arrives first and she's waiting there with bated breath and heaving bosom when all of a sudden a lion runs out of the bushes on a hunting spree!'

‘Were there lions in Italy?'

‘This was in Greece, not Italy. Pyramus and Thisbe were Greek.'

‘Were there lions in Greece?'

‘Well, obviously! This was thousands of years ago, mind you. So, the lion charges at Thisbe but he only manages to get her handkerchief, chewing it in his bloodied mouth while Thisbe runs off. Then Pyramus turns up and scares away the lion. He finds the bloody handkerchief and, oh my God, he's devastated. He thinks Thisbe's been eaten! In a fit of despair he plunges his sword into his chest, thinking that life without Thisbe just wouldn't be
worth living. His blood gushes out and flows into the soil at his feet where a white-mulberry tree is growing. All that passionate blood washes onto the roots of the tree and stains the ground a deep, dark red. Then, of course, Thisbe returns, right as rain and no hint of the lion anywhere. She sees her poor Pyramus dead and not to be outdone in dramatic love gestures she stabs herself and gushes blood everywhere, too. And with her last dying breath, Thisbe asks the mulberry tree to remember them, to mark their deaths by bearing fruit the colour of their blood forever after.'

‘And the tree heard her.'

‘It did. And
that
is how mulberries got their colour, to remind us not to hold silly grudges because it will only end badly.'

‘Is that the moral?'

She kisses me. ‘If you like. That, or don't impale yourself on a sword before making sure your lover's really dead. I mean, that Pyramus was a bit of a dill, eh?'

I yawn.

‘If the parents had just let those two horny devils get to know each other they probably would have discovered they had nothing in common anyway. In all likelihood, Pyramus was a bad kisser and Thisbe was dull as dishwater.'

She switches off the light and leaves the door open a crack, the way I like it. I lie there for a while, looking at the strip of light and listening to their laughter out on the veranda. I fall asleep dreaming of swords and lions and rivers of blood.

 

The volume on the stereo softened a little and Mira reappeared with more coffee and a plate of biscotti, a red shawl thrown
over her shoulders. Dom hadn't noticed how cool the night had turned, he was too busy watching George roll a joint and wondering how he should respond. Mira sat down and poured coffee. George lit the joint, inhaled and offered it to Dom. He hesitated.

‘Don't worry,' Mira teased, rearranging her shawl and tucking her feet beneath her. ‘We won't tell.'

Dom accepted and took a drag. The last time he'd smoked a joint was ages ago, sitting on the back steps with Ace at his farewell party. The tobacco hit him the hardest, straightaway his head started spinning and his legs turned warm and weak. He passed the joint to Mira and drank in deep breaths of cool air, full of earth and river and sweet invisible flowers. Note by note he received them until every cell in his body was infused, until he was at one with the night, coasting pleasantly along its endless dark and hidden passages. He listened to the ghostly swish of bat wings and shivered, cherishing the chill after so many weeks of flattening heat. He sank deeper into his chair, his lungs full of night air, his face awash in candlelight and his belly pleasantly stuffed. He glanced over at George. The man's face had grown jolly and his big eyes were shining. He met his gaze. ‘Cheers to you, Dom,' he said.

He clinked his glass against Dom's a bit too merrily and cracked it. Before Dom could react, George shouted ‘Ha!', and tossed the glass into the ferns with a flourish that startled the cat.

The joint went round again. Feeling full of abandon, Dom decided to share a secret. ‘You know, I've never told anyone this before …'

‘Oh, goody!' Mira sat forward to give him her full attention. ‘Go on.'

‘I've always wanted to have a nip of Scotch and then throw the glass into the fireplace.'

She was delighted. ‘Really?'

‘I know it's dumb. I think it'd feel good, though.'

Mira considered it. ‘Hmm … macho. Like beating your chest.'

With a heave, George pulled himself out of his chair and bolted inside. He reappeared a moment later with a bottle of Scotch and three fresh glasses.

‘Here you go,' he said gleefully, handing around the glasses and slopping whisky into each of them.

Dom laughed.

‘Come on!' George encouraged him. ‘Up we get! Beat your chest — throw it like a wild man. Try and hit the pepper tree. Okay, all ready?'

Grinning, they nodded.

‘Cheers!'

They downed their drinks and pitched their glasses across the lawn. ‘Shit!' Mira cried as hers fell short on the grass. The other two made a satisfying smash as they struck the tree, and George and Dom roared in victory. The cat took off.

Tumbling back into their chairs they sat in silence for a while. Down by the river the bats were growing raucous. They dipped wildly in the night sky, wiping out the stars in dark streaks. Dom looked across at Mira and George and felt a giggle rising to fill his chest and then dissolving warmly. Mad as cut snakes, both of them. With a surge of wellbeing not completely cannabis induced, he took a sip of Amaro and let out a long, deep sigh.

Dom woke on top of apricot chenille in three worlds of pain: aching body, pounding head and throbbing erection. The erection was his first struggle. As soon as he touched it he thought of Camille. It was a tantalising combination but every stroke was like a hammer to his head; in a feat of evil engineering the booze-and-dope hangover had fused his skull and his penis together via a bolt in his jugular. Any tinkering below triggered a twist of metal in the neck. It was torment. He soldiered on.

Afterwards he squinted at his watch until the face of it made sense. Eight o'clock on Sunday morning and he was late for T-ball. An absurd hour to be up on a Sunday, eight. An absurd sport, T-ball.

He was late, late. He lay on the bedspread making no move to get up. Splinters of sunlight needled him through the pattern of the curtains. A lacy mother duck led three lacy ducklings down to the water's edge, none of them making the slightest effort to shield his vulnerable eyes. Their indifference inspired in him a savage urge to lash out and pull the useless fucking things from the wall. He lunged, yanking at the corner of the curtain with all his feeble early-morning might. The lace was synthetic and merely gave the ducks a pleasant stretch. Nausea foamed up in him from the effort of pulling and he was forced to lie back and stay very still for a few minutes. After a while he felt pretty
confident he wouldn't be sick. He dragged himself upright and out of bed.

He was already fully dressed, a good start, except his T-shirt was the one he'd ridden to the Lepidos' in and reeked of dried sweat, while George's cotton trousers made him look like a circus performer and had a gaping hole in the crotch. He'd have to change. The task seemed monumentally difficult. He could hardly focus through the pounding behind his eyes. All he could think of was George pouring him more and more of that syrupy Amaro the night before. In the end he must have confessed he liked mulberry wine because he remembered drinking that, too. He plodded to the bathroom to use the toilet and then out to the kitchen, where he found a whole case of mulberry wine sitting by the fridge. Looking at it made his cheeks twinge.

A light knocking at the front door dragged him back to reality. Mavis. Only she would be up and looking so sprightly at this hour. She flitted through the open door — he must have forgotten to close it the night before — and into the kitchen. She eyed the case of wine. ‘Did you have a nice time at the Lepidos', dear?'

He nodded and it hurt. His head hurt and his body hurt and he had to get back onto that instrument of pain and ride out into that horribly bright sunlight and motivate a whole lot of other people's children to hit a softball off an overgrown golf tee.

‘Did you get to sample any of Mira's bush bud?'

‘What? Mavis!' He ran the kitchen tap and splashed cold water onto his face.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, you don't think they survive on basil alone, do you?'

‘I don't know!' he cried in exasperation, wiping his head with a tea towel. ‘I'm late!' He grabbed a box of cereal out of the cupboard and gave her a pleading look.

She must have decided he was too wretched to tease any further. ‘All right then. I'll leave you to it.' From the hallway she called, ‘The best remedy for a Cherubini hangover is pancakes, by the way.'

Dom didn't reply. He was back in his bedroom flinging clothes around in a fury. Someone had hidden his deodorant and all his clean underwear. Someone had also forgotten to rinse out his sweaty sports shorts and instead left them in a damp ball in his backpack. The conspiracy threatened to overwhelm him. Finally he discarded his sour T-shirt for a clean but comprehensively creased one. George's trousers would have to do. He would just have to remember not to do any squats. ‘And bacon!' he heard Mavis sing out, ‘to cut through that purple, purple haze!' Her door clicked shut and shortly afterwards Frank Sinatra started belting out a tune with full orchestral support. In his lounge room, Dom glared through the doorway but his eyes began to quiver strangely so he stopped. His watch mocked him. He clutched his forehead in misery. Leaving the unopened box of cereal on the bench he grabbed his wallet and helmet and hobbled outside, thinking no further ahead than the familiar path to the take-away shop.

 

The morning was hell. It felt like it would never end. Out on the T-ball field his form wasn't exactly inspirational. The pain from the lactic acid build-up in his thighs alone was almost enough to kill him. Sensing his weakness the kids skylarked around. He hid behind his sunnies and let them. When at last it was over he took
himself home for a much-needed shower. Then he collapsed onto the lounge with a groan.

After a doze he felt slightly better. The Panadol he'd been gobbling all morning kept the pain behind his eyes at bay but he could feel its throbbing pressure there, ready to hustle back in. He decided it was safest just to stay horizontal and watch bad TV.

At midday there was a knock at the door. He heaved himself up, hobbled over and opened it. It was Camille.

‘I found out Rotary offer a few grants each year,' she launched in breathlessly. ‘There's one Novi might be eligible for …' Her voice trailed off. ‘Jesus, you look like death.'

It was horrible. He felt far too wretched to cope with a visit from Camille, unable to offer any kind of coherent reply. ‘I'm sorry,' he finally whispered, ‘I have to lie down.' He crept back to the lounge expecting her to leave, hoping desperately that she would. Instead she shut the door and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made them both a cup of tea and settled herself in one of the low cane armchairs with the weekend paper. Then she disappeared behind the supplements for an hour.

The time passed peacefully. Orchestral strains drifted in from across the corridor to complement the quiet. When Dom saw Camille was onto the crossword he couldn't resist asking for a clue. She read out a few and he tried to engage his mind but the results were dismal. Still, he was glad of the company. Her easy silence was comforting.

Eventually she cast the paper to the floor. For a while she sat hugging her knees, pressing at a toenail that had turned black. Dom noticed how smooth her shins were. She had a triangle-shaped scar near one knee. He imagined touching the white
indentation, running his palm up the long silky line of her leg. She felt his gaze on her.

‘How are you feeling?'

He tasted his mouth. ‘Okay.'

‘I spoke to Malcolm,' she said, sitting forward. ‘He said you could go along to the next Rotary meeting and nominate Novi for the grant. He thinks a submission from his teacher would have a good impact. I'd do it but Rotary's a blokes' thing, really.'

Dom knew he could think of something useful to add if only his mouth didn't taste so bad. Weird, how the badness of his mouth was inversely proportional to the goodness of Camille's shins.

‘I can help you choose the pictures,' she offered. ‘We'll have to be strategic, though. We can't wave his freak flag too high or they'll never go for it. How many are there?'

Dom closed his eyes. ‘Lots. Wait till you see them all.'

‘It shouldn't be hard to put a portfolio together, then. Something to entice a sponsor.'

Dom was grateful — for her interest, her effort, her legs. For being there when he was so helplessly unappealing. But he was finding it difficult to give up the lounge and deal with the remainder of his hangover. He couldn't even muster the energy to tell her about the pictures he'd seen the day before, not while the afternoon sun was beginning its daily bake of the flat.

He lay there, thinking about the drawings Novi had shown him, the ones from the bottom drawer. A drowned grandfather. He thought about Mira's family and the silk growers, about George and his boat and his mad enthusiasm. He thought about Novi's timeline with its violent clash depicted in coloured pencils: brown bodies oozing red scribble. The boy had placed his trust
in him; there was no going back now. All of these thoughts hurt his head.

He shifted his hot cheek on the pillow. Discovering the fabric was damp from drool made him feel even more pathetic. ‘All I want to do is jump in the ocean,' he groaned.

Camille was in the kitchen again, peering inside Dom's fridge. The tilt of her head conveyed that it had been a long time since she had encountered contents so uninspiring. She slammed the door. ‘Come on, then. Let's go.'

‘Where?'

‘The beach! We'll go to Banio.'

He pulled himself up, defiant in the face of nausea now that there was an end in sight. ‘Really? I haven't been once since I moved here. It was just about my only reason for coming.'

She considered him for a moment. ‘How do you think you'll go in the car?'

He set his jaw. ‘We'll keep the windows down.'

With monumental effort he hauled his aching body from its floral resting place. He swallowed a couple of times.

‘I'm going to need some pancakes and bacon first, though.'

 

Camille parked the car and they walked down the track to the sea. On the blustering shoreline they stood together, breathing deeply. She watched Dom stretch out his arms to embrace the afternoon southerly, to feel the tumbling currents roll past, the strong, smooth tendons of sea wind. He leaned his chest into it and released a cry, gull like. It sounded thin and in an instant was whipped away behind them.

Camille put her hands over her ears. She heard the hollow resonance, the echo of secret corridors in seashells. Hair lashed
her face and she tried to hold it back but loose strands clung to her forehead and stuck in her eyes. Soon her nose was running and her ears were aching. She felt sorry for Dom that the conditions had turned so unpleasant. With disbelief she saw him start tearing off his clothes.

‘You're not going in?'

He shot her a mad grin. ‘It's the ocean!' he replied as if she were the mad one. Off he ran in his boardshorts, leaping over drifts of beached seaweed, dry bluebottles popping under his feet. The surf was huge and white against the ocean's grey backdrop. He plunged straight into the foam.

‘Be careful!' she called and pointed feebly. ‘There's a rip!' But her words were snatched away. Besides, he was unstoppable. He flung himself into an onslaught of slate-coloured waves with the recklessness of one landlocked too long. She pulled her towel over her head like a cape, trapping her hair and shielding her ears from the gale. Huddling on the sand away from the piles of stinking seaweed, she breathed short gulps of salt air and watched Dom enjoying a most unenjoyable-looking sea. Waves slapped him mercilessly and yet he tackled each one with determination; there were none he didn't try to surf. He lunged forward with the swell, thrashed his arms and legs in an attempt towards the shore, delighted each time his body caught the momentum and rode it forward — she could see his face peering happily out of the foam and he seemed content to be deposited each time into a shallow channel of sandy froth.

Slapped and tumbled and dumped, Dom stayed in the surf until water filled his ears and nose and he was nothing but brine, until his limbs were leaden and his hangover drowned, until he held a remnant of ocean in every crease and crevice of his body.

At last he staggered out and made his way back up the beach. Face pale and peaceful, hair plastered to his head, he lumbered to a halt before her, his slick chest heaving.

She stood and wrapped the towel around him, holding his cold body and rubbing his back like a child to warm him. He leaned his whole weight into her, resting his forehead on her shoulder, recovering his breath. Against her cheek his head was cold and damp, his weekend beard a constellation of tiny droplets. His warm breath melted her neck. Lightly, she rocked with the rhythm of his thumping heart.

For a minute they stayed like this, until sea water trickled from his nose and onto her shoulder. She shrieked at the cold. He grinned and shook his head like a wet dog. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her close and kissed her.

They laughed into each other, into the wild wind.