by Peter Carey
'Tell me who is punishing you?' he said.
'Don't, Harry... please.'
Harry saw the humiliation in his eyes.
Alex stood up and shut the door, but when he sat down again he obviously didn't know how to start talking. 'I guess,' he said, and then stopped. 'I guess I'm just punishing myself.'
'I don't think you're crazy,' Harry said softly. 'I don't think you're punishing yourself.'
'Then you're crazy too,' Alex said sourly.
'No,' Harry said and narrowed his eyes.
'O.K., O.K., don't get mad.'
'Do you believe in Good and Bad?' Harry asked.
A slight hint of irritation showed itself on Alex Duval's face, and for a moment it was possible to see he was also an arrogant man. 'You know I do,' he said. He took out a cigar-ette, worried about it, and put it back in the packet.
'And you're being punished for being Bad?'
The simplicity of this made everything sound so childish that Alex Duval was almost angry. 'Yes,' he said. 'If you want to put it like that.'
'So,' Harry stood up. He was smiling. 'So we'll be good.'
'Oh Harry, that's very nice, but not very sensible.'
'Sensible?' Harry's eyebrows rose alarmingly. 'Sensible? How isn't it sensible? We'll be good.'
'We.'
'Both of us.'
Alex blinked. 'You'll be good?'
'Alex,' Harry sat down again, but he hunched over his legs and looked down at the floor, 'Alex I'm a bit crazy too. I think I'm in Hell.'
There was a silence.
'You're the first person I've told. I don't know who to trust. I've been trying to work out what to do.'
'You mean you know you're in Hell.'
'Yes,' Harry said.
'Oh Christ,' Harry.
'You think I'm crazy.' Harry stood up. He looked bereft. His face was suddenly very white.
'No,' Alex Duval said quietly. It did not for a second occur to him that Harry meant everything he said literally. He was distressed merely because Harry was the last person he had ever expected to reveal deep unhappiness.
'Since when?' he asked.
'Since,' Harry smiled encouragingly but his voice was choked off with emotion. 'Since I was in hospital.'
'Ah yes.' Alex remembered that it was at about this time that Joel and Bettina's affair became public knowledge.
'It's good to talk to you, Alex.'
'It's good to talk to you, Harry.'
The two men lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Alex Duval finally lit his cigarette and Harry ate the ice in the bottom of his glass.
'I have a theory,' Harry announced when he had finished the ice.
'Tell me.' Alex lit a cigarette.
'There are three sorts of people in Hell. Captives, like us. Actors. And Those in Charge. What do you think?'
'Who are the Actors?'
'Most of them. They work for Those in Charge.'
'To persecute the Captives?'
'Yes.'
'They're Actors; acting; not what they seem.'
'Mmmm. What do you think?'
'Brilliant,' said Alex Duval pouring himself another Scotch. 'Exactly right.' As he sipped the Scotch he wondered if he and Harry might finally end up being friends, real friends, after all these years. He liked Harry's theory. There was no room for optimism in it.
'Joel is an Actor?' he asked.
'Definitely.'
'And Bettina?'
'Yes.'
'We are Captives?'
'Yes.'
'Have some more Scotch, Harry.'
'Thank you, Alex. The question is,' Harry dropped a fist full of ice into his glass, 'the question is who are the Captives and how can they be freed?'
'Harry,' Alex said, 'it is good to see you. It is nice to talk to you. We haven't talked like this since the Old Days. Remem-ber how we used to sit around till all hours and talk?' Alex stuffed tobacco into his little bent pipe and lit it. When he had it glowing he leant back in his chair. 'You old bastard,' he said. 'It's so nice to talk to you.'
'Let me ask you a question,' Harry said. 'An opinion… '
'Yes,' Alex settled down comfortably.
'The relative merits of Goodness and Originality… what do you reckon?'
'Harry,' he shook his head, 'you're amazing. I don't believe it.'
The two men smiled at each other proudly.
'Originality, without Goodness,' Alex said at last, 'is nothing, of no worth.'
'That's what I was thinking,' Harry said. 'Originality, by itself, is nothing?'
'Not a pinch of shit.'
'But with Goodness?'
'Dynamite.'
'I think we should fire Krappe Chemicals,' Harry said.
'I think that's the place to start.'
'Yes… ' Alex said cautiously.
'How much are they billing?'
'Just under two million.'
Alex began to feel that there was something in the conver-sation he had not heard, as if he had dozed off and missed some vital piece of information. He sat for a while puffing on his pipe and looking at the hockey match in the park across the way. Harry fished a piece of ice out of the bucket and crunched it up.
'Why?' Alex said at last.
'Why what?'
'Why fire Krappe Chemicals?'
Harry looked at him in astonishment, 'So you don't have to write your extra conference reports. I'm damned if I'm going to be punished for ever. Do you want to be punished for ever?'
Alex took the pipe out of his mouth. 'No,' he said, and held the pipe about three inches from his mouth, where smoke issued forth from both ends. 'Still,' he said, 'it's a lot of money… ' And, when Harry didn't comment: 'It might seem a little inconsistent... '
'How inconsistent?' said Harry through another mouthful of crunching ice.
'To suddenly, after all these years, fire them.'
, Ah, but they weren't doing it before.'
'Doing what?'
'Making you unhappy.'
Alex blinked. 'Harry, I've been doing these for ten years.'
'Mmmm,' said Harry Joy vaguely and poured himself a Scotch. 'Here's to us,' he said, 'we're going to be good.'
At night, lying in bed, Alex read Rousseau and Pascal, Bertrand Russell and Hegel, Marx and Plato, but now looking at Harry Joy, whom he had worked with for fifteen years, he was frightened that he had understood him.
'You mean Good, don't you? Capital G?'
'Capital G,' grinned Harry and wet his moustache in the Scotch.
'You mean GOOD.'
'Bet your arse.'
As a dream, as a possibility, this would have made Alex smile. Reading at night while his wife snored beside him he would have luxuriated in the ridiculous possibility of Harry Joy deciding to be Good. But now, facing the possibility of it in this stuffy Saturday office, he was filled with fear.
'You're really serious?'
'Sure. Why not.'
'You'll go broke.'
'Who cares.' Harry felt as if he had opened the windows in a locked-up house. He could smell fresh-mown grass.
Alex smiled a hurt ironical smile. 'Well I might. I need a job.!
Harry stood up and put both his hands on Alex's soft shoulders. 'You'll have a job. I'll make sure you have a job. We don't need a lot of money.'
Alex had always been given strength by Harry's enthusiasms but they had always promised him safety, not danger. And besides, there was something in him that was irritated by Harry's new discovery of morality and punishment, as if he were moving in on a territory that didn't belong to him, a territory where he, Alex, was much more familiar with the nuances of right and wrong, the details of the crimes of their clients, the exact nature of their own criminal compliance. It was Alex's field and he resented Harry's crude enthusiasm and his childish determination to be Good. A year ago, three months ago, Harry had had no interest in anything but a successful business and now he was acting as if he had sole proprietorship of the moral dilemmas of
life. He had ignored Alex when he nervously, tentatively, suggested there was something wrong with various Krappe Chemicals products.
Now he, Harry Joy, was taking control.
'Still,' said Alex, 'it's good to see you, you old bastard.' But his smile was uncertain.
'Don't worry about the money, Alex. I'll make sure you don't go out on the street.'
'Sure,' said Alex and Harry decided not to hear the sarcasm in his voice. Instead they sat and talked about who were Captives and who were Actors and as afternoon came on and the bottle of Scotch gave up its last drinks, they composed a list, based on Alex's information.
Outside the streets were flooding and cars were stalling and being abandoned. But when the list was complete Harry Joy rolled up his trousers and went out to find a taxi.
Alex stayed in his office trying to open his filing cabinet with a screw-driver, cursing Harry Joy who now had the key.
It was one of those hot still mornings that come in the begin-ning of the wet season: the sky a brilliant cobalt blue, and beneath it legions of green all freshly washed or newly born and only the rustling dry leaves hanging like giant dried fish from the banana trees might suggest death, and then only to someone hunting eagerly for its signs. The air that blew through the open windows of the old wooden house was sweet and warm, and honeysuckle and frangipani lent their aromatic veils, which billowed like invisible curtains in the high-ceilinged rooms.
Harry Joy whistled and spread the old newspapers across the kitchen table and set up the boot polish (dark tan, light tan, black and neutral) and the matching brushes and the polishing cloths. He brought to his goodness the slightly obsessive concern with method which is the hallmark of the amateur. He picked up the first pair of shoes and was pleased to see them muddy. He took an old knife and scraped them carefully; then a slightly damp cloth to wipe them; then the brush and polish; now the cloth. Then considering he had rushed the job and perhaps done it badly, he removed the laces and began again.
In the hour before eight o'clock he had cleaned the whole family’s shoes, and none of them had so much as stirred. He allowed himself the luxury of a cup of tea and while the kettle boiled he watched a family of honey-eaters attack the last of the previous season's pawpaws on the tree outside the kitchen window. He tried to memorize the form and colours of the birds but he knew he had no talent for it. In three minutes' time the honey-eaters would be a crude blurr in his memory and all he would know was that they had a yellow marking near the eye.
When he had finished his tea he began to clean the win-dows, beginning in the kitchen where a fine layer of grease lay across the surface of the glass. He was engaged in rubbing this dry with old newspaper when David, already dressed with his wet hair combed neatly, came into the kitchen.
'Morning,' said Harry.
David took in the shoes which were now lined up on the back doorstep, the clean window, and Harry Joy resplendent in bare scarred chest and Balinese sarong, his taut body glis-tening with sweat, his yellowed teeth biting his lower lip in concentration. He didn't know what to be indignant about first.
He picked up his shoes. 'Did you do this?'
'Yes.'
'Dad, please, you mustn't.'
'It's O.K., it gave me pleasure.'
It was true. He couldn't remember ever having had so nice a time as this morning, alone with his family’s shoes. He had enjoyed everything about it.
'You must not,' his son said.
'They were dirty.' He rubbed the window until the smeary marks had all gone. 'It gave me pleasure,' he said. 'I liked cleaning them for you.'
David's dark eyes shone. 'No. I should clean your shoes.'
'If you want to… '
'But it's wrong for you to clean mine.'
'David, I enjoyed it.'
He was not displeased with his son's irritation. It seemed to indicate the efficacy of the ritual.
'But you mustn't, Dad, you mustn't. Don't you understand? Why don't you understand?' He started shaking his head and smoothing down his wet hair.
'What is there to understand?'
'You're so insensitive, I can't believe it! It's like the Fiat. You never understood why that was wrong;'
'It embarrassed you.'
David was pouring milk over breakfast cereal. 'Oh great,' he said sarcastically. 'After ten years you understand. Great.'
'Well you don't have to tell your friends I cleaned your shoes.'
'Dad,' David pushed his bowl away as if he'd be sick if he ate any more, 'you are the head of this household. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'
'It seems a funny sort of household these days,' Harry said, 'to me, at least. How does it seem to you?'
'And whose fault do you think that is?' David said, his eyes wide and challenging, his head cocked on one side. 'Do you think it's mine? Do you thilik it's Lucy's? Do you think it's Bettina's? It's yours.'
'Mine,' Harry said happily. 'It's my fault.' The windows were so clean he could see the honey-eaters much more clearly. They had a grey underbelly and little red wattles hanging like earrings from the sides of their heads. He stared at them with fascination, looking at the hollow they had made inside the pawpaw.
'You are the head of the household. You should lead us. You should punish us.'
'Jesus.'
'Yes. When we do wrong, we should be punished.'
'Christ.'
'There is no discipline. That's what's wrong. That's why Mum is unhappy. That's why Lucy takes drugs.'
'What drugs?'
'You mustn't clean our shoes or shine our windows. You've got to make us do all that.'
'What drugs?'
'When we have our lunch today you let everyone else do the work. You walk in the garden. You'll make us all happy.'
'No.'
'You and I can play Monopoly.'
'I thought you were going to work.'
David retrieved his bowl of breakfast cereal. 'Really,' he said, 'there's not an awful lot I can do.'
Harry returned to his window and tried to forget about this painful impersonation of his son. He allowed his mind to focus on the merest speck of fly-shit, to think about nothing else but the problem of its removal. He vaguely heard David depart and he didn't hear Bettina arrive at all.
'You are about as subtle as a ton of bricks!'
She didn't look well. Her mascara ran over one eye. It gave her a crooked, slightly demonic appearance. She sat at the kitchen table and angrily smoked two cigarettes.
When she had finished the second cigarette she put it out very brutally. 'You are trying to make me look like a tart,' she said.
She was trying to make him angry but he wouldn't get angry. He was Good.
He put on the kettle and started to make the tea.
'Don't you damn well make me tea.' Bettina was stumbling to her feet. 'Don't you dare.'
He clung to the tea canister determinedly. 'It gives me pleasure,' he said. 'Please. Let me.'
Bettina turned off the gas and threw the water down the sink. 'Don't try and be a martyr with me.'
'I'm just making you tea.'
'I know what you're doing.'
With a terrible chill it occurred to Harry she might know exactly what he was doing.
'Oh,' he said. He pursed his lips and then sucked in his cheeks.
'Oh yes,' she said, her wide eyes mocking him.
'Does it cause you pain?' He tried to appear disinterested.
'In the arse, yes.'
'Ah,' and he regarded her with interest, his head on one side, scratching his right leg with his left bare foot.
'Come and sit here, old mate.' She patted the chair beside her. It was a term of affection from another time, and Harry, standing on one leg like a shy tropical bird, allowed himself to be induced to sit at the table.
She held his hand and kissed him on his splendid nose. They hadn't made love for two months.
'Harry...'
'Yes.'
'Do you think you're going a bit loop
y?'
Harry shrugged. 'All I'm doing… ' but he stopped, not wishing to show his hand.
'What are you doing, old mate?'
'All I'm doing is cleaning windows.'
'So you can make me look like a tart.'
'No.'
'So everyone can see I don't do anything?'
'I'd have thought you'd be glad for me to do it.'
'You're a sarcastic bastard aren't you,' she said good-humouredly, 'Alright, get out.'
'Get out where?'
'Get out of the fucking kitchen and let me get on with it.'
'No, let me clean some more.'
Bettina pointed a single finger and started jabbing him around the edges of his scar. 'Look, you, get out, out.'
He retreated upstairs. He managed to clean half the bath-room before she came and found him.
She was going to be a hot-shot but she met Harry Joy and fell in love with him. They told her he was from the French Consulate and she watched him for a while, not in the least impatient, merely fascinated by him. He wore a beautifully tailored rather loose white suit. He had a huge moustache. He looked Splendid. She watched how he moved, grace-fully, as if his feet hardly touched the floor, the walk of a dancer.
It was a party for a departing Trade Commissioner, full of businessmen with rotary badges. She had come with her boss who ran the local Ogilvy & Mather office.
'Come on, Tina,' he had said, 'grab your hat. We're going to a party.'
She sat in a chair and began to watch Harry Joy. She was shy and had no plan for meeting him. She was happy enough to look and admire.
Even then she was offended by the drabness of the town, its dullness, its lack of style. Her only escape was in her stinking room above her father's service station. Downstairs Billy McPhee burped and farted, wise-cracked, giggled, ran between cash register and pump, pump and cash register; upstairs, his daughter turned the shining pages of the New York Art Directors' Annual.
Men sat beside her and engaged her in conversation but her eyes never left the exotic man in the beautiful white suit. It was not even possible, she thought, that he spoke English.
And then he was standing in front of her.
'You've been staring at me,' he said and he was not French at all, but he spoke with such a low, slow drawl that she was not in the least disappointed.
'Yes,' she said. She couldn't think of anything else. Yet the brevity of her reply probably struck him as bold.
