The Wilful Eye

by Isobelle Carmody

  ‘Lesson one,’ Hyacinth snarled, ‘don’t ever be talked into anything you don’t want to do.’ Her tall body was shaking, but she kept her footing.

  ‘What? That was a lesson?’ Gerda panted, light-headed. ‘You fruit bat, are you for real?’

  ‘Lesson two,’ Hyacinth grunted, holding her head in pain. ‘Lesson number two. Don’t underestimate people. I could be a rapist or a murderer or just somebody wanting to cut your nipples off. You don’t know yet, do you?’ She grimaced at Gerda, seeming more man than woman. ‘Actually, you didn’t do too badly. More determination than I thought,’ Hyacinth said, half to herself. ‘Lesson three. Be open to adventures. God knows, darling, life knocks the spirit out of us quick smart. So be bold, but take care.’

  She must have seen the confusion on Gerda’s face.

  ‘You just did it, darling!’ she shrieked, then winced and gingerly examined her head. ‘When you meet somebody new, and you don’t know anyone who knows them, you always take a chance. They could be a stalker or a sadist or an addict who’ll make your life a misery, or worse. People are difficult to read, and we all have layers and secrets.’

  Hyacinth roamed to and fro, addressing her unseen audience. ‘Will the apple be sweet or rotten inside? The point is, darling, you have to bite it before you find out!’ She turned abruptly and twinkled at Gerda. ‘You need a kind of openness to really live life.’

  ‘So which one are you, Hyacinth?’ Gerda said, anger smothering fear. ‘An apple or . . . the evil dead?’

  ‘I’ve trusted you enough to invite you into my home, Gerda,’ Hyacinth said quietly, smoothing back her hair in a distinctly feminine gesture. ‘I’ve tried to show you what I’ve learned since being on my own, and how I survived after being evicted. Naturally I have been a target.’

  She glided forward and touched Gerda’s cheek, examining her. Gerda flinched, but stared back.

  ‘There’s something special and good in you, Gerda, and I know you’ll find what you’re looking for.’

  Great, Gerda fumed, silent. Now the fruit bat says it’s friendly. ‘I’m not here to hurt you, darling,’ Hyacinth said, grunting as she shrugged off her coats. ‘Just help you with a life lesson or two.’

  Gerda realised she was unbearably hot, and cautiously took off some gear. It was like having sun on your skin, and she’d forgotten how much she’d been missing green.

  ‘Lovely weather in here, eh?’ Hyacinth said. ‘I’ll make us some breakfast. You must be starving, my darling. Not every day you fight off a madwoman, eh? My late husband loved my French toast . . .’ She bustled about, peeling off her gloves, washing her hands in a beautiful mermaid fountain.

  ‘Even though I was the toast of Sydney I learned to cook a couple of things. Never too posh for that,’ she prattled, pulling out a tiny camping stove and frypan from one corner of the building, where the ferns were thick and dark. ‘Hubert adored my French toast, with cinnamon and honey drizzled on the top . . . just find the extra camp bed under there, will you deary, and you can sleep on that till tonight. Just keep it well under the ferns, out of sight. Don’t snore, do you darling? We have visitors during the day, you know.’

  When Gerda tasted the French toast, it melted so dreamily in her mouth she thought she might pass out with pleasure. Doesn’t matter if I die now, she thought, belly full and warm.

  ‘Hyacinth, how long ago did Hubert die?’ she asked, just before she slid into sleep. The poor old woman must’ve been doing it hard for a year or two, she judged.

  Hyacinth was climbing into her own cot, trying to settle her persistent cough.

  ‘Twenty-three years this June, God rest his soul,’ Hyacinth said, crossing herself. ‘He was very rich but his family would never acknowledge me, because I was on the stage, you know. Didn’t matter that I was the most famous woman in Sydney in my day. They diddled me out of my inheritance.’ She battled another coughing fit, ignoring the trivial bit of the story about starting out life as a male. It must have been aeons before same-sex marriage was allowed.

  ‘Oh well, that’s life, eh, Gerda? And I reckon I’ve lived a full one. No regrets,’ Hyacinth said. ‘Gerda, where are you going? Where is that boy headed?’

  Gerda sighed, because the question smacked her up against everything she didn’t know. ‘Melbourne, I think. They were heading south, out of town.’

  ‘God, Melbourne! Darling, that’s halfway to the South Pole!’ Hyacinth said, her cough chopping up her words. ‘Goodnight – dear. And – good – luck.’ She waved a hanky that had a dark stain on it. Was it blood? Kai’s red eye flashed into Gerda’s mind. She had to sleep. She had to go.

  ‘See you in the morning, Hyacinth. And thank you for helping me,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gerda. Whatever tomorrow brings, you must keep on – with your – quest. Otherwise you will spend the rest of your life – searching – one way – or another.’

  Gerda heard a gentle snore, and felt weirdly close to tears.

  She’d slept like the statue outside, and it was twilight. A rich smell of beef and herbs wafted from the camping stove. Gerda breathed deep: nothing had ever smelled so good.

  ‘Wow, Hyacinth! I thought you said you could only cook one or two things. Is this number two?’

  Hyacinth still had her camp bed set up: she was catnapping while the stew cooked. She wore a fine old dress of dusky silk, the neck sewn with appliqué roses and beads that looked like pale pink pearls. It was clearly expensive, and Gerda guessed it was special to Hyacinth.

  ‘Should I give it a stir?’ Gerda touched her hand.

  It was cold.

  She searched Hyacinth’s face, invisible fingers squeezing her throat. There was no sign of movement; it was at perfect peace. Gerda traced the arc of the eyebrows and the strong features. The face was almost beautiful, carved in stone: but whatever had made it Hyacinth had fled.

  Gerda gathered up her things, eyes fixed on Hyacinth, checking for something she couldn’t have named. She took the stew in its billy and unlocked the hothouse door with fumbling fingers. Barging through the park at dusk her thoughts were a whirlwind: how the roses covered the dress, but didn’t bloom in a hothouse, how Kai’s grandma had given them both pot plants when they were seven, and the things Hyacinth had said. Whatever happens, continue your quest. Yes, she must. Gerda felt a sudden stabbing fear that Grandma might die before she found Kai. Gerda sobbed aloud for the two old women, and her anguish filled the gardens.

  By the time she met Art she had no tears left. She was waiting at a bus stop in the wind and stinging sleet for a bus that didn’t come. Then the striking boy loitering nearby put his face up close to hers. As she looked into his dark intelligent eyes, the wind went still.

  ‘It’s freezing here! What say we have a hot chocolate?’ he said, flashing a brilliant grin. You’d never call him sly.

  Oh yes, thought Gerda. Let’s. She just nodded: couldn’t be sure of her voice. She hoped this wasn’t breaking one of Hyacinth’s rules. The boy smiled a lopsided smile, and almost brought the sun out.

  They bantered and talked, about nothing too deep, cradled in the coffee-shop glow. The owner was mopping around them, giving them pointed looks. Gerda felt out of her depth. She was needled by thoughts of what would happen next; where she’d be sleeping that night, where he might be, as well. Staring into his beautiful face, private questions made Gerda’s belly lift with butterflies. Finally they had to move on. As Art rummaged for his wallet, Gerda paid with the couch coins, stomach rumbling.

  The wind had dropped and a stately white carpet coated the street. The constellations were jewels scattered on black velvet. Gerda felt drunk on the smell of him, dazzled by his lopsided smile.

  ‘I told you I didn’t have a place here. I lied. It’s just not really my place,’ he said.

  Gerda waited.

  ‘But I was wondering . . . would you like to see it anyhow?’

  What to do? It was late, dark, and he was a total stranger. But she’d know
n from the start she’d have to decide. And where else did she have to go?

  You need a kind of openness to really live life.

  Gerda gulped and nodded, very slowly.

  ‘Um . . . okaay. How bad can it be?’ she teased. ‘Cockroaches? Leaking roof?’

  He looked mock-offended.

  ‘If that’s what you think, maybe it won’t be too bad.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s see,’ Gerda said, heart zinging as he clumsily grabbed her hand.

  She could hardly feel her feet as they crunched the snow, her fingers burning in his. They walked south-west, so she wasn’t going far off course. She mustn’t forget about Kai. Strange . . . Art reminded her a little of the old Kai: his grin and the way you felt safe. But the two of them had never challenged friendship with anything else . . . never even thought it. And Art was completely different; he was dark and full of life.

  Her nose and toes were numb again, and her heart thumped from carrying the pack, but when she slowed, Art gallantly shouldered it. She’d told him she was travelling, but not exactly why. Abruptly, they stood before an imposing façade from last century that soared skywards.

  ‘You live here?’ Gerda gasped.

  He burst out laughing.

  ‘One day I might own it, if they don’t kick me out. But c’mon, we get in around the back.’

  Gerda wondered who they might be.

  He got the key from inside an old shoe and unlocked the security screen. It led into a kitchen dominated by what seemed to be a giant pizza oven.

  Art said, ‘Shame it takes so much wood.’

  He walked her into a six-sided room, where a tall bay window overlooked grounds large enough for a footy field. Near an ornate open fireplace was a nest of blankets – was there a dog? No – his bed. A side room was jammed full of newspapers, branches and cardboard boxes.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Gerda breathed. Did people actually live this way?

  ‘Yeah, baby. It’s freezing. Can I be your blanket?’ Art said abruptly, grinning his signature grin, pulling her into his sweet-smelling chest.

  Later she whispered his first thrilling words over and over.

  You’re beautiful. You’re magical. You’re hot.

  She loved Kai like a brother, but that wasn’t love. Just thinking Art’s name made the butterflies bat under her ribs. She struggled in her diary for the words. As they fused, pretences fell away. They thought alike, touched alike, breathed in sequence. She was soaring, diving, drowning. They didn’t sleep that first night and they couldn’t leave the bed. They swam in and out of each other’s bodies and souls. The flicker of firelight sculpted his body bronze, and when she searched his face, he mirrored her own soft eyes.

  ‘Baby, you’re gorgeous, you know that, don’t you?’ he whispered his little secrets in her ear. She was drunk with his known-yet-foreign shape and smell; the feel of his hard body on hers.

  Hours later, stomachs rumbling, they surfaced for food. He rummaged in the cupboard and came back with chocolate bars. They wolfed them down, but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘Haven’t been shopping,’ he said, shrugging.

  Gerda threw open her backpack and pulled out some cans. Ah – the remains of Hyacinth’s stew. It seemed a sign. She smiled to herself. He loved the little camping stove. She’d save the story of Hyacinth for later; make it special.

  Hyacinth. Whatever happens tomorrow, don’t forget your quest.

  Already betraying Hyacinth’s memory. And Kai’s. She mustn’t forget them, either of them.

  Gerda tried to untangle her hair in the bathroom mirror. She stared into her dark-ringed eyes and wondered how Art could find her beautiful. How could she tell Art about Kai? If he really loved her, he’d understand. Perhaps they could go and find Kai together. But maybe Art would be jealous. If Art was trying to find a girl, surely Gerda would be suspicious . . . but if Art explained how he loved the girl like a sister . . . maybe Gerda would understand. Of course she’d understand. Suddenly she saw Kai’s face, a ghost materialising in the mirror. She shuddered, feeling an absence of something important, from her old life.

  She couldn’t leave, just like that. One more day, Gerda bargained with herself, brushing her teeth so hard her gums hurt. One more day, then I’ll . . .

  Sometime later, the back door squeaked. Gerda almost jumped out of their blanket cocoon. Four skinny men sauntered in, threw a wave and a wink down at Art and hung there above them in the room. Beside him Gerda wanted to die of shame, nowhere to hide her bare skin and what they’d been doing.

  ‘Howya man?’ the biggest guy said, in a tracksuit a supermodel might wear: shiny, hot pink and black. ‘You got a little friend in there?’

  Gerda tensed, but beside her Art was easy and relaxed.

  ‘Boys, this is Gerda. Ain’t she something?’ he said, smoothing down her hair in a way that made her realise how much a dog loves pats. She’d wanted to die, but now she realised that beside him, she was proud.

  The men lounged and talked a fruit-salad of words she didn’t really understand. She tried some mind control.

  Please go n-ow-ow.

  Finally they moved out of the room . . . their bickering and prowling reminding her of hyenas. But not out the door, only upstairs.

  ‘Who are they, Art?’ Gerda said, sensing the answer would be all wrong.

  ‘Spider ’n’ Prince and Shammy and Igor. Me mates. They live here too.’

  She knew everything was too perfect. She’d thought it was just him . . . just them.

  That night there were more disappointments. The hyenas wandered downstairs and while two went off for takeaway, the others lit a bong. Gravity rolled into the room as they passed it around. Gerda begged Art with her eyes, but he took it as though he did this every single night. But he didn’t – did he? – he hadn’t when it was just them. Gerda sat, stony. Finally she took some puffs because they ribbed her; felt herself slipping into paralysing paranoia. She couldn’t move or talk or even blink in case their attention turned to her. Even her connection with Art dissolved in the toxic air. He was distant and sluggish, and Gerda wanted to run, but her thoughts were jelly and her legs were lead. Then they brought out a pale yellow powder, a powder she’d seen somewhere before. They passed it around in tinfoil, stuck a lighter underneath and inhaled it through a straw. Gerda refused it point blank.

  Now Art was looking at her hungrily, ahead of four sets of unblinking eyes. Gerda felt the thick web around her relax its grip a little, and made a mammoth effort of will. She gathered their blankets and hissed: ‘Art, get me out of here. I need a bedroom with a door that locks. I’m not sleeping here.’

  Art obeyed her robotically. But alone at last, he loved her so athletically she thought he’d never stop, whispering, apologising, teasing her with his voice. Even so, nothing recaptured their first bliss: Art’s spell was broken. Finally she must have slept a little.

  When Gerda woke Art wasn’t there. Maybe it was all an awful dream. But the seconds stretched to minutes and rolled away as the fog lifted. Harsh light shone in, making Gerda feel ugly and exposed. She was lost in dreams of Art, wrapped in their nest of blankets that still held his intoxicating smell. Then the powder popped into her head, and the puff of smoke and mirrors, and Kai sledding off with the ice queen. Gerda tried to work out the date from her diary, and went to count her cash. Gone. She dressed and checked the bombsite downstairs. Two hyenas still lay inert; she couldn’t remember which. Her head thudded as though it held tiny sparring partners.

  Art said he loved me.

  Art has taken the only money I had.

  Maybe he just borrowed it? Maybe it was one of the others.

  Art used me. Everything is gone.

  Hyacinth’s voice barged into the argument.

  People aren’t always what they seem. He might be a drug addict who’ll make your life a misery.

  Art said he doesn’t need drugs when he’s with me.

  But you know he does. And this great adventure is over.


  Gerda gritted her teeth and shook her head, stuffing her backpack roughly. She knew the truth; she’d known it near the start. There was nothing in Art that resembled Kai. She’d tried to replace her best friend in the weakest, saddest way, with a worthless copy.

  Gerda wanted to lie there and die, wanted Art to find her body and be tortured forever. But she knew she had to leave, and as she jerked at her hair in the mirror, it was Kai’s face she saw. His sad eyes implored her; he needed her. Or maybe she needed him.

  The truck ride had transported Gerda into strange territory, where she didn’t know the rules. The Tranquil Coast high-rises, built to give sun-worshippers their billion-dollar views, had icicles hanging from the balconies. The beggars looked all wrong – overfed with dazzling tans, even wearing chunky jewellery. In Sydney Gerda had known which suburbs to avoid, but not here. Negotiating the street gangs was heart-stopping. So far, Gerda had been lucky: she worked out exit plans well in advance, slipping into the big stores that hired their own security, staying the permitted five minutes, or disappearing into private yards and over back fences. She’d even bolted down a side street and into a dumpster. The stink: but surely it was better than being bailed up?

  Gerda trudged on. Almost without warning, she was lying in the slush, the cold crawling up her back, the contents of her pack scattered. A sharp-eyed, baby-faced girl examined her things.

  ‘Where’s your money? Give it here,’ she said, voice loaded with menace. Two big dogs appeared behind her. They growled in a way that made Gerda’s heart jibber.

  The girl had fallen into step with her, and Gerda had turned to nod, never expecting this. She had no idea where the German Shepherds had come from. Gerda would have given the girl anything; anything to call off the dogs. Dogs had always loved her – these would rip her open on command.