Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  When confronted by ‘black holes’ in his timeline, such as the years he did cash labouring jobs while travelling around Australia, the hologram is likely to fish for revenue opportunities. ‘I need a pee. Do you mind?’ / ‘I was happiest when I was a schoolgirl. It’d be fun to dress up.’ / ‘I love the feel of rubber. But it’s so expensive.’

  ‘Just do your stretches,’ he says, ‘and talk.’

  The hologram, oddly enough, is sketchy about Karen’s past. She grew up in Johnsonville, a suburb to the north of Wellington, which is now an extreme wind zone, populated largely by beneficiaries. She was raised mainly by her mother after her parent’s divorce, which happened when she was ten. It’s all just basic biographical detail. The first thing the hologram can talk about in any detail has the feel of an actual memory. It occurred when Karen was 14: she was shoulder-tapped in the street by a photographer and soon began modelling for catalogues. That same year she was one of several underage drinkers caught at a nightclub that subsequently lost its liquor licence. For this she was suspended from Johnsonville’s Onslow College for three days. She left that institution permanently, age 15, without formal qualifications. But it’s odd how skeletal the bio is. There’s no social media trivia to fill things out. Karen must have hired a cleaner, who even removed her images from friends’ accounts. Very expensive. Unless she never allowed sharing—but how many teenage models would do such a thing? That kind of career is built on social media. Maybe Jeremiah paid the cleaner, he thinks, to remove his wife’s scandalous past. The blank periods are long. What did Karen do for the four years after she left college? The hologram covers this by coyly suggesting that all will be revealed later, when she gets to know him better. She’s right in a sense, he thinks. All will be revealed later –when more information becomes available. Karen resumed modelling in Wellington at 19. The hologram can list clients and notable shoots and shows in New Zealand, Australia and London. This was before walls started going up and flying became prohibitively expensive. Two years later in Wellington, her own label, Night Owl, failed. Didn’t even get off the ground. He suspects a classic case of a creative type’s lack of organisation, followed by a lack of the capital required to learn from a failure and try again. Systems have to be learned. Trix has important systems she’s habitual about maintaining, such as back-ups for the back-ups. The hologram’s evasive on Night Owl. At 22 Karen went overseas for a an 18-month holiday, not on business. It strikes him as odd that she didn’t work once on that trip after her label had failed. Another blank period. She claims she went alone. He doubts it, and suspects a rich patron took her to Paris, Rome, New York. At 24 she returned to New Zealand and joined Flux in Wellington as an in-house model and designer, but did modelling mainly—a sore point. At 25 she married Jeremiah, whom she’d ‘kind of known since way-back’. From this point there is a deluge of information: lists of shoots, shows, openings and social media information about cats, cakes, links and likes, which generate a flow that sometimes feels like real memory. How to account for the gaps in her past, for a digital native who began modelling at 14? He’s sure that drugs are the missing story.

  The winemaker turns up unexpectedly one lunchtime. He’s surprised at the progress Bill’s made. The vines are tidy and clean, the wires tight, the rows clear. The shed’s organised and everything is clean and in running order. The winemaker even suggests that at this quiet time of year Bill might consider completing the expansion the previous owner had begun, seeing as the land has already been levelled. Holes will need to be dug, posts sunk, wires strung, sprinklers installed, and the soil weeded and fertilised. The winemaker judges it a good job, at this comparatively quiet time of year, for three keen men. Bill immediately thinks of Torrentz. Perfect. After assessing the budding grapes (a modest number), the winemaker says that three men should be able to handle the harvest as well. Perfect.

  Simon’s still keen on Torrentz joining them and, amazingly, even Torrentz is enthusiastic (sport is played in Napier). Things are falling into place. Cheryl’s only caveat is that Torrentz and Simon now wait until after Christmas before leaving.

  Cheryl changes her mind on Boxing Day. She will need Torrentz around the house, she decides, with Simon away and the father of her new baby still in youth detention after setting fire to a board game in the recreation room. Bill doesn’t mind so much about Torrentz not coming, but is exasperated at Simon’s arrival having been delayed yet again. As Simon explains over the phone that Cheryl needs a man around the house in his absence, Bill must bite his tongue. As always, Simon agrees with every capricious whim Cheryl has and Bill must remain silent, because Simon has forbidden criticism of his wife for many years now and their agreement is that they silently agree to disagree on Cheryl. More than ever, Bill wants to build up Simon’s health and sense of self-worth in the vineyard, and enable the development of some critical distance on his wife.

  Simon’s new arrival date is set back twice at the last minute by Cheryl’s demands. It’s all about her being left with the baby. Simon must feather the nest before he leaves for his ‘holiday’ (yet she’ll take most of the money he earns, naturally). He must buy bulk nappies, prepare meals and freeze them, spring clean (in summer), paint and repair things, service her car, and so on.

  In the New Year, after the third last-minute delay, Bill drinks a good bottle too quickly and, feeling at a loose end rather than sociable, walks in the warm summer night to the vineyard instead of the media room, where he smokes a joint and strolls among his ripening fruit.

  He finds himself worried. The motley vines (is it the pot making them motlier, more nibbled and heat-curled?) need more care and attention than he alone can give them. Simon simply needs to be here. He can toughen up his hands, sweat out decades of accumulated toxins, get fit and achieve something tangible that Cheryl won’t be able to rip away from him. Under the twinkling stars, surrounded by the sweet breath of his grapes, Bill imagines Simon returning to Tawa wiry and clear-eyed, bearing a crate of their first vintage as a parting gift.

  On the afternoon of Simon’s certain arrival—Bill confirmed Simon’s departure at first light—he gets a call. It’s Simon, presumably calling for directions on the rural roads.

  ‘Where are ya?’

  ‘Yeah, Bill, I’m at home. Cheryl—’

  ‘You’re fucking kidding me! What? She needs her arse wiped one last time?’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Jeez, Bill. Just later is all. I’ll see you tonight.’

  Bill counts to seven. ‘Simon, if it’s not tonight, I’ll have to hire someone. You’ll still be welcome later on but I won’t be able to pay you.’

  ‘Right, right. It’s just that… look…’

  ‘So what time will I see you?’

  ‘Um.’

  Appeal to his stomach. ‘So I can have dinner ready? About eight?’

  A few seconds elapse, during which Simon’s hand briefly slips from the mute button and Bill catches a shard of Cheryl’s voice. Simon’s return is heralded by a sigh. ‘Yeah, eight’s good. See you then.’

  Midnight, Bill thinks.

  It’s a gloriously mild and still night. Bill flings the door and windows open, plays Mozart loud and leaves lights on. Simon called from Dannevirke and is due around nine. Bill had exclaimed ‘Yes!’ after hanging up. Two men, focussed and working hard, will quickly get on top of things and make the vineyard a working concern. It’ll be great getting the ball rolling together. There won’t be a lot of wine but it will be special. And it’ll be wonderful to have company again, to catch up with Simon and have some good, long leisurely chats while working.

  The call from the gate at 10.30 pm surprises him, not least because he assumed Simon would get hopelessly lost—or even car-jacked—on the dark rural roads. Bill checks the image from the camera at the gate. His son’s face is fatter and more bereft than it’s ever been.

  ‘It’s me,’ Simon says.

  The wide-angle camera shows nothing untoward, so Bill activates the gate. �
�Welcome,’ he says into the mic, his voice jumping slightly from underuse. I hope I got you in time, he thinks, as he steps outside and waits at the top of the drive under the star-salted sky.

  The car lights up the hedge down where the drive curves. Simon’s actually made it! Just as Bill exhales a breath of satisfaction, a whine reaches his ears. The electric engine is over-revving. Something’s wrong. He considers getting his gun. The car crawls up the hill, its engine racing like a sewing machine. Of course, he thinks, Simon’s car has crapped out. And I’ll have to pay for it. Yet Bill’s happiness does not desert him, even as the car comes to a sticky halt and releases an odour of burning plastic.

  Simon’s door opens and Bill is aghast at how overweight his son has become. Simon climbs mostly out of the car and then ejects himself to be free of it. In his arms, Simon is newly large and solid, and smells of sweat, a long hot drive, and something else touchingly familiar.

  Bill smiles. ‘Had to stretch to get my arms around you, son.’

  ‘I’m officially obese. It’s a first for me.’

  ‘We’ll send you back as fit as a fiddle.’

  Simon has already turned away. As if he’s too beaten to even entertain the notion of fitness, Bill thinks. How sad.

  He has opened the rear door and is retrieving something.

  A gift? Bill thinks, brightening. We’ll give gifts to each other.

  ‘There, there.’ Simon backs out and straightens with his load. It’s a baby—Cheryl’s bastard daughter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cheryl can’t look after her and the boys and run the house. It’s too much for her.’

  ‘But Simon…’

  ‘It’s okay, Dad. I’ve got the bottles and formula and stuff. Just a bit short on nappies. I was going to stop for some but the car started playing up.’

  Bill stares at the sleeping baby. Brown, with a mop of black hair.

  ‘She can lie under the vines when we’re working,’ Simon says. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  25

  It’s midnight by the time Jeremiah begins to set up the telescope of his vision, the black retro model with the classic silhouette seen on decks and balconies in House & Garden’ssuperior homes. It was retrieved completely unscathed from the Rimutuka Tunnel. Because it’s essentially just a barrel containing lenses, all that needs to be assembled is the long-legged collapsible tripod. As he screws wingnuts on to bolts, he schedules late-night training slots at home—sufficient, he hopes, to obtain basic planetary competence (effortless location of Mars, and so on) for the housewarming party. Mention of this nascent hobby has been studiously avoided during Recreation and Interests time at Sky Park. Rather, his astronomy will be unveiled at the housewarming in a compelling display of managerial soulfulness.

  There’s something soothing in the repetitive assembly process. Lately Jeremiah’s spent free midnight hours on Just Sayin’, the special intranet site at Sky Park and all of Venture Group’s brick-and-mortar offices, which provides a stimulating collaborative workspace. Excess energy is burned and intuitions shared on Just Sayin’. At Venture Group Tower, contributions could be fingerprinted; at Sky Park they cannot. The conception space is not curated and anonymity is assured. It’s a bottom-up approach, an alternative seeding ground. Insights shared (seeds) can be as ephemeral as fleeting thoughts, organic in the way they are launched on three-second lifespans, known as pulses, to be forgotten or picked up by a collaborator who happens to be there at the right time. Seeds are, among other things, telescoped (expanded on), reversed (turned back to front), plaqued (set in stone because they’re perfect) and space-stationed (identified as the basis for a complex new multidisciplinary new project). Just Sayin’ is all about synchronicity, spontaneity, gut-feeling and uncritical creativity.

  The messages Jeremiah saw when he first logged on at Sky Park didn’t make sense. He was both intimidated and thrilled. It was different from the Tower: the rhythm faster, the shorthand cryptic—more proof of his arrival at the Golden Gate. All of the messages (taking the form of acronyms and symbols) were pulsed, lived briefly like shooting stars. Then there would be a flurry of activity, a brief meteor shower as the inscrutable minds raised themselves in excited discussion. Yet after an outbreak, nothing was plaqued. Here was something new for Jeremiah, mastery of Just Sayin’ was something to aspire to. Yet his excitement towards the conceptual space has turned over the last few nights into trepidation and anxiety. He’s nowhere near cracking it. It’s nice to be assembling a telescope tripod in the open air and scheduling time on his own project.

  His mind drifts to his usual telescope fantasy, of magisterial command of the heavens before senior management, on to sex with Tiroli in the spa pool (everything’s so easy and she’s wants him so badly), to the reality of the housekeeper interviews they will conduct tomorrow morning. Three candidates over breakfast. All women, all local. He has already conceded to himself that a Latina bombshell in a little black dress and with a feather duster is unlikely. Still, only one of the candidates is middle-aged; the other two are local young women from outside the Golden Gate and will no doubt be impressed and eager to please. As he screws on the last wingnut, it strikes him that astronomy will be a good way to wind down after work every night, to slow down in a constructive way, rather than watching the meteor show on Just Sayin’, or lying in bed with a racing brain. The barrel slots into place nicely and he swings it skywards with a fluid motion. The moon is low in the eastern sky, on its way down. As the manual suggests, he selects the weakest eyepiece to locate the desired object. ‘Here we go!’ he says, leaning in for his first look.

  In the black circle jumps the horn of a flickering, liquid half-moon. He finds the correct knob to tighten and fix it steady. Eyelash shadows. The moon has slipped almost out of frame by the time he adjusts the focus knobs. The twist of a tracking knob proves lucky. The moon’s top horn resolves, loosens, tightens and becomes cratered, sunlit terrain. Yes. Two finer-dialled knobs centre it, but he can’t relax with the prospect of having to manually adjust the telescope every 30 seconds. The manual, he sees, recommends an automatic tracking device for moon-viewing, sold separately.

  ‘Moon-viewing,’ he says, fearing that the first three to five seconds on low magnification were the peak experience of it, after which will follow a train of diminishing returns. He centres the body of the crescent-moon and studies it. It looks bright mainly. Bright and cold like snow, yet dry like dust. A place with different rules, without air and water. Bombarded by radiation. He exhales. No place for people, he thinks, or warm-blooded aliens. He doesn’t know what else to think.

  Karen’s sitting up in bed with her work table, sketching on paper as she flicks through images on her tablet.

  ‘Come and have a look at the moon.’

  ‘Took you long enough to find it.’

  He sees that she’s amused herself. She folds the duvet over and swings her legs onto the floor. The whiteness of her T-shirt is lunar. The blackness of her hair is space-like.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she says. ‘Quick, quick, tell me what it’s like.’

  ‘Your T-shirt.’

  She smirks as she walks past him.

  He follows a few steps behind. Her skin is browner against the white. He wonders if she sunbathes in the privacy of their estate and if she does so nude. It’s been ages since he saw her naked, let alone made love to her. Then again, it’s been ages since they had a spare minute together—her schedule makes it almost impossible. He wonders. A quick hoist of the T-shirt would be revealing, but he resists the temptation. She’s touchy, so he will bide his time.

  The telescope looks impressive in the corner of the outdoor entertainment area.

  ‘Ooooh,’ she says, and he feels encouraged. However, the moon’s low position above the horizon combined with the height of the tripod at full extension means she can’t quite reach the eyepiece. ‘How about Sam’s planet instead?’

  ‘You know, I first dreamed of a telescope around the time that Sam a
rrived.’

  ‘Sleep-dreamed?’

  ‘Yeah. I dreamed we were in the Golden Gate. The telescope seemed to be the key to my promotion.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Then the house was surrounded by a forest of diseased commercial corn.’

  He expects her to laugh. She doesn’t.

  Rather than lower the tripod and relocate the moon, he takes an adjustable stool from the outdoor bar, lowers it and directs her to kneel on it.

  She climbs on, holding his shoulder to keep steady as peers into the eyepiece. ‘What moon?’

  ‘Huh?’ She leans back to give him space and he looks in the eyepiece. The moon’s moved on, not even leaving a glow. Nothing changes with the fine adjustment knob. The bigger tracking knob generates a white flash, eyelashes, and then all is black. He must find the moon again by gross general pointing and guessing again. ‘Fucken thing.’

  She coughs.

  He latches on to a white quiver and centres it using the large and small knobs, more efficiently this time. ‘Got you.’ The bright white chalk certainly has an exotic grain to it. But really, is the silent, slipping thing worth it?

  Karen kneels on the stool again. While he was relocating the moon she knotted her hair up in a bun. She moves a stray tendril behind her ear and looks. Thirty seconds pass, far longer than he anticipated she would need to pass judgement, given her instinct for the visual. The skin is paler on the nape of her neck, he sees, where it’s been shielded from the sun by her hair when down. Her breasts were pale the last time he saw them, on the night they moved in and used the garden spa pool. He imagines her walking around the house naked all day. Using one of her toys on the roof. Sipping tea afterwards, still nude, and stroking the cat. Cutting fabric and walking around with pins in her mouth. He moves close, places his thumbs in her shoulders, where she likes it. Her head droops from the eyepiece. He works the muscles. Her cotton T-shirt smells of sun and her warmth. A delicious aroma. Funny how men praise wine bouquets to the sky, he thinks, but let this kind of thing go unremarked. She leans back, and he reaches around to take the weight of her breasts in his hands. Brushes her nipples. She tips her head back and sighs.