by Scott Monk
‘So? What’s that got to do with me?’
She turned to him. ‘I’m not the one who fell in love with a dream. But I’m definitely the one being punished.’
He stood. Tried shrugging off the pain. Where was that bus?
But the longer he waited, the lonelier he felt. He found himself shaking, leaning forward and balling the ticket. Who was he kidding? This was home.
Chapter 21
The chocolate shop was deliciously indulgent. A green sign ribboned with gold writing introduced it as der Schokoladenhersteller. Inside, it was cool — almost reverent — with the seductive sweetness of peppermint, dark chocolate and everything wicked. Pralines, truffles, nougat, rocky road, marshmallow bars, fudges, cherry liqueurs, fondant creams, almond clusters and dipped macadamias lined mirror shelves beside bells, baskets and reindeers. Huge wine barrels squatted in the middle of the walnut-furnished room, while behind the counter — cha-ching! — an old-fashioned cash register rang with old world charm.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ one of the gloved counter ladies asked, rearranging a tray of blueberry bonbons with the same care she would silver.
‘I found this stuck to my door this morning,’ he said, handing her the note. ‘There’s no name signed. It could be a prank.’
She was just as confused. ‘Jules, do you know anything about guitar lessons?’
Cha-ching! ‘Not me,’ the second counter lady replied.
He thought as much. He thanked them both, then headed for the door.
‘Oh, hold on. Young man! Why don’t you try Michelle. She might be still around.’
Mystery solved. He found her in the backroom, behind the chocolate moulds and mixing vats, changing into her home clothes. ‘Hello?’ he knocked.
‘Hey! Dean!’ she said, lacing up a boot. ‘Good to see you finally.’
‘I like the shirt,’ he said, noticing it straightaway.
An anti-red circle bled over the latest pop princess. ‘Someone forgot to tell her that Barbie dolls aren’t real,’ she explained. ‘But how have you been, stranger?’
He leaned against the doorway and watched her re-knot the other boot; scores of beads and shells jingling from her wrists. ‘Lying low,’ he said.
‘Yes, I heard. What’s wrong? I rang Michelangelo’s and they said you were sick. I called your place but it was always engaged. And I asked Zara, but —’
‘I’m fine. Just a summer flu. I’m pretty much over it now.’ Then, quickly, ‘So, did you leave this note on my door?’
‘Yes. Sorry. My pen ran out — is that okay?’
‘Are you sure you want me to teach you?’
She shouldered her bag and led him down the back steps. ‘You’re the best, aren’t you?’
He grimaced. Best all right. Best at screwing up.
‘If you don’t want to, I’ll understand —’
‘No, I’m happy to do it. I’m just surprised — that’s all. No one’s asked me before. Most people think flamenco’s too old-school.’
‘Then I’ll just have to be four equal sides.’
‘Four —?’
‘Square,’ she winked. ‘Just like you.’
He smiled. ‘Okay. Deal. Just don’t bring your horse, okay?’ They stepped into the main street, where more cyclists zipped. ‘When do you want to start?’
She readjusted her bag. ‘What are you doing now?’
Her home was on the outskirts of Angaston. It was a single-storey brick veneer with an old thumping border collie on the front step and a wild olive grove next door. Inside, it smelt of fruit bowls, cloves and masking tape. Dozens of cardboard boxes blocked the hallway and dining room — some marked GARAGE SALE.
‘Are you moving?’
‘Renting,’ she answered, patting the yawning border collie. ‘Mum and Dad still don’t know if they can afford to buy a new house.’
‘You used to live on a farm, right?’
‘Until we were forced to sell up.’
‘Because of the drought?’
‘No, they got caught in a huge property scam.’
‘A scam?’
‘They borrowed against the farm to invest in a hotel chain. Three months later, the developers bolted for Argentina with everyone’s money, including ours.’
‘You can’t get it back?’
‘Not for years. Even then, the lawyers don’t hold much hope.’
‘So who owns your farm now? The bank?’
She paused next to the hat stand. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘They didn’t tell you?’
‘Who?’
‘The Kaeslers. They bought us out.’
‘The General?’
She flicked on the ceiling fan and waited until it blurred. ‘She’s the biggest landowner in the district now. She even makes the wineries look small.’
He felt dumb. The stables, the horses, the lawyer, the visits — so many clues. He felt selfish for knowing so little about his friend.
‘Did you want something to drink?’ she asked.
Left alone in the living room, he found a set of family portraits. They were a collage of nannas, teddies, zoo trips, embarrassing bath times, Easter bonnet parades, visiting relatives and spot-the-dork class line-ups. The funniest picture showed a younger Michelle asleep on the back of Jiffy, her arms and legs dangling down his flanks. Lots of good memories that turned him away.
She came back with a glass of apple juice to find him kneeling in front of her parents’ ancient stereo system. At least twenty LP records were stacked on the carpet and an equal number were being flipped through on his lap.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said.
‘Can I put a record on? I’ve never heard one before.’
She slotted a large, black, plate-sized disc on the turntable then lowered the needle. A scratchy wait was followed by the Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City”. When the song faded, his interest didn’t. He wanted to hear more.
‘Try this one,’ she said. ‘I keep all my favourites down this end.’ She played him a collection of classics, which fascinated him as much as the old-style radio marked with dozens of stations that no longer existed.
‘Listen to those lyrics,’ he said. ‘Nothing mass manufactured.’
‘You had to have real talent back then — not just big boobs.’
After one more record, he realised he was indulging himself at his friend’s expense. She had invited him to her house for a music lesson.
‘Take my guitar and that stool,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you in the lot next door. I’m going to see if our neighbour will lend us his instrument.’
A peppery aroma hung low across the olive grove like the late afternoon heat. From its bruised middle, the bouncy notes of a bulerias silenced the blackbirds raiding the crotchety trees. When the impromptu concert ended, several people clapped.
‘Not so shy anymore, hey?’ she said, pointing with her eyes. The neighbours sank below their fences after being spotted and left Michelle to pull up a stool.
‘No thanks to you,’ he half-smiled. ‘Now, let’s start with your sitting position and hands, then we’ll try some scales.’
She was an eager student. It helped that she’d studied guitar previously, although without much success. The first hour went so quickly, they didn’t realise it until they were deep into their second.
‘Good. Now slow it down. Flamenco is about feeling and rhythm, not speed. And move your thumb under a bit more.’
‘Like this?’
He guided her hands with his. ‘Just move that finger up one string — that’s it. Now remember: downstroke, downstroke, E7, downstroke, lift the second finger then upstroke, down, up —’
As he watched his friend struggle with the notes, memories of his father came back. His old man had first taught him this song, standing behind him, smelling of Brazilian rosewood and spacing boyish fingers along the frets with hands covered in chiselled curls. It hadn’t always been li
ke that. For years, with eyes barely above the benchtop, Dean had only been allowed to watch his father sculpt, curse and tune these magnificent instruments. Touching was always forbidden and snapped upon with the one-word warning of his name.
His father was a loving man but a born-again disciplinarian as all luthiers had to be. The only times he seemed to relax was when a new guitar was finished and it was time to pick its virgin note. ‘Creating it is only half my skill,’ he’d whisper to his son, as if the instrument was asleep. ‘I also have to teach it to sing.’ Then he’d play for hours, reminisce and talk of Spain. Dean would hear the melodies, learn their stories and most importantly absorb their aire.
One brave night, all of seven years old and awake hours after his bedtime, he had been sprung by his father in his backyard workshop, juggling a ten thousand dollar guitar that was ready to be shipped to an American buyer. But just before the old man was about to grab it and send him bawling inside with a smacked bum, he listened as his son played his very first few bars of flamenco. Sure, his small fingers struggled with the size and power of the instrument, but the passion was there.
Pride softened his father’s hand and the next day he was given his own six-string: a terrible, slapped together alley cat of a shop model that had seen more garage sales than players. It became a true childhood friend. Later, as he was fast becoming an accomplished musician, he had been given on his fifteenth birthday an exquisite guitar of perfect tone, shaped by his old man from wood one hundred years old. The greatest honour came when his dad allowed him to pick the first note. ‘It’s your guitar,’ he’d said, sawdust caught in wrinkles and hair now greying. ‘Let the first note catch a little part of your soul.’
And now he saw that passion in Michelle.
‘Excellent. Okay, play it again.’
She did and within eight beats he joined in, infusing it with a background melody. The two rhythms dipped and rose, countering then complementing each other. Building up to a big ending, both finished on a heavy downstroke and a laugh.
‘I can play!’
‘Sure can.’
The next day she was so keen for another lesson, she rang him before work. They arranged to meet at Michelangelo’s on his lunchbreak. He brought his guitar. She brought cake.
The stone cellar was their concert hall; the tortoise shell of French oak barrels their backdrop. They played together until the chief winemaker asked them to quieten down with the same soft assertion as a Catholic priest.
‘I better get back upstairs anyway.’
‘Where have they put you this afternoon?’
‘Tastings. Which reminds me, can you help me find this bottle?’
He led her towards the racks, where they searched either side of one, while she asked through the openings about spiders.
‘Merlot. 1998,’ he announced, looking up.
‘Can you reach it?’
‘I can try.’
He burrowed his hand into the cobwebbed hole when — pounce — he freaked and she laughed as she withdrew her “spidery” hand from the other end.
‘See you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll bring the bug spray.’
By the third day, she had perfected everything he’d taught her. They repeated the same song, adding new bars until nightfall. Shadows, they stood in the olive grove again, buckling up their cases.
‘My parents will be home shortly. Did you want to stay for dinner?’
‘Thanks, but I really should be going.’
‘Well, come inside for a sec anyway. I’ve got a couple of CDs you might be interested in.’
Walking into a girl’s bedroom was always a strange experience. It was almost forbidden. An expression of trust. Back home, he rarely let anyone inside his — especially his mum! It was an orphanage for the lost and unwashed: twisted sheets, stinking shoes, unread English texts, albums, Rolling Stone back issues, clothes that never lived in their drawers and that hormonal boy pong. Michelle’s was a whole different world. She lived in an aquarium.
On her shelves, three fish tanks hummed and bubbled with tiger barbs, cardinal tetras, silver sharks, angels, blue diamond discuses and a clown loach that swam through plants, skulls and a giant shipwreck. Along her windowsill sat stuffed toys collected from shops or theme parks: mainly dolphins, with a few octopi, whales and crabs. Rock posters and textbooks filled the gaps, while DVDs, video tapes, mobiles, shells, dried starfish, coral and photographs scissored from magazines cluttered her desk. Even her blue bedspread was splashed with sea creatures.
‘Let me guess: you want to be an accountant?’
She half-grinned. ‘I might have to to calculate how to pay for their food and electricity.’
‘A marine biologist, then?’
‘That, or an underwater documentary maker for National Geographic.’
A tiger barb fascinated him. ‘I can imagine you chasing fish at the Great Barrier Reef.’
‘Maybe — but I’m more interested in the extreme adventure side: deep water exploring of shipwrecks like the Britannic or sunken galleons.’
‘Cool.’
She coaxed several independent label CDs from her collection as he stood under a spinning mobile of sea creatures stirred by their entry. Luckily, no stingrays.
(“Don’t you die on me or Dad’ll kill us both!”)
‘Do you scuba dive?’ he asked, accepting the CDs.
‘Yes and no. I’ve had lessons in a pool, but never done a shore dive.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because — no, it’s embarrassing. You’ll only laugh.’
‘C’mon. Tell me.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘I promise I won’t laugh.’
She checked his sincerity, then breathed. ‘I’m afraid of the sea.’
‘The sea?’
‘Well, not exactly. More what’s in it: sharks.’
‘You want to be a marine biologist, but you’re afraid of the sea?!’
‘You promised not to laugh!’
A stuffed dolphin hit his shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate. But that is kinda funny.’
‘Great. Now I’m going to get a complex about it, too.’
He put the toy back on the sill. ‘I should take you surfing one day,’ he offered. ‘You’ll be too busy having fun to worry about sharks.’
‘Grey ones with fins, or the boy kind?’
They grinned.
‘Cheers for the CDs,’ he said as they walked down her street, his guitar case between them.
‘Sure you won’t stay for dinner?’
‘Maybe next time. We’ve got plenty more lessons to go.’
‘Thanks for these past few days. I’ve had a lot of fun. And thanks for — y’know — not charging.’
‘I wouldn’t take your money anyway. You’re a friend.’
‘I still want to pay you back, though.’ She showed him a small blue box that she’d been hiding in her left hand. He had spotted it before but had kept quiet. ‘A thank-you gift,’ she explained.
He shook the container. Nothing.
‘Look inside,’ she said with an anxious voice.
He lifted the lid. The box was empty.
Before he could ask why, she reached forward — and kissed him!
Her lips were smooth, delicious and trembling against his. They tasted of chocolate. Warm chocolate. And peppermint.
But the kiss was all too quick. She saw his shock and broke away. Blushing, she stepped backwards and tripped over an apology. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, should I? I just thought — the party, the song, today — that you — we —’
‘Michelle! Wait!’
But she ran.
Chapter 22
Floodlights slowly probed the length of Michelangelo’s vineyard as a fox loped across a fading hill. A giant yellow harvester straddled the trellises and shook the grapes from their stalks — the fruit being freshest at night. They travelled along a conveyor belt then rained into three giant tubs pulled by a red tr
actor driven by Dean in the next row. Several workers escorted them both, ensuring the flow remained steady and the owners’ dogs kept out of the way of the giant rolling tyres.
He braked on the boss’s ‘Whoa!’ and swivelled to see what was wrong. ‘Visitor!’ At the end of the row, Michelle waited, one arm holding the other’s elbow. With a conceding growl, his boss switched drivers and allowed him a five-minute break. ‘No longer.’
It was the first time the pair had met since the kiss.
‘The —’
‘I —’
They untangled their sentences. ‘You first.’
‘How’s things?’ He started nice and easy. ‘I stopped by your house a couple of times, but your mum kept saying you weren’t home.’
She looked down. ‘I was too embarrassed to come to the door.’
‘For a guitar lesson? But you played fine.’
‘You know what I mean.’
He tried again. ‘You dropped a few notes, but that’s all I remember.’
‘Not that. Y’know, when —’
‘— but that’s all I remember.’
She caught his hint and smiled sheepishly. ‘Amnesia, hey?’
‘Must be. I forget.’ That won another smile. ‘So you still interested in that lesson?’
‘Definitely. How about tomorrow? Three o’clock?’
‘Saturday? Love to, except I’m working.’
‘Here?’
‘No, a gig actually,’ he confessed. She looked disappointed. ‘But I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you tag along? You’ll hear and see some live flamenco.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I’m not good with crowds. I’ll enjoy the company.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
‘An orchard.’
‘I look like such a dork.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I’ve never worn a skirt in my life.’
