15
Trix’s secret studio is about a hundred metres outside the Gate, on Courtenay Mall. It’s a long room on the second storey of a three-storey building, in which there is also a dance studio, massage and beauty parlours and, on the ground floor, a ‘high class’ brothel. Lots of girls come and go. She recruits some of the more interesting-looking of those she meets in the elevator and on the stairs for fashion shoots. A permanent security guard sits behind bulletproof glass inside the main door, and her studio has a second secure armoured door, with a video screen. The only other key belongs to her second-in-charge, Gustave, an Outer who lives in nearby Mount Cook. He also has face-recognition access and knows the combination. The studio is north-facing, with a big window through which she can see the footpath and outside tables on the opposite side of the street.
Too many bored Gators (alligators in gated communities, her most valuable clients) insisted on dropping into the studio on the Mount. She uses the Mount studio for fittings only now, on a strict schedule. Working outside the Gate has given her the increased privacy and freedom she wanted. Even Bill won’t come to her Courtenay Mall studio without a taxi. But the main reason she likes the location is because it’s on a strip where the worlds of Outer and Inner Wellington meet; it’s an exciting place, fertile, like where sea meets shore, or East meets West. The big window of her studio provides a view of the upmarket bars and cafés near the Gate where beautiful and talented Outers come to see and be seen and make a life-changing connection with a wealthy Inner—or try to; many only connect briefly with predatory bodyguards. Still, the quickest way for a young Outer to make an impression here is to look good and wrangle a personal introduction that will enable a pitch. Careers are made in the high security bars on Courtenay Mall. Lives are broken, too, in revolting places like Club Spats. Sometimes late at night Trix has the sense of watching a Roman circus as groups of excited young women teeter on their high heels into arenas where ravenous beasts wait. She knows what can happen in the special VIP areas, what can happen to the girls and boys who leave in taxis with tinted windows for ‘parties’ on the Mount or for ‘special introductions’ in anonymous hotel rooms. After about 10 pm on weekends, she finds it hard to watch. But at midday in spring Courtenay Mall is charming, hopeful and inspiring. She’s on the bench by the window, watching the fashion parade below, when her screen rings. It’s Bill, sound only.
‘Hungover?’
‘Uh, yeah. I don’t want to subject you to the view of my face over lunch.’
‘I’m just having coffee.’
‘Um, even so.’
‘Were you celebrating again?’
‘Yeah, yes we were. It’s big. Sam… He can recognise and respond to stimuli fed directly into his frontal cortex, like, direct brain stimulation. He’s already able to choose between images, like one pleasant and unpleasant, like, you know, a flower over an old nail. One, two. Big potential.’
‘He’s conscious then?’
‘Uh, on some level, yes. The exciting thing is that he, um, may be able to learn to communicate by alphabet selection, letter by letter. Like, an image of a cat, for example, can be matched with C-A-T. The medics think he may be able to get around his physical injuries.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘No, no, it’s great. It’s a huge step forward. I’m just tired.’
‘Tired?’
‘Hungover, yes.’
‘Do they have fried food in New Hokitika?’
‘They do, thank God.’ He laughs.
‘Well, that’s good. I hope this thing with Sam works. It could be huge, right?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Sitting at the big window. You know, seeing what’s out there this spring.’
‘Hey, I’ll build a cinema up in Napier. You can fly Gustave up and watch CCTV footage of Courtenay Mall.’
‘I like your thinking.’
‘Make it a summer retreat. Or a winter one.’
‘Any other plans? A pool, perhaps?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever you desire.’
‘How about that terrace idea I had?’
‘Your wish is my command.’
‘How exciting!’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, Bill. I’m so glad that this has happened for you, that Sam came back…’
‘Yeah, it’s still a bit overwhelming really.’
‘It’s like a rainbow. You’ll think this is funny but Sam’s like a rainbow in your life. His return makes for a beautiful kind of symmetry. Really. And… without being crass, he’s brought a pot of gold as well. I know that’s not so important to you, but you deserve it and you’ll be able to help your kids. I’m just happy, that’s all. And now it looks like you might be able to communicate again.’
‘Fingers crossed, but yeah, it looks very promising.’
‘Great.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘Rain,’ Bill says. ‘It’s just started. Rains all the time down here.’
‘Wow. Loud.’
‘Like coins falling on the roof.’
‘Are you okay, Bill?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I just really need that fry-up. Badly.’
‘I’ve been seeing a bit of Karen.’
‘Right. How is she?’
‘She’s better. Much less panicky. She came over the other night to a work thing ’cause I want her to model for us, and she literally drew a collar design on a napkin. It was hilarious. It’s a variation, an improvement on a jacket of mine. We’re going to use it.’
‘Great. Okay, well I better go. And about Sam…’
‘Don’t tell anyone.’
‘No, you can this time. It’ll be announced tonight.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Right, I’d better go. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
A message has come while she was speaking. It’s from Karen: He’s on. Karen means that Malcolm, her secret ex-lover, is on live. Everyone’s talking about his new show, in which he’s known as the Chef. Trix takes her coffee to the screen in the corner of the kitchen, at the back of the studio.
The Chef dances while he cooks. It’s his thing. He moves well and is very camp. She turns the volume up and, still holding her coffee, copies the samba-type shimmy he’s performing over a thickening white sauce, somehow adding milk with a steady hand while the rest of his body is in slinky motion. The idea is to copy his moves and lose weight while cooking, but it’s not really about that. The show is subversive. The Chef made Humble Pie during a business delegation’s recent trip to China and criticised his own cooking as he went, referencing the CEOs’ session of ‘self-criticism’ in Beijing. It’s subtle enough to avoid censorship, for now. Part of the show’s appeal is seeing if he will cross the line. Another is that his enjoyment is infectious; stock phrases of his such as ‘Blow me—down!’ and ‘Sizzling!’, rendered ‘Seezzling!’ in his Australian accent, are heard all over Wellington. And the food is great despite the ingredients being inexpensive. He or his producers are very in tune with what is available to Outers at a good price week by week. It all adds up. His new show is the talk of the town. Trix grins as she looks for the faint traces of fingernail scratches on his bald head that Karen told her about.
Trix is about to call Karen to verify a scratch scar sighting behind the Chef’s left ear when the door buzzes. On the video camera Trix sees Pozninka—the hot new model from Dargaville—standing outside on the street. Trix presses the intercom. ‘Send her up,’ she tells the guard. A moment later there’s a feeble knock on the heavy studio door. It could only be Pozninka, but Trix checks the peephole anyway. Sure enough, it’s her. Trix unlocks the door and Pozninka bursts into the studio, puffing and glowing and animated in a way Trix has never seen before. The surly, blasé teenager is gone, and as they kiss she’s struck for a moment by Pozninka’s beauty.
‘Oh, perfect,’ says Pozninka, looking at the screen, ‘you’ve got it on
. Gustave actually ran to get here on time. He’s coming up the stairs and poor Karen is stuck behind him.’
Trix is touched that that Gustave would actually run to watch the show live at her studio. She’s moved to reward Pozninka with juicy gossip. ‘Oh, I was just about to call Karen.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You know about her and Malcolm?’
‘Noooo!’
‘Sssshhh. You didn’t hear it from me.’
Gustave appears in the doorway, his brown face red and sweaty. He bends over, puffing, resting his hands on his thighs. He’s underdressed by his standards, in a slightly tight three-piece suit with a flouncy cravat. The large kete over his shoulder thumps to the floor.
‘My God,’ Trix says, ‘you look like a rugby player.’
‘Not when he’s moving,’ Karen says, ducking around him. She holds out a beautiful pink and white Stargazer Lily. ‘For your window, Trix. I bought it while Gustave was… ascending.’
‘Oh God,’ he puffs, as Trix closes the door behind him.
As with Pozninka, Trix is struck by a change in Karen. The space-cadet in an incontinence suit has gone, along with the fearful and suspicious woman learning to cope without meds. The world of fashion, in particular the creative design side of it outside the Gate and the demands of Gator respectability and decorum, is the home she needed. ‘How sweet of you,’ Trix says, receiving the flower and a kiss.
Karen smiles. ‘You’re welcome.’
Trix fills a vase for the flower. ‘Gustave, you actually ran?’
‘Uh, I, oh…’
‘Gustave, die quietly please,’ commands Pozninka, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table beneath the screen. ‘It’s on.’
Trix adjusts the setting to surround-sound and unmutes. The eerie percussive plonking of a gamelan orchestra fills the studio. Malcolm stands in front of the seated musicians in a batik-style apron. He steps slowly in the semi-crouch of female Indonesian dancers, his eyes wide and unblinking; his hands turn like paddles on his wrists, his neck occasionally shuttles back and forth like an exotic parrot’s. He can really dance. The percussive music stops. A gong sounds and he bounds off the dancefloor like a kangaroo now, into his kitchen, crying, ‘Boing, boing, boing!’
Gustave collapses into a chair at the table. ‘Worth it already.’
‘Today’s main,’ the Chef announces, ‘is a variation on the classic Indonesian dish beef rendang. It’s called “kangaroo rendang”, or for those in a hurry, “roo rendang”.’ He strikes an iron-clad salute as a piped version of the Marseillaise segues into ‘All You Need Is Love’, accompanied with additional percussion from the gamelan orchestra.
Trix and Pozninka gasp and laugh at Malcolm’s reference to the Australian destroyer that sank a boat of Indonesian refugees yesterday. New Zealand media and social media cannot pass comment on Australian affairs that might be construed as negative for fear of libel, slurring national character in a way that will impact Australian livelihoods in trade and tourism.
Gustave drums on the table.
‘Good job,’ Pozninka says.
‘Did you hear Mrs Siolo?’ Gustave asks. ‘“I can confirm that this was not an ANZAC operation. No further comment.”’
‘Good on her.’
The gamelan orchestra provides accompaniment as Malcolm takes to a kilogram of kangaroo meat with a cleaver while adopting the contorted mask-like expression and eye-rolling of a Kabuki theatre villain. ‘It’s tough,’ he says—thunk goes the cleaver, ‘like Australians,’—thunk—‘and that’s why it’s cheap,’—thunk—‘sorry, inexpensive.’ Thunk.
Then, while assembling the other ingredients—potato rendang paste, a can of coconut cream, garlic, chillies and lemongrass—he sings along in a broad Australian accent to a song that goes, ‘I’m Jake the Peg, diddle-diddle-diddle-dum, with an extra leg, diddle-diddle-diddle-dum…’
‘Oh, he can sing too,’ Gustave wails.
Everyone laughs, but Trix has known Gustave a long time and recognises dejected body language and real yearning in his tone. He’s not acting for laughs. She realises that he is genuinely besotted with the Chef. Her suspicion is confirmed in the advertisements, when he announces with a solemnity unusual for him, ‘He’s the only person in the media I trust.’
‘Same here,’ says Pozninka.
‘I trust Bill,’ Trix says.
‘Oh, you know,’ Gustave waves his hand.
‘No.’
‘I mean, as a social commentator.’
She can see he’s lovesick and distracted and decides not to press the issue—with him. Pozninka is fair game though.
‘Oh, Bill, of course,’ Pozninka concedes under her gaze. ‘But he’s, you know…’
‘A reporter?’ Karen suggests.
‘Yeah, exactly. I mean, he’s scrupulously honest and everything, but he can’t call the big picture stuff. Like with the refugees. He’s not allowed to go there, right?’
‘Big picture stuff?’ Trix asks coldly. What is Sam, she thinks, if not ‘big picture’? She takes a moment. Her anger, she suspects, stems from anger at herself for having moved on from Sam to other things, to new lines, shows, to the Chef, even. To calm herself, she moves Karen’s lily into the sunlight at the window. The truth is that she has caught herself thinking that Bill’s calls are somewhat dull, and it makes her feel guilty. As if the stalled ‘story of the century’ should be big enough to draw her attention away from the ephemeral world of fashion and theatre, even without new developments. She feels trivial after their conversations sometimes. He makes her world feel small, but he’s not giving her any new information. Sam has had his time. Life goes on. She breathes the flower’s scent. In a day or two it will be gone. That, and not any sense of serious potential, is what makes it the beautiful thing it is.
She turns and sees her employees are silent and contrite, to varying degrees, fearful of having offended her. She appreciates that, and a surge of goodwill comes over her. ‘I’ve met the Chef,’ she announces, walking towards them with a smile, aware that the back-lighting from the big window is doing great things for her hair.
Gustave raises his eyebrows.
‘Karen introduced us.’
Gustave wrenches himself from his ad-break malaise and stares at Karen. They all do. Karen looks comfortable, leaning back in her chair, her fingers laced before her on the table, a slight smile on her lips. She has the model’s attribute of being able to say nothing and still have a big presence.
‘But he’s the perfect man, isn’t he?’ Pozninka asks her. ‘He can cook, dance, sing. Don’t you think, Karen?’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘With benefits?’
‘Just friends.’
‘You know him?’ Gustave asks.
‘He lives on the Mount.’
‘I thought he was in Auckland.’
She shakes her head.
‘We’ll get him in here,’ Gustave tells Trix. ‘The man’s a national treasure. We’ll have a party for him. Before he gets closed down. Seize the day.’
Trix remembers Karen’s description of him as a fish out of water when not performing in his kitchen. ‘It’d be great if he could do a live show here.’
‘Mmmppph.’ This is Gustave accusing her of being all about the money. She will wait for Karen to answer this charge.
Pozninka cries passionately, ‘But we should congratulate him, not put him to work!’
Gustave applauds. ‘Hear, hear.’
‘Malcolm is a lot different out of the kitchen,’ Karen says. ‘He just agrees with every single thing you say. It’s quite disconcerting. I’m used to men saying what they think. But rather than disagreeing with you or even voicing an opinion, really, he builds up this anger until it feels like he’ll explode. But then he doesn’t. Like when I broke it off, he…’
Gustave is astonished. ‘You… really? He’s straight?’
‘Well, I don’t think I’d say straight, exactly. He’s married, but yeah…’
‘Married? To
a woman?’
‘Yes, but I think she’s gay.’
Gustave’s equilibrium is restored. ‘He’s a true artist. Even his personal life is a gender statement. Let the man cook and dance if that’s what makes him happy.’
‘Before he’s deported,’ Trix says. ‘We should move on this.’
Pozninka claps girlishly. ‘Oh, he’s so great. Someone with the guts and intelligence to actually say something.’ She turns to Karen. ‘Well done, you.’
‘Thanks.’
Trix has accepted that Malcolm has unique status in the media. ‘Could you talk to him, Karen? Pass on our regards and see if he’d like to cook live at a party up here? It’d be more theatre, I’m thinking, less TV.’
Gustave sits up. ‘Oh, I’m liking this.’
‘Me too,’ Trix says.
‘Oh, he’s back on.’
While a previously prepared roo rendang simmers for its last couple of minutes, Malcolm begins to prepare a desert. ‘If butter’s hard to get,’ he says, ‘a substitute will do.’ David Bowie’s ‘Starman’ comes on as he digs a spoonful of margarine from a container.
‘Oh. I love this song.’
Malcolm pirouettes like a ballerina. The margarine, held high above his head, circles in the flashing spoon. ‘Oh, we’ve been flung out of orbit,’ he says, slowing his pirouette and widening the orbit of the margarine in its metal cradle. He makes a child’s phlegmy rocket noise and lands the knob of margarine in small pot on the oven. A puff goes up and it immediately begins to melt. ‘As I said, if real butter’s not available, a substitute will have to do. I’m going to make a chocolate cake that works in butter-less places like New Hokitika.’
Star Sailors Page 19
