The Architecture of Song

by Gary Crew

  Augustus thought about that. ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Besides, he’s never seen her, so it can’t be him that’s putting her off.’

  Da Silva frowned, wondering. He knew what Stan thought of him. ‘Then again,’ he said, cheering, ‘nor has Rosa. But she believes.’

  ‘She believes in you,’ Augustus corrected. ‘That’s the difference.’

  ‘Let’s not look for reasons,’ Da Silva countered. ‘I never have before. Sylvie will appear. I know.’

  So they fell silent, kicking up sand as they walked.

  That night as they lolled on their leafy pallets sipping tea, Rosa said, ‘Da Silva, when you first came to our cottage in Booval, how did you get there?’

  He laughed. ‘Matter of fact, I caught the train.’

  ‘With your doves?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘And didn’t she …?’

  ‘Sylvie?’ he suggested.

  ‘Didn’t Sylvie bring her finches?’

  ‘She did. We sat in the guard’s van, at the back. My doves nestle under my shirt when I travel. Sylvie keeps her finches caged. It’s all right.’

  ‘How do you know who wants these birds?’

  ‘It’s a feeling that I have. That Sylvie has too.’

  ‘A feeling?’

  ‘Some communication. Some knowing. Like, we knew what Augustus did in the library. When he set the books flying. Like doves. Like white doves, fluttering. When he sang poetry to life. We just knew. So we took him a gift …’

  ‘And made me a cage,’ Augustus added, for veracity.

  They sat, sipping in silence, until Rosa said, ‘So there’s a railway station at Helidon?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘And how long does it take to get to Booval?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘So why have I been hiring a pony and trap?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she mused, making Augustus uncomfortable.

  Later, while Da Silva slept, Rosa came to sit on the pallet beside Augustus. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she groaned, stretching.

  ‘Oh?’ he said, only half caring.

  ‘Could we talk?’ she asked, lying down, her head on his pillow, waiting.

  ‘Why?’ he asked the dark, finally.

  Satisfied that she had him, she said, ‘You are aware, no doubt, of my feelings for Da Silva?’

  ‘I’m aware that you have feelings for him,’ Augustus replied. ‘I have heard your whisperings, through the hessian, when you sit with him outside. But I have no understanding of their nature. Not exactly, since it isn’t any of my business.’

  ‘No one can ever know the exact nature of feelings,’ she said, turning to gaze into the rafters. ‘They are experiences of considerable inexactitude.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he said, mainly to let her know that he was not entirely stupid, or worse, immature.

  ‘But since I have known you most of your life, and you know me better than anyone,’ she turned to him, there on the pillow, their faces inches apart, ‘then I suppose I can confess to both awe, and lust.’

  ‘Lust?’ he spat. ‘I thought the concept disgusted you.’

  ‘It does. It did back there, at that house. That lust entrapped. Enslaved. But what I feel for Da Silva is lust in love, which is very different. Liberating, dare I say?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Augustus muttered. ‘Especially that you feel for Da Silva and not for me.’

  ‘Very funny,’ she chuckled. ‘Although it is interesting, particularly since I never expected to feel anything for a man again. After what I went through at Miss la Vie’s, you understand. And with that Barkus person.’

  ‘They were purely business transactions, weren’t they?’ Augustus offered, rolling away in the hope that this intimacy would end.

  ‘Well said!’ she declared. ‘You’re smarter than I thought.’

  For a midget, he might have added. For a dwarf. But considering he wanted her to leave, he did not. Instead, he said, ‘Thank you.’ The implication terminal.

  ‘Da Silva’s body is a wonder to me,’ she sighed, not taking the hint.

  One day, Augustus thought, a woman will say that to me. I know it. I am certain. When I am grown. When I have become. But he heard himself saying, ‘So much for lust; what about awe?’ And he was surprised to hear sobs.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she squirmed. ‘I’m sorry. Love is so confusing. I talk rubbish sometimes.’

  Seeing that she suffered he sank back, not asking for more. And so they lay, side by side, these two, as they had never done, until, with a sniff, she said, ‘Augustus, I am sorry. I really came to tell you something else.’

  ‘Oh?’ he grunted, careless.

  ‘I wanted to tell you that I have decided to live here. That I’m going to live with Da Silva. Now that I know I can catch the train and still work at the library, and still earn money, and come and go, I would like to do that. Would that be all right with you?’

  He was taken by surprise. Surely this was not his Rosa. Surely this was not that girl he had once known, that great lump in that awful red dress, her hair all frizzed and carroty, who had bossed him about in the circus, who had dominated his life (or had she made it?) and doubting, he scrambled up to stand away.

  ‘What about Stan? What will Stan do?’ he demanded.

  She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair wild, her cheeks teary. ‘This has nothing to do with Stan,’ she informed him. ‘I’m not living my life for Stan. I’m not that monkey. I’m not that Hogarth.’

  No, he thought, you’re not. You’re his murderer, which is a thing to be considered. ‘I can’t leave Stan,’ he said. ‘He would never leave me.’

  She looked up, shocked. ‘What? You’d choose him over me?’

  ‘You left both of us for that librarian.’

  ‘We already talked about that. That was business. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Dirty business,’ he said, surprising himself.

  ‘But you did all right out of it, eh,’ she snarled. ‘Like you did all right out of Miss la Vie’s. Out of me, all your life, I reckon.’

  He looked down at her, wondering. ‘So maybe it’s time to end that life,’ he said, his mouth taking on a life of its own. ‘So maybe it’s time we both sorted out who we preferred. Me with Stan and you with Da Silva. How about that? I mean it’s not like we’re getting a divorce. It’s not like we’re husband and wife.’

  She gaped, astonished. ‘When did you get so smart?’ she demanded.

  ‘Well, isn’t that what you’re implying? That we’re some sort of pair?’

  She sat, silent.

  ‘Rosa?’ he encouraged. ‘Rosa?’

  ‘Yes,’ she yelled. ‘And no!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Tell me.’

  She rolled onto her back, breathing deeply, composing herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am in awe of Da Silva. I’m in awe of his presence. Not just his physical presence, but who he is. How he knows things. His intuition. And his stories, of course. His “Once upon a time …” Ah! But no, I wasn’t implying that you and I are some sort of couple, like married. That’s horrible. But yes, I’m in awe of you too. There, I’ve said it. I’m in awe of you too.’

  Augustus covered his mouth, stifling a laugh. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he chuckled. ‘Especially my body. That’s the horrible part, hey?’

  She stood. She went to him. She put one hand on his shoulder and one under his chin, lifting his face to hers. ‘I’m in awe of your spirit. How you always bounce back. How you never complain. I’m even in awe of how you think; at least the thoughts that you express, if that makes sense. But most of all I’m in awe of your voice. I always have been, since that very first time. Since we talked about Melba, back there in the circus, and you sang me that song about that ship, a trim white vessel as I remember, appearing on the horizon. I couldn’t say so then, I was too stupid, too proud, I reckon, but I knew. I knew even then that I loved the spirit in you
r voice. And now, believe it or not, since I’ve seen, there’s that episode in the library. The bloody miraculous …’ She dropped to her knees to hug him to her. ‘Augie,’ she sighed. ‘Augie, you could stay. You must. For my sake. Like our boy. Like our son. Stay. Please.’

  Augustus arched away, fearful. What was this? What was happening? Had she no idea? He was eighteen years old. He was a man. Almost. Or becoming … Gripping her hair, he attempted to drag her up. ‘No, Rosa,’ he cried. ‘Don’t say things like that. Don’t say things you never said before. You shouldn’t talk like that. You really shouldn’t.’

  She hugged him tighter, weeping.

  ‘Rosa,’ he pleaded. ‘Rosa …’

  She rocked backwards, releasing him. ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she moaned. ‘You’ve been with me all my life. But I don’t want to lose him either. I never loved a man before. Not like that …’

  ‘Rosa,’ he said, ‘I might be a dwarf, but I’m a man first. Or nearly. I’m not your boy and never was. And I’m certainly not your son.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered. ‘Sorry. That slipped out. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he assured her. ‘It’s okay. You’re all worked up. We say stupid things. But what about Stan? Doesn’t he deserve someone? Even a monkey, eh?’

  She caught her breath when he said that, and looked up.

  ‘I know about Hogie,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I’ve known for ages. That Needly Phyllis told me. I saw her in Ipswich.’

  ‘Does Stan?’

  ‘Not unless you told him. I sure didn’t. And I never will.’

  ‘Stan doesn’t like me,’ she sniffed. ‘He never has, ape or no ape. So it makes no difference, I reckon.’

  He accepted that, but added, whispering almost, ‘Yet he’s been so close. So close. I can’t leave him. I just can’t.’

  ‘I’ve been stupid,’ she admitted. ‘All my life. And selfish. But I never had anything. Never had anyone, except you and Stan. So I wanted to stay with you. Not Stan anymore, because he doesn’t care; he doesn’t like Da Silva much either. But you could stay with me. With Da Silva. The three of us. That’s what I want. In this place. This temple …’

  ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Come on, get up.’ And when she did, sniffing and wiping her face, he led her to the pile of rocks that was her altar. ‘This is a shed,’ he said, indicating. ‘A tin shed in the bush. And this is a pile of rocks. No altar, like you make out, with incense and doves, but a pile of rocks. Rocks, see? And I’m a dwarf. Okay? That’s how it is and how it always will be unless, as you say, there’s a miracle. Unless I can sing myself otherwise. Unless I can reconstruct myself through song.’

  ‘I would have laughed once,’ she said. ‘I would have said that you were a loony. That you were nuts, but now I’m beginning to believe. And Da Silva would, I know.’

  ‘When Rosa?’ he demanded. ‘When? I’m sure it has to be before my voice breaks, before I turn into a proper man in a boy’s body. Like Little Donny. Before I lose my voice, you understand …’

  ‘You think that you will?’ she asked, betraying a tremor of doubt. ‘That you can?’

  ‘Sometimes. Every time I sing, I think will be this be the time? Will the change come, and I worry. I worry …’ And suddenly conscious of his meanderings, he stopped. ‘Now I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s enough. We’ve both been talking tommyrot. Here, let me make you a cuppa. All right?’

  So, having got her up, he sat her down. And when she was settled he made the tea. And as she sipped there by that pile of rocks, he said, ‘Rosa, I know that I should save my voice. I know that I should make every song count, and that I said I wouldn’t but I will. After all these years, I will sing for you. I will. Because I know that you believe,’ and planting his tiny feet, he sang:

  O for the wings, for the wings of a dove,

  Far away, far away would I rove.

  Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove,

  Far away, far away would I fly.

  In the wilderness build me a nest,

  And remain there forever at rest,

  In the wilderness build me,

  There would I build me,

  And remain there forever at rest.

  As Augustus sang, in the midnight heat, the rafters warped and cracked, the possums fled, the lizards, the wasps, and the roofing tin, once so limiting, rose up in sheets, pure and perpendicular, to form a tower, a spire, a steeple – a flute, was it? – directing his sweet breath, his glorious song, out there, beyond the stars.

  ‘This is my home,’ Rosa sighed, wondering. ‘My spiritual home. My temple. Your song my incense, ascending.’ So saying, she whooshed him to stand, ascendant, upon that sandstone altar.

  And in the morning, when Augustus woke, his adult teeth were down.

  THE NECROPOLIS

  FOR MOST, THE DESCENT of adult teeth is not an event to lose sleep over; but when that descent is accompanied by – or possibly provoked by – the miraculous ascent of a tower, a spire or a steeple on the low-pitched roof of a galvanised shed in the bush, and the person whose teeth so descended is more than eighteen years of age, then it is little wonder that the said person should suffer a degree of nocturnal disturbance, if not downright sweaty insomnia, as did Augustus.

  While some of this disturbance was attributable to his dreaming of the finch girl, the real cause of Augustus’s distress lay deeper. Every morning when he woke, eyeing the jumble and crumple of pillows and sheets, it was not the extent of the washing or bed-making that distressed him but the possibility, drawing closer by the day, that the descent of his teeth might herald the end of his adolescence and the terrifying advent – not to be denied, if Little Donny had it right – of terminal adult dwarfism; the cessation of construction on that singing site, his body. And if anything else happens down there, he thought, furtively checking beneath the sheets, my Big Broad Man, my Captain in White, My Hope, My Future, is doomed.

  Yet, when Augustus showered – all sweaty from his dreaming, his night-time fears and horrors – he cheered himself in this: Though my throat feels dry at times, even sore, my voice is not gone, not broken, not yet, so he might sing a bit of Melba or a bar or two of Caruso, to make sure.

  It was under that shower, at the back of the cottage at Booval, that the possibility of another change occurred.

  Perhaps more than a possibility.

  An epiphany, even.

  One morning, after another turgid night, having lathered himself all over, Augustus dropped the soap.

  In itself, soap-dropping is not an unusual event, and given Augustus’s proximity to the ground, would ordinarily be a matter of no consequence, but the design of this shower, which was extraordinary, contributed significantly to his illumination.

  Set beneath a four-stumped tankstand draped all round with potato sacks, under a perforated kero tin suspended there, was a slab of concrete, the whole (stumps, sack, kero tin and slab) being called ‘the shower’, pre-eminently. And if the bar of Sunlight was dropped, as happened to Augustus that morning, it slithered, all greasy and gritty, across that slab, beneath those sacks, ending up in the surrounding garden to sink into that coal-black Boovalonian dirt, among the spotty-leaved caladiums there: the droopy khaki of the alocasia, the weedy coleus, all wan and wilting in the soapy damp.

  So Augustus bent to retrieve, sliding his tiny hand beneath the dripping sacking, and as he did, he observed with a certain astonishment the peculiar colour of the concrete slab beneath him. Ordinarily, this was an unremarkable grey although, having a coal miner in the house, the slab was, at times (depending on Stan’s shifts down pit), streaked black. But this morning, the slab was red, a curious sandy red, which reminded Augustus of something, somewhere, someplace, that he could not quite recall.

  Forgetting the soap, he stood erect, turning around and around, looking down into the red-tinged water.

  Who has been here? he wondered. This is not the colour of ou
r black Boovalonan dirt, nor that of the pit. Who has showered here? And seeing Stan’s stripy towel on the nail, he took it down to look. Sure enough, the towel was red, the colour on the slab, and he remembered then, in a flash, this was the colour of Helidon, the sandstone red from the bush, since he had walked that path so often.

  That evening, as they sat together on the front steps, watching three black ants running the crazy path towards the gate, Augustus said, ‘Stan, have you been out to Helidon?’

  ‘That a trick question?’ Stan muttered, not being adept at deceit.

  Augustus observed the ants appearing and reappearing under and over the rocks in the path and said, ‘Not with me and Rosa. I mean alone.’

  ‘I dropped you and Rosa and took meself down the pub,’ Stan said, in an attempt.

  Augustus turned to look at him, putting all thoughts of those tricky black ants out of his head. ‘Stan,’ he said, ‘I saw red sand in the shower. On the concrete slab. And your towel. Unless I’m mistaken, you were the last one to use the shower before me. Last night, when you came home. Weren’t you?’

  Stan shrugged, wearying.

  ‘Stan,’ Augustus said, reaching out to take his hand, ‘you have always told me the truth. I think …’

  ‘I have,’ Stan said, smarting. ‘You don’t have to think. I have.’

  ‘Well?’ Augustus wondered.

  Stan sat, tracking the dodging ants. ‘I hired that horse,’ he admitted, finally. ‘I been out Helidon way a cuppla times. Lookin’…’

  ‘For what?’ Augustus wanted to know.

  Stan shrugged.

  ‘Not her? Not that silver girl? Not the one with the finches?’

  Now Stan turned to him, looking down, frowning, which was rare. ‘Me?’ he asked, wide-eyed. ‘Me lookin’ for the finch girl? Why?’

  ‘So why did you go?’

  Stan looked for the ants. They were nowhere to be seen, those tricksters. ‘To be near you, eh,’ he grunted.

  ‘But I’m here, Stan!’ Augustus scoffed. ‘I’m right here beside you.’