The Sea & Us

by Catherine de Saint Phalle

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Maybe she hadn’t quite finished with it. Maybe it wasn’t quite over.’

  ‘No.’

  We stare at each other. Suddenly we’re both looking on Verity’s computer for flights to Seoul.

  ‘I’ll have to rent a car at the airport. I’ll need one. She might not be on the same street. I might have to cruise around and we’ll probably need it to get out of there fast. I don’t want to have to faff around looking for a taxi.’

  I choose a return in my name and a one-way in hers. Verity gets to her feet.

  ‘Well, you’d better go to bed then.’

  I shake my head, lounging in my chair.

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep. Maybe I should just make my way to the airport and wait for the first plane there. At least I’ll know I’m on my way.’

  She frowns.

  ‘What about her passport? She’s all right for her visa. I think I’ve dealt with that.’

  ‘Good point. She’ll have to run up to her room and get it. That’ll look suspicious if someone’s watching her.’

  ‘Maybe you can pretend to be a client talking to her casually, then move on down the street as if you were making up your mind, and come back when she’s got the thing.’

  She frowns.

  ‘Might anyone recognise you, Harold?’

  I shake my head slowly.

  ‘She always told me they weren’t interested in me. Never asked questions. I was a nonentity, part of the streetscape. They’ll have probably forgotten me by now. I’ll dress differently, just in case.’

  ‘What about with your height?’

  ‘I’ll just have to risk it.’

  Verity is still leaning on her elbows. By now we’re both firmly convinced that she’ll be there, just as we were firmly convinced that we’d find her in that last brothel. An expression chases the others from her face.

  ‘Now, Harold, if she’s not there, we’ll think of something else, right?’

  I smile at her.

  ‘Right.’

  Something has shifted. There’s no going back. I gather both her hands in mine.

  ‘I wouldn’t have got through this without you, Verity.’

  Her hands feel like lead, as if they had dropped from a great height.

  ‘Why do we love this girl so much, Harold?’

  ‘I don’t know, Verity.’

  She nods slowly.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? How you start caring for someone.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a mystery.’

  She nods sadly.

  ‘You know, I loved my husband. Sometimes I wonder if I still do.’

  She rocks herself backwards.

  ‘Not that I’d want to see him, mind. I don’t go to the prison, where I’m sure he’s having a dreadful time of it. The things he did to those poor women, Harold.’

  My name stands there, bleakly, on the plank, at the end of her sentence. The only thing to do is to sit there with Verity. I can’t move. I’m sticking with her and letting the seconds tick by. I notice again that she has the most beautiful eyes. They’re midnight blue, with specks of white in them. In the day, they seem dark green. They’re misleading that way. But when you really stare into them you know the time without looking at your watch, or your way home without needing a map. At least, it feels like that tonight. I take a breath.

  ‘Is there no way back?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Harold, there’s a degree of hurt. Wouldn’t you like to bump off those guys who hurt Marylou?’

  I nod.

  ‘There’s a degree of hurt,’ she repeats.

  We lapse into silence and wait another hour before I have to catch the last tram to the city. Verity looks at her watch and then looks sheepish.

  ‘You’ll keep me posted?’

  I smile at her.

  ‘You bet, Verity.’

  Hope, like a tiger, has jumped into the room. It prowls around me as I run up the stairs to fill a backpack with Marylou’s clothes and a change for me. Packing Marylou’s clothes is Verity’s idea.

  ‘They may help, you never know.’

  As a matter of course we hop on to the tram together and chat peaceably on the way. Something has settled between us. We’ve thrown our dice on the same colour.

  Night is very black outside.

  ‘Hey, Verity, you won’t be too cold on the way back?’

  ‘No, I’ll be absolutely fine.’

  She smiles up at me so happily that I have a glimpse of what she must have looked like at eighteen, as we trundle towards Southern Cross Station.

  Then it yawns in front of us. The people seem tiny and the signs, advertisements and stairways seem enormous, looming over us all. We find our way to the bus. Soon I’m in the queue. I climb the first step, then hop back down and gather Verity in my arms, lifting her off her feet. When I have put her down and reached my seat, I look out of my window, but I can’t see her through the bustle of people. And before I know it there’s only the road, straining ahead.

  I get to Tullamarine in what seems to be a jostling of seconds. I unload my backpack and myself from the bus and walk into the airport. The big doors, the lights, usher me in.

  I walk around for hours and then slump down with the other flotsam and jetsam, people half lying on seats with villages of luggage around them. After nodding off, for what seems like only seconds, I wake with airport echoes, cleaners, the clacking of airport footsteps, announcements.

  At last I can go and check in, and, as if by some sleight of hand, I finally find myself on that plane. Something strange is happening to time. It contracts like an accordion and snaps ahead without warning. Motors are wringing iron linen in my ears. Earth is done away with, the wheels unplug themselves from the tarmac and we are in the darkest night sky I have ever seen. Strangely, I fall asleep like a log on the floor of a vast forest.

  I wake up, eat a bit, sleep again, eat some more and I’m in Seoul. The wheels plonk themselves back down on the tarmac. I get through customs and find a car rental place. I ask them where to bring the car back to and fix the place in my mind. I buy a map, as if I had never heard of Google Maps. I don’t know why I do this. I get out of that airport faster than my driving skills permit me. Soon I’m on a twilight road with no idea where I am, unhelped by the blinking signs. I have to stop at the side of the road and take a breath. I look at the map, which at first is a blur of Korean. Then the shade of Maruška is by my side – she was good with maps. I recognise a neighbourhood, a landmark, and make my way back with my index finger to where I am, near the airport, then slowly to the only street I want to find.

  I rev the engine again and it starts, to my moderate surprise. I drive on and stop several times to check the map. When I recognise the Cheonggyecheon Stream, landmarks crowd at me and I’m in familiar territory.

  I muddle around the neighbourhood before finding the right place and parking in an unobtrusive spot.

  I saunter slowly down my old street. I know exactly where I am. Now I recognise the lights, the colours of the signs and the sheen of the footpath.

  And that is where I see her. That is where she is. She’s standing on the same corner. I walk up slowly.

  ‘Old chum?’

  ‘Marlowe.’

  Her tone is so deadpan, you can hear the wind tunnels of the streets in it, you can hear the years of fear in it.

  ‘Will you come home with me?’

  She looks up casually. But what she says is not casual.

  ‘Marlowe, I’m so sorry I left like that.’

  We know the ropes. We don’t touch, we don’t hug. We have our parts to play. I swallow some air. It goes down deep into my lungs, to a place it hasn’t reached since she left.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I had to get back here. I was of no use to anyone down there.’

  ‘You could study, you could make stained-glass windows, you could become a nurse, an engine driver, an editor. We’ve just gone t
o pieces without you.’

  ‘Myshkin, old chum.’

  Her voice breaks. But she puts a hand on her hip. I know she’s going through the motions for the benefit of anyone looking at us.

  I talk out of the corner of my mouth.

  ‘Listen, can you run up and get your passport? Nothing else. I have a car further down the street. I’ve got your plane ticket. We can go straight to the airport.’

  She doesn’t nod, but answers in the same tone.

  ‘Right-ho.’

  ‘I’ll walk off now and come back to you in a few minutes. I’ve got your six, Marylou.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Marlowe.’

  I try to walk away nonchalantly, without looking back, and after a second or two I feel she’s no longer on the street. I try to be sure that she’s going to come down again. I’m sensing things hundreds of metres away, checking every sound, every step, every echo, every smell. I walk on and stop in front of a woman a little way down.

  She’s short, with sad, laughing eyes and all the right curves. She gives me her spiel and I shake my head as if I were hesitating or bargaining, then I move on. I walk on to the end of the street. I have no idea how long this is taking. Seconds and minutes are all mushed up together in a ball. I turn a corner and come back, walking with more purpose. I can see Marylou now at the other end. I walk past the curvy woman and nod at her for old times sake. When I reach Marylou, she’s standing casually, leaning against a lampost. She whispers: ‘Harold, I thought … It was the only thing I could do.’

  ‘Yes, well, next time just tell me when you get any funny ideas.’

  I can feel her invisible smile. She lays her hand on my arm uncompromisingly. I let her make the moves, so there are no false notes. Once we reach the darker reaches of the block, I walk her to the car. As I go to open her door, she says: ‘Go straight to the driver’s side. It’s out of character.’

  She lets herself in and glides into her seat. I start the motor, my eyes on the road.

  ‘Marylou, can you look at the map? I have it open at the right place.’

  We drive until we are out of the area. She doesn’t say a word except to give me directions. The night outside is glowing like an old friend.

  We reach the airport. I park in a dark spot in the rental company’s car park. We have three hours before our plane. I pull Marylou’s clothes out. She understands and climbs over into the back seat to change into them. I can hear the noise of material being pulled and shoved and straightened and zipped. We don’t talk to each other at all. We’re like two animals moving in the dark. I check the tickets.

  ‘Marylou, can you give me your passport?’

  She passes it over the seat, like an old hand. I glimpse her smile in the rear-view mirror.

  Night presses herself on us again, reaching over in front of the car and plugging her feet against our fender, pressing her black belly against the roof. We reach the parking lot, we get out of the car and close the doors with careful clicks. I point the exit to Marylou and walk alone into the car rental place to fix up the bill and return the keys. I send a quick text to Verity and return to where Marylou is waiting for me. Then we’re strolling, arm in arm, towards the airport building, towards the check-in. We get through. We sit waiting for the plane, barely talking to each other, holding hands like Hobbits in the land of the Orcs. We sit under the white conquering arches. I swear I’ll never set foot in this pristine airport again. We wait. Our plane is called.

  And we are on it.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to especially thank my sister Helen Puillandre who is in Ireland as I write this and David E. Eckstein who is my brother and Za Cannon who always seems to be conjugating the verb ‘to give,’ and Helen Lynch who has all the wisdom in fairy tales and the kindness too, and Catherine Johns, that unique writer, who has brought me such precious affection in such a short period, and Fiona and Steve because when I see them I feel at home on the ground beneath my feet, and Sandy Caldow and TT.O because it is such an enduring joy to know them, and Barb Minchinton for all her wise, warm friendship and support, and Dana for the expert Czech advice and flair, and Lanky Paul Philipson who has the knack of brilliance and such a solid heart, and Bhavna Suri who is a veritable heart on legs, and Helen Dimitropoulos because there is no one like Helen Dimitropoulos, and Karen Dupleix for being such a lovely friend, et à mon vieux Gautier préférée, and Kylee Mitchell for the meaningful drams of whiskey by the fire, and Rachel Xu I could never forget, and Roger Averill I owe so much to and who is such a dear friend, and Shelley Mallett who knows that the beauty of the princess comes from within and Grace Averill for all the good memories, and Paul Croucher for all he has been to me, and Helen who likes stones from Cornwall and is herself one of those warm stones one keeps close to the soul, and Jūrate Šileikaite of the rooftops, et l’Aztèque de mon coeur, and my subtle and dedicated publishers I consider myself lucky to know, Barry Scott and Tess Rice, and Vanessa Mooney, my old, old forever friend.