Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  Jeremiah flinches as the first chime strikes. No sonic blows accompany it this time. Laughter rises as the first deep, dull clang fades. But the next peculiarly deep peal of the clock is louder, and each strike increases further in volume, threatening to swell and cross into a deeper hurtful frequency before it subsides. Relief is general at the conclusion of the ten chimes and, as before, embarrassed laughter arises. Those dancers who left the green ballroom in fear return to their partners and positions, and make their apologies.

  Yet the music does not resume. There comes a high-pitched ting-ting-ting: the unmistakable sound of a spoon tapped on crystal.

  ‘Oh, it’s time for the great satirist,’ announces one man.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replies his partner.

  ‘Off you run, then.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Thanks for the dance,’ he calls after the retreating woman. Spreading his arms wide, turning the malevolent staring red sun of his mask around the ballroom, he says, ‘Personally speaking, I’d rather dance than be preached at!’

  It seems that many in the silent chamber agree with him, for few of the fantastic host masked as stars, birds, crones, animals, maidens, ghouls and demons move towards the door.

  ‘Due to sudden illness,’ comes an announcement over the speakers, ‘the Chef will not be performing tonight.’

  Before anyone can react, the music resumes, louder and faster than before. The mood changes. The circle widens as more dancers join in (St Tropez is jostled as they pass her), and within moments it seems the music had never stopped.

  Jeremiah knows that Karen will not take the news as lightly as the dancers. For her and Trix and many other fashionistas, the Chef’s satirical performance was the party’s reason for being. But he’s relieved that his guests will not be bludgeoned by any political or ideological issues on a night off; is happy that no one need draw battle lines or fight for their beliefs under his roof. All that matters now is the promise and threat held close to the heart by a mysterious dance partner.

  ‘St Tropez.’

  Tears cling to her lashes. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘It’s me, Mr Broderick.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Come with me.’

  He leads her away from the whirling dancers, down the hallway, past each doorway radiating coloured light, from which issue the sounds of music spliced with shouts and cries of abandon. For the first time all evening, he feels like a knight, a landowner, as he takes the poor girl’s hand and leads her to safety.

  He opens the back door by the second kitchen and steps through. The little porch is dark. Rain drums hard on the fleet of catering vehicles in the car park. The smell of mud threads the air. St Tropez pauses in the doorway. She’s frozen with fear. He removes his helmet and smiles. ‘I’m sending you home now, St Tropez. Whatever they were paying, I’ll double it.’

  She swallows. ‘Home? But they said there’d be more work if I…’

  He suppresses the urge to do thoughtful squirrel. ‘We’ll find another job for you.’

  ‘But. Really? Well, I live near Carterton.’

  ‘I’ll call a taxi. Do you have your screen on you?’

  She takes off her mask and wipes her eyes. ‘No. They said not to.’

  Jeremiah unpeels the screen on his hip and is about to call a taxi when he changes his mind.

  ‘Take my car. That one. It’ll be much quicker than waiting for a taxi. I’ll key you in, set the coordinates.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you, Mr Broderick.’ She doesn’t move to leave. She doesn’t look at him either, but throws glances over his shoulder.

  He whips off his felt slippers. ‘So, come on, I’ll key you in then.’

  He steps barefoot into the rain, into a cool puddle. She remains in the doorway.

  ‘Okay, wait there. What’s your address?’

  She gives it. He gets in his car and programmes the return trip.

  She’s standing in the small, dark kitchen. ‘All set,’ he tells her. He touches her elbow. ‘Just send it back when you get home. St Tropez?’

  She breathes heavily and blushes in her all-consuming way. She can’t look at him. Wants to say something important, he thinks. Express her gratitude. Her eyes look everywhere but at him. No, he thinks. No. That’s not necessary. His dick stirs. No.

  Her hungry eyes, he notes, have settled on something behind him. He turns. ‘What is it?’ There’s nothing but stacked boxes of food and drink—emergency party supplies.

  ‘Is that cheese?’ she whispers.

  ‘Uh, yes. Er, would you like some?’ He lifts the lid on an opened box and takes out a couple of rounds of soft cheese. ‘Here.’

  She strips one open immediately, impatiently, takes a bite and chews vigorously. He’s astonished.

  The flooding blush again. ‘Sorry, Mr Broderick.’ It seems she might cry. ‘I’m starving.’ Red-faced, she takes another bite.

  There are boxes of olives, sundried tomatoes, chips, dips, cheese and caviar.

  ‘I’ll load the car,’ he says.

  The beat of the waltz and the motion of the dancers in flickering emerald firelight is hypnotic. When the dancers become tired or need to escape to other chambers, all densely crowded now, they are immediately reanimated by the feverish energy that beats around them. And the revelry goes on until everything stops for the striking of the clock at 11, which is observed in anxious silence and then forgotten, and the dance whirls on even more madly than before.

  Jeremiah works the perimeter of the green chamber, tireless and unheeded as he dispenses water and alcohol to those who have danced and are waiting to dance, all the while listening like King Arthur for insights into the true natures of those gathered under his roof. Many compliments are given and exchanged, and not a few are risqué, but none come his way. There are also complaints.

  ‘Trix needs help. I mean, it happens to the best of us, but her last collection was heavily influenced by Chithiah, in my humble opinion.’

  He moves on.

  ‘I don’t want some shitty fashion accounts manager from a shitty semi-gated community in Wadestown breathing all over me as he complains about the two-state world, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Or praises it to the skies! How much worse is that?’

  And on.

  ‘There is beauty among them. And talent. But they seem fixated on that humanoid in New Hokitika. I was told he’s going to save the world—if only we let him. I said there’ll be nothing he can say that we haven’t heard a million times before.’

  ‘True! Quite touching, the hopes they hold.’

  ‘Well, it is something for them to hope for, isn’t it? He’s like a lottery ticket.’

  Jeremiah approaches a group of three and offers his tray. He is ignored.

  ‘The queen has waved at me, but I’m yet to see the king.’

  ‘Head’s too big for his crown, I expect. They’ll be upstairs resizing it. The crown, I mean, not his head. Ha! A lawyer-programmer from Newlands with a cut-price house, a gun deal and a photogenic wife.’

  ‘Look upon our meritocracy, ye of little faith, and marvel.’

  Jeremiah’s ears burn beneath his helmet as he moves away. The disguise, he has to admit, as painful as it is, has had some benefit. But it was different for King Arthur, who knew exactly who he was dealing with when he returned to Camelot in rags. Here, without identity, the true nature of individuals is impossible to assign.

  Gowns have been opening. Cleavage and stomachs are seen. As time goes on, some gowns are unbuttoned as far as respectability allows; others are suddenly unbuttoned entirely. It’s revealing and yet not. All the bodies have benefitted from money. All tattoos and other identifying marks have been concealed with make-up. The coloured light is dim and the guests are mobile, fleeting, fleeing, circulating from chamber to chamber, all masked like denizens from various circles of hell. It’s hard to think, with the chambers being so hot and crowded. The King Arthur situation, Jeremiah decides, doesn’t ap
ply here. Even he couldn’t learn much about his courtiers at a masque like this.

  On the way to refill his tray at the primary kitchen, he glimpses a thick and stumpy erection in the orange room, casually displayed. What does it mean? To generalise about all of the guests, he thinks, is unfair. Differentiating Goldens from fashionistas is sometimes easy but often not. Exuberant models (young, tall) and deteriorated specimens of the super-elderly (hunched, racked by spasms, with awful or minty breath) are pickable as representatives from either camp, but most guests don’t betray themselves so clearly. They’re inclined to whisper in ears, to better preserve their anonymity. And assigning identity through a North American or Australian accent is misleading, because while foreign business elites are flocking to the Wairarapa, plenty of fashionistas have an accent as well, either brought from their home countries, picked up through prolonged exposure to internationals, or fostered out of pretentiousness. The fashionistas are nicer (or does he assume polite people are fashionistas? That’s a turnaround), but also caustic. Yet not all Goldens (with their certain clipped superiority) are hostile. He hears them talk about disasters, the evacuation of Florida, personal aircraft and the Very Fast Plane, problems with domestic help, the weather and immigration. With others, Jeremiah continues to inspire silences upon his approach.

  He avoids Tiroli. He begins to tire. Dismay pools. Jagged barbs of regret tear at him, for all his years of squirrel communications, alternating with bouts of rage towards his incompetent psychologist.

  All the while, the party heats up. Talk of failed states, disease and business opportunities give way to an increase in drinking, gown-loosening, lascivious whispering, laughter and general growing excitement.

  ‘Are you too warm?’

  ‘I’m warming up.’

  ‘Give me a preview.’

  ‘This?’

  ‘Very nice. Can I touch?’

  ‘Not yet. Soon. Maybe.’

  Jeremiah senses Mr Klotch before he sees him. The boss is also making his way around the wall, but unlike Jeremiah his attention is fixed firmly on the spinning dancers. The man’s height and bearing, the leonine head scarcely concealed by a minimal black eye mask: it could be no one else. An electric charge arcs across the room. It’s obvious to everyone that their king is among them, whether they love him or not, yet they ignore his majestic progress as if he is the sun, too bright to gaze at directly.

  Jeremiah forgets he is secretly serving drinks in a waiter’s costume at his own housewarming party, and he remembers: two weeks ago at a winery, after a 50 kilometre ride and two glasses of chardonnay in the sun, Klotch described the infamous Washington Adaptation Model as an ‘enabler of momentum’. Drawing together in to the open book of his hands the bright Lycra-clad executives at the long table, the verdant vineyard and its fountains and architecturally designed cellar door, and indeed all the excellence and sumptuous privilege of the Golden Gate, he’d continued, ‘A certain momentum as vital as the Earth’s turning.’ It was a profound moment. The beautifully deft mission-statement united Klotch’s vision with every Golden seated at that sun-dappled table.

  It was something Jeremiah didn’t mention to Karen at the time, knowing that she wouldn’t understand—as with many of the things that particularly moved him, such as the distinction between prosperity and making money. Jeremiah feels for the first time, in a uniquely visceral sense, the force of one of her objections, and sees why she would perceive the Washington Adaptation Model as corporate fraud rather than an enabler. Yes, things have shifted, for some reason. The nightmarish quality of the evening, which had abated for a while to the level of a common, vaguely anxious dream, is returning in a disturbing fashion as midnight approaches. Karen and Wanda’s warnings ring true for some reason. He fears the dark energy gathering. He is afraid.

  A blunt force strikes his buttocks. A kick! Drinks on his tray spill. Jeremiah spins to face a gold-masked man, who smiles at him. ‘I need a drink, you idiot.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ He offers the tray.

  ‘These are spilled. Get me another.’

  Jeremiah bows and turns to leave. Bang! Another kick, and laughter with it this time, including, terribly, the laughter of Mr Klotch.

  It follows him all the way out of the chamber. At the entrance to the purple room, he searches for Karen’s red gown.

  ‘… better than cattle because they pay to feed and house themselves.’

  ‘So we’re no better than animals to you?’

  ‘Worse, in some ways, in that every now and again you try and improve your lot—as we’re seeing overseas now with these failed states. It’s a balancing act for creators. As with any resource, the trick is to exploit it to the maximum while investing the minimum. Get out when the going’s good, if you have to.’

  ‘Well, I’m speechless.’

  ‘Your type usually are.’

  His shoulder is slapped hard. ‘J-man.’

  ‘Charles?’

  Another cracking slap.

  ‘Charles?’

  The demon-masked guest spins on his heel and walks away.

  ‘Charles?’

  There’s no sign of Karen. Jeremiah turns to see how the insulted Outer reacts. Sensibly, he has walked away. The man remaining, a Golden, judging by his speech, lifts a drink from Jeremiah’s tray and smiles triumphantly. Milk-eyes peer through his demon mask. Black points in white, they’re uncanny, like the light-starved eyes of a denizen of the deep.

  ‘Oh, your lenses have fallen out, sir.’

  ‘No, boy. I took them out.’

  Everywhere milk-eyes stare from masks. So intent was Jeremiah on finding the crimson of Karen’s dress in the crowded room that he hadn’t noticed. And in the orange and white room as well, where Karen is nowhere to be seen, eyes like porcelain centred with drilled black holes surround him. Women’s eyes appear colder to him, under their bright plumes of feather. With a feeling of dread Jeremiah makes his way back into the ballroom just as the music stops dead and the clock begins to ominously tick. In the circle of stilled dancers and shimmering in green light, Klotch stands, milk-eyed also, seemingly blind, gripping Karen’s hand.

  The grassy slope is steep and damp with dew. Bill proceeds slowly, good leg first, one tiny step on the bad and then leading with the good leg again. The consequences of falling over with the baby do not bear thinking about. From somewhere near the house, Simon bellows, ‘Bill, what the fuck are doing with my baby?’

  A fiery clutch at his kneecap halts him. He steps back and straightens his leg. Simon is crunching over the gravel, coming closer again. Puffing, he makes his way down the drive.

  Bill’s screen rings. ‘Fuck it.’ It’s in his back pocket. He has to swap the baby over to dig it out and kill the call. From work, at this hour? He can’t figure out what the fuck they would possibly want.

  ‘Bill?’ Simon returns up the hill, puffing heavily. ‘Is that you?’

  Bill’s screen rings again. This time Simon is the caller. He kills it and mutes the phone. The baby makes a tentative complaint.

  ‘Shhhh.’

  ‘Sol, I’m coming! Daddy’s coming!’ A crack of wood and cry of anger and distress indicate where Simon is trying to break through the hedge. He won’t be able to. It’s like a wall and remains completely motionless despite his assault. ‘Sol!’ Something cracks. Bill’s face is sticky and stings from where he was scratched while negotiating the gap; surely Simon is cutting himself badly. Solangia sends up a shivering cry.

  Van lights come on down at the gate, and a door slams. A horn sounds. Bill’s foot slips and flies up in front of him. The ground meets him hard and his knee explodes with pain. He cries out. He lets the baby down and drags himself back to straighten the leg. ‘Aarrghghgh!’ Pain comes like molten lava. He tries to will it away, channel the profound coolness of the stars. They’re hosts of pain and chaos. They’re partners in awful suffering, joined with the baby’s wailing and the cries of his son calling his disgraced name, united in pain without
end.

  Midnight strikes with a subsonic crunch. Jeremiah turns off his hearing aid, puts down his drinks tray and covers his good ear with both hands. Cries of distress are blocked. Like most of the black-cloaked host, Klotch has fallen to his knees and jammed his fingers into his ears. Karen, thankfully, has got away from him. Jeremiah looks for her. The doorway is crammed with guests, mouths open beneath their masks, calling out in fear and pain. Giant hammer blows. He closes his eyes, makes himself into a ball as the air is crushed again and again. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He feels he’s being shaken apart, that he’ll unravel or liquefy.

  As the last stroke fades away, a ripple of relief rises. Guests regain their feet or extricate themselves from the packed doorway and adjust their masks. Jeremiah’s drinks are taken in a moment. Everyone knows that next time there will be only one stroke to mark the hour. Trolleys of iced champagne are wheeled in.

  From the entrance come fresh cries—of terror, it seems to Jeremiah. Yet among all those in the ballroom, he alone seems concerned. Lips curve into smiles at the sound of the muffled shrieks. As if they are expected and approved of.

  There comes a buzz of growing excitement, pops of champagne corks.

  The sheer black cloaks are being unbuttoned, or shed entirely, sliding to the ground in a brief silky flurry, and the masked guests are revealed in the lunging green light to be naked, or lightly clad in revealing arrangements of leather or lace, or in the more elaborate apparel of bondage. Hunger fills the air as if the revellers are crocodiles about to strike after a long hunt. Jeremiah scans the crowd for someone he knows by body shape. Only one group have revealed normal dress beneath their cloaks, a group of men Jeremiah recognised when cloaked: five unmarried super-elderly men from Accounts. They’re masked as hawks, doughy-jawed beneath steel beaks. They shoulder-slap each other and ostentatiously eye the bodies of the women around them, yet make no move towards their objects of desire, as if afraid of separating. Their collective choice of polo shirts with moleskin cargo shorts is the most peculiar attire in the chamber. Space clears around them. And there’s Ms Felix, from Property, the petite nonagenarian with the slightest of humps, only hinted at beneath her cloak before it fell. The midriff bared by lingerie is undoubtedly hers. Jeremiah recognises the implanted washboard abs which are often revealed in cut-off tops during lunchtime exercise. She stretches luxuriously, along with other scantily clad women in her group, who have all thrown off their cloaks as if they were heavy burdens, thankfully released. Wanda, still in black pants, enters the Accounts circle with the swift assurance of a witch conveyed by broomstick. Black-horned, she towers over the old men and gesticulates with her black talons. Reluctantly, belts are undone and shorts shucked off. Underwear, too. She holds the cowed accountants’ clothes in a gathering pile as, all around them, guests begin to touch each other with hand and mouth.