by Sean Rabin
I need to know if you’re having problems with your memory.
Lucian paused and stared across the coffee table. His instinct was to deny everything and counter attack, and it was taking a surprising amount of will-power to resist both.
I don’t think the reason you’ve hired me is so you can write an autobiography. I think the reason I’m here is to help you keep track of your past so you can either finish the book you’re currently writing, or just prevent people from learning there’s a problem for as long as possible. Because there is a problem, isn’t there? I can tell. The short temper. The forgetfulness. If we’re going to continue working together then I need to know what’s happening, otherwise we’re going to keep having these misunderstandings that become full-blown arguments, which are both boring and exhausting. I can appreciate why you’d want to hide something like this. It must be incredibly upsetting. And I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through. But I think now is the time to do me the courtesy of telling the truth. Because if you don’t I fear you’re going to lose an assistant, and I’m going to lose the privilege of working for you.
Lucian sat back with a sad, defeated smile. Here I was thinking I was doing such a good job at disguising it…but it appears not. You’re right of course. Something is wrong. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I assume it’s Alzheimer’s. I can’t really be bothered to go to a doctor to have it diagnosed. I don’t need a name for whatever it is. And I doubt there’s anything that can be done to slow it down. I’m old enough. I’ve had a good time. And I don’t want their drugs getting in the way of my thoughts while I’m trying to finish a book. You’re right, I’m not writing an autobiography. But writers are always incorporating people and places from their lives. It’s unavoidable no matter how hard we try to resist. That’s why I chose you specifically. Because you already know so much about me and my work. I need you to help me remember the things I might have forgotten. That I probably have forgotten. I need you to be the part of my brain that’s dying. And after I’m gone you get to write the definitive biography of Lucian Clarke. But only after I’m gone. Until then you work for me, and finish that novel you’ve started writing. A book will teach you more about what it means to be an author than all the stuff in that office. And I only need three more months. After that, if I’m still compos mentis, we can reassess the situation. Of course if I start losing it before then you’re free to call the doctors and have me taken away. I’ve instructed my lawyers to give you power of attorney. And I’ve filled out a ‘Do not resuscitate’ order. But all that’s a long way off. Things aren’t too bad yet, and won’t be for quite a while. I can still cook and write and listen to music, and smoke as much pot as the next man. For the moment it’s just a bad case of forgetfulness. So at present all I need you to do is not tell anyone and keep working. But maybe at a faster pace. Days off are a luxury I can’t afford anymore.
58.
1998 – While working on the final draft of Lady Cadaver you agree to take care of a friend’s apartment in Pisa for nine months. At night you walk along the River Arno, attend open-air cinemas screening Hollywood blockbusters overdubbed with Italian, and visit the nearby monuments that appear to be made of phosphorescent bones. A nunnery adjacent to your apartment has pigeon chicks hiding in its eaves. Down the street an opera singer practises every evening at 6pm. The owners of a nearby café learn what time you take your coffee and try to teach you Italian. The only words you master are numbers and the names of the vegetables you buy at the daily market in the town square. The butcher yells ‘kangaroo’ in greeting whenever you enter his store to buy a chop. And every other week the local baker attempts to give you back the wrong change. It is perhaps the happiest place you have ever lived. The tourists bus in, look at the leaning tower, the Baptistery, the Duomo, then leave. In the rest of the city their presence is barely felt. On particularly hot days you catch the train to Livorno to swim in the ocean. The journey takes thirty minutes and all the windows are left open for the cool wind to blow through the carriage. You see Grace Fergusson struggling to tame her straight red hair as the wind whips it about her head and gives her the appearance of a Fury. She tries to control it but eventually relents and allows her mane to blow wildly while she reads Wide Sargasso Sea. Her skin is heavily freckled and pink from the sun. She has broad shoulders, and a sharp nose with nostrils that flare provocatively. Her Italian is even more limited than your own, and when the train conductor disputes her biglietti you intervene on his behalf to explain how she needs to validate her ticket in a machine on the platform before boarding a train. Grace has come to Pisa to assist with the opening of an Irish-themed pub. She works nights and you work days. At 2pm you meet for lunch then sleep together until five.
1999 – Grace is the first person to read Lady Cadaver. She is shocked. Mistakes the characters for versions of you. Their desires for your own. The relationship is momentarily destabilised. Your London agent writes back suggesting changes, and questions the wisdom of such a darkly explicit book at the turn of the new millennium. She passes on the rejection letters the manuscript receives from your former editors. Grace reads your two previous novels and begins to understand the type of writer you are. Lady Cadaver finds a publisher.
2000 – Conservative outcry at the content of Lady Cadaver ensures good sales and plenty of reviews. Trips to London allow you and Grace to test your relationship outside the insulation of Pisa. She is fifteen years younger and her parents express concerns about you being too old. They are lifetime residents of Galway, and insist you and Grace marry in their local church. The reception is subdued, and along with half the guests you are struck down with food poisoning.
2001 – Promotion of Lady Cadaver takes you and Grace across North America and Australia. You visit Tasmania for only a few days.
2002 – For six months you live in Melbourne where Grace tries to fall pregnant and fails. Translated editions of Lady Cadaver are released and necessitate a return to Europe for a publicity tour.
2003 – The Irish pub Grace opened in Pisa is struggling and she is offered the role of manager. You return to Pisa but the city feels different. Your first attempt at a new book fails painfully. The marriage begins to fragment.
2004 – Grace has an affair with a co-worker and falls pregnant.
2005 – The marriage dissolves and you return to Tasmania alone.
59.
Frigid wind pierced all three layers of Michael’s clothing as he stood on the highest edge of Bronwyn’s Chin – a giant bolder that jutted out from the forest on the south face of Mount Wellington. His shoulders hunched, nose began to run, teeth hurt, and it took no effort whatsoever to imagine that beyond the sharp line of the horizon stood Antarctica. However, as soon as he had established a reliable footing Michael was able to concede that the two-hour hike had been worth it. Below him he could see the course of the Derwent River all the way to the ocean, and the pattern of beaches and bays it had carved through the southeast corner of Tasmania. Surrounded by such ancient trees, and standing on an enormous slab of metallic grey stone, Michael felt an urge to connect with the landscape. To interact with it more profoundly than just moving across its surface. He wanted to feel nature beneath his skin – in his blood – an interaction that would remove all sense of disconnection between himself and his environment. He was struck by such a wave of yearning it almost sent him off balance.
Lucian grabbed his arm. You all right?
Thanks. This wind is a little intense.
We should get back. Those clouds look as if they’re heading our way.
Michael shuffled to the lowest edge of Bronwyn’s Chin, jumped to the ground and grabbed a tree trunk to steady his landing. Lucian felt less confident in his abilities, and sat down to slide back inelegantly to the forest floor, where he landed unevenly, fell to his knees and swore with abandon.
You okay?
Of course not. Here, give me a hand up. As Lucian lowered weight onto his left foot a barbar
ous pain shot through his ankle. Jesus.
Michael kept hold of Lucian’s elbow. Is it broken?
How do I know? Feels like it might be.
It was already past 3pm. In a couple of hours the sun would be gone for another day. They did not have enough clothes and food to spend the night in the open, especially if the weather was about to turn. And if Michael went ahead alone it would take four or five hours for help to get back, presuming of course he could retrace his steps in the dark. Once again the possibility of stealing Lucian’s latest novel occurred to him. But he knew the manuscript was not yet complete, and the circumstances of a bush-walking accident were far too dubious.
Think you can lean on me?
Let’s give it a try.
Lucian reached across Michael’s back, grabbed his far shoulder, and took a few clumsy steps. On such a steep incline it was difficult for the two bodies to stay knitted together, so Michael unfastened his belt, linked it with Lucian’s, then rethreaded it back around his trousers. He then took off his jacket, removed his shirt, twisted it into a rope and tied their knees together. Lucian’s calf was about four centimetres shorter than Michael’s, so his injured foot remained off the ground as they three-legged it in the direction of Wood Green.
After an X-ray at The Royal Hobart Hospital a doctor pronounced Lucian’s ankle to be severely sprained and, with a generous dose of painkillers, instructed him to stay off it for at least two weeks. Michael accompanied the injured author back up the mountain, and slept on a couch in the sunroom in case Lucian needed anything in the middle of the night.
60.
Tim leaned through the kitchen doorway. That was Carl on the phone. He’s coming in next week to do some training.
Maureen looked up from The Gallery by John Horne Burns. What day?
Thursday.
Okay.
Tim waited for his wife to expand on her confirmation but her attention immediately returned to her book. Does that mean you’ll be here to help?
Maureen held her eyes on the page. It’s only Friday, so who can say? But if I’m here I’m sure I’ll lend a hand.
Well that’s big of you. Thanks. Me and the rest of the stock will all be waiting to see if you’ll grace us with your presence.
Are you implying I don’t do enough around here?
I didn’t say anything of the sort. Those words never even left my mouth. Once again you’re accusing me of things you’ve imagined I’ve done.
Don’t try to play that bullshit game. Who the hell closed up shop for the past four nights because you had a little sniffle? And then you insinuate I’m not pulling my weight. What a jerk.
And you’re a crazy bitch.
Fuck off.
Watch me. The moment this place is off our hands you won’t see my dust.
Go now if you want. I’ll send you a cheque.
I don’t think so. Your idea of fifty per cent is not always the same as mine.
Now you’re accusing me of being a thief? Anything else you’d like to add? Murderer? Adulterer?
The possibility of Maureen being unfaithful had never occurred to Tim before, and with it came the realisation that once they separated she would be free to have sex with whomever she wanted. Tim had dedicated countless hours to imagining himself with women other than his wife, but so far had failed to picture Maureen undressing for anyone beside himself. It sparked jealousy in his veins. And like the moment when all the features of the office had abruptly emerged, Tim was now suddenly awake to qualities of Maureen’s beauty that years of marriage had allowed him to take for granted. The soft lines beside her eyes; the elegance of her stockings and shoes; her perfect stillness as she read a book; the tips of her painted fingernails holding open a page. Tim stood staring. Thinking. One more time. After all the years they had spent together…just one more time. The anger that sought to continue the argument was suddenly usurped by another internal drive.
You’re right, he said in a conciliatory tone. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I know how hard you work. And I appreciate it. I really do. I can take care of Carl’s training. How difficult could it be, right?
Maureen refused to concede the moral high ground and pulled herself away from her book. I’m sorry too. Let’s not do that again. Remember we promised. No more arguments.
Agreed, said Tim, who looked for a moment longer, then returned to the shop.
61.
Andrew held his head down pretending to read a very important document while waiting for Michael to walk past the reception desk. Found yourself a local girl have you?
Pardon?
She’ll be expecting a ring if you keep spending the night at her place.
Um, I don’t have a…
Don’t worry. I won’t give your secret away. A man like you should have a girl in every city. Why not? Life is for the living, right? If that one from Sydney calls I’ll just tell her you’re working late.
No. Please. Don’t do that.
So I should tell her you haven’t slept in your room for three nights? That seems a little harsh don’t you think? And it’s not really my responsibility to let her know you’ve found someone new.
I don’t need you to tell her anything. And I doubt if she’ll even call. I’m not seeing anyone else. I’m just helping a friend who has injured his leg and can’t move around very well at the moment.
Oh, yes, yes, I see.
It’s the truth.
I believe you. Why would you lie?
So you won’t say anything if Rachel calls?
Is that her name? No, I’ll just take a message.
Thank you.
What are friends for. Will you be staying out again tonight? I find it helpful to know in advance so I don’t bother preparing your breakfast. I can’t stand to see good food going to waste. Every penny counts you know.
Yes, unfortunately, I think I will be. The doctor has told him to stay off it for at least another week. I’ve just come home for a change of clothes.
Another week! My, you are a good friend. Well this is a B&B so I suppose you’re entitled to treat it like a hotel.
Is there something you need to talk to me about? asked Michael.
Me? No, no, nothing. All good here. You just carry on. I can see you’re busy.
Andrew returned to pretending to read and waited for the sound of Michael’s footsteps on the second landing. He then looked up and sighed. As if he was going to believe such a blatant invention. A friend with an injured leg. How ridiculous. He knew Michael had no other friends in Hobart. How could he? Look at how disrespectfully he treated the one he did have. Lying. Deceiving. Really, it was as if Michael believed that Andrew had no brain in his head. But he knew people. They were the bread and butter of his business. Hundreds. Thousands of guests had passed through his B&B over the years, and Andrew had come to appreciate that they were all essentially alike. Michael was no exception to the rule. He had revealed himself to be the same as everybody else. Greedy. Self-centred. Inconsiderate of other people’s feelings. Nothing special. Nothing exceptional. Andrew checked his ledger to see how long it was before Michael was due to pay next month’s rent. Eight more nights. Eight more breakfasts. He drew a line beneath the date to mark the occasion when Michael would witness the real Andrew Tiller. Not the servant who always kowtowed to the petty needs and demands of his guests. But the man, the specimen, the human being of rare and outstanding qualities.
62.
Surprise, said Maureen. Hello, said Lucian. Me too, said Penny. Who’s for champagne? said Paul. I brought you the papers, said Tim. What a lovely surprise, said Lucian. We heard you were injured, said Maureen. Oh, what are those? asked Lucian. Peppers stuffed with anchovies and capers, said Maureen. And these are lamb and eggplant balls, said Penny. How’s the leg? asked Tim. It’s nothing serious, said Lucian. Is everyone having champagne? asked Michael. Of course everyone is having champagne, this is a party, said Paul. A get-well party, said M
aureen. You don’t mind do you? They kept asking if they could pay you a visit, said Michael. Mind? With meatballs like these? said Lucian. See, I told you he’d love them, said Paul. I just thought it might be too early in the day, said Penny. Let’s have some music, said Maureen. To mountain climbers everywhere, said Paul. Cheers, said Michael. Cheers, said Maureen. Cheers, said Tim. Cheers, said Penny. Cheers, said Lucian. I’m just going to get in some more wood for the fire, said Michael. Well that goes down nicely, said Tim. I forgot the music, said Maureen. The CD in the player should be perfect, said Lucian. Is this your library? asked Tim. It’s cold today, isn’t it? said Penny. Logs coming through, said Michael. They’re predicting snow, said Paul. You’ve read all those books? asked Tim. Have a meatball, said Penny. I need to wash my hands first, said Michael. You should have told us about your ankle, said Maureen. Down Sadie, said Michael. We could have made you something to eat, said Penny. I can cook, said Michael. I heard about it from Paul, said Tim. I thought you told me, said Paul. You’re not drinking? asked Maureen. I haven’t heard music like this in years, said Paul. It’s a little early for me, said Penny. Who is it again? asked Paul. Dorothy Ashby, said Lucian. Afro-Harping, added Michael. We should play something like this in the pub, said Paul. I can finish my own sentences, said Lucian. My, these chairs are deep, said Penny. I know you can, said Michael. Did you hear that snow was predicted this week? asked Tim. Paul said, said Michael. Better get ready for the shut in, said Tim. What’s that? asked Michael. The road sometimes gets closed when there’s a heavy snowfall, said Maureen. What a beautiful painting, said Penny. Yes, I forget where I got it from though, said Lucian. Barcelona, said Michael. Could you pass me another of those peppers? asked Paul. Fill her up please, said Tim. I’m fasting twice a week and it’s really helping me to lose weight, said Penny. When I was a boy it seemed to rain all the time in Tasmania, said Paul. See how many shops are closing down along Elizabeth Street? asked Maureen. You can’t tell me things were better when Gunns was around, said Penny. House prices won’t climb much higher, said Tim. Sorry, I’ll clean it up, said Michael. Stop fussing, said Lucian. Matthew is with his grandmother today, said Penny. My leg has been aching all week, said Michael. Pretty good for local bubbly, said Tim. Doctor says I’m not to sit at my desk at the moment, said Lucian. What are you two whispering about? asked Tim. Nothing, said Maureen. I was just saying that you get the government you deserve, said Michael. You’ve been hanging around Lucian too much, you’re starting to sound like him, said Paul. Where’s the bathroom? asked Penny. Any discussion of Australian literature that doesn’t include Alexis Wright’s Carpentaria is irrelevant, said Lucian. We need a new CD, said Michael. Carl is coming in this week to learn the ropes, said Tim. Have you started packing yet? asked Paul. I love this Nathan Davis album, said Maureen. Your kitchen is so clean, said Penny. That’s Michael’s doing, said Lucian. I should be going. We open up in half an hour, said Paul. That’s my cue too, said Penny. We’d better go too, said Tim. Really? asked Lucian. Sadie stay, said Michael. Reminds me of the parties I used to attend in London, said Lucian. When was that? asked Tim. Thanks for coming, said Michael. Oh a long time ago now, another lifetime, said Lucian. We had a lovely time, said Penny. Thanks, said Tim. See you soon, said Paul. He seemed to enjoy himself, said Michael. If there’s anything you need, just ask, said Maureen. Come on flirty, he’s doing fine, said Tim. That goes for me too, said Paul. I will, thanks, said Michael.
