‘What’s so heavy?’ Sasha nodded at Hamish’s bag. ‘You got a dead body in there or something?’
Hamish didn’t deign to respond.
‘Where are you going?’ Sasha persisted.
‘West.’ Hamish chocked the door open so he could push the bag out of the room.
‘Why leave now? You only just checked in.’
‘I’ve got to . . .’ Hamish paused, irritated. He didn’t owe an explanation to Sasha. Or to anyone, for that matter. He resumed pushing his bag into the corridor.
‘I think I’ll tell the police about you,’ Sasha called, his voice almost sing-song. ‘You’re acting very strangely, my friend.’
As if you’re an impartial assessor of strange, Hamish thought.
‘Oh.’ Delaney stood up at the front desk as he passed, eyeing his bag. ‘You’re not leaving are you?’
Hamish nodded.
‘Is there a problem with the room?’
Hamish was sick of questions. ‘I’ve got some business to attend to,’ he snapped.
He didn’t stop walking until he reached the hatchback, parked some fifty metres away on the other side of the street.
After loading the boot, he sank into the driver’s seat and reclined as far as it would go. He didn’t have the energy to find another place to stay, not at this hour.
Locking the doors, Hamish closed his eyes.
Even behind his eyelids, he could still sense the neon streetlight flickering above him.
8
The evening before they left Adelaide, the Brazilian arrived from the youth hostel carrying a surfboard, a guitar, an enormous backpack and a daypack.
I’m not the only one who can’t travel lightly, Paula thought.
He spent the night in the Gillespie’s spare room, then joined Paula and her family in the ute.
‘Goodbye, love,’ said Shirl, pressing a tissue to the corner of her eyes.
‘Nice to meet you, son,’ added Barry. ‘Enjoy your trip Downunder.’
Paula smiled at how attached to Marcelo the old couple seemed, despite having only just met him.
‘Thanks for everything,’ said Sid, shaking Barry’s hand through the ute’s window. ‘I might come back for an encore next Melbourne Cup.’
‘Please do.’ Shirl laughed. ‘We’ll be ringing you for tips at any rate.’
Their first day on the road together was uneventful, with Marcelo sitting quietly beside Lachie in the ute. Drumming his fingers on his knees in time with the music—Caitlin’s, this time—and asking the occasional question about the passing landscape. It all felt surprisingly natural, Paula reflected, relieved to have her initial concerns allayed.
On arrival in the tiny village of Denial Bay, eight hours west of Adelaide, they were delighted to discover the area’s oyster-growing reputation. Wandering along the main street, they ordered three dozen oysters straight from a grower, before stacking some beers and ice into the esky. Sid struck up a conversation with a craggy-faced fisherman in the general store and, intrigued by the idea of catching one of the region’s blue swimmer crabs, bought some bait and a net too.
They carried the gear down to the long wooden jetty protruding over the bay. Her father set up the crab rig as best he could, then stood up to perform his ‘lucky dance’, as he termed it.
‘Watch this, mate,’ he said to Marcelo. ‘Guarantees a bite every time.’
He executed the dance—a silent hybrid of the chicken dance and the Macarena—with a straight face. Caitlin and Lachie fell about laughing as their grandfather squatted, slapped and swayed his way over the creaking jetty.
Paula wondered what Marcelo might make of it all. Wonderfully, he began mimicking her father.
Marcelo’s version included grunting and quacking, which only made the children laugh more. When her father concluded his dance by casting the line, Marcelo turned and, with a loud war cry, pushed the watching children off the other side of the jetty. They squealed with indignation, then climbed out of the water to reciprocate. They all splashed and rumbled like this for at least half an hour, pushing each other into the water with theatrical shrieks, until Marcelo called a truce.
Then he padded up the jetty to sit next to Paula in the late-afternoon light, water dripping off his tanned skin. She tried not to look at the lean muscles moving beneath his torso, the soft fuzz around his navel, his sinewy shoulders. But she noticed the small tattoo above his left nipple, a name inscribed in cursive blue ink.
Lili.
Lucky Lili, Paula thought, averting her eyes.
She suddenly felt a dull pang in the pit of her stomach; a wistful yearning for all the things in life she could have done, but hadn’t. Travel after study. A proper career before children. Learning a second language. Tattooed Brazilian lovers. Wild nights, lazy days. More travel. The sorts of things enjoyed by twenty-year-olds, maybe thirty-year-olds. But almost never forty-somethings.
She looked out across the pristine blue water of Denial Bay, crisp and flat and still. The sky was streaked hazy orange as the sun moved lower in its western arc.
I wonder why it’s called Denial Bay? What have I been denying, all these years?
The deepening light was softening the edges of everything: the lines on the gnarled jetty boards; the creases on her father’s t-shirt; the sharp triangular sails of a solitary white yacht bobbing out at sea. Hopefully even softening the lines on my forehead, Paula thought.
Her eyes lingered on the smooth skin on the back of Marcelo’s hands.
He’s so striking and I’m so . . . freckly.
Caitlin and Lachie were still jumping off the jetty into the high tide below, pulling martial arts poses mid-air before plunging into the blue depths.
A month ago, Paula thought, I wouldn’t have let them do that. I would have argued them down with maternal reasoning.
We’ve never swum here before.
It mightn’t be as deep as it looks.
This is great white shark territory, you know.
But somehow she had mellowed in the weeks since leaving home; made malleable, perhaps, by the light, the landscape, the hours of enforced reflection in the car. Somehow her objections and precautions, her endless circumvention of risk, all seemed redundant now.
‘Do you know what oysters are good for?’
Marcelo’s voice, deliciously close, diverted her thoughts. Paula repressed a smile.
A natural aphrodisiac, of course.
She could still remember the wedding anniversary—was it their seventh?—in which she’d ordered Tasmanian rock oysters as a surprise for Hamish, paired with expensive French champagne. How Hamish had compared the shape of the oysters to her vulva and how she’d forced a laugh, while dying inside.
She turned to look at Marcelo.
Holding her gaze, he sucked an oyster out of its shell. He balanced it on the tip of his tongue, then swallowed it, sighing in mock ecstasy. For one wild moment she imagined Marcelo eating oysters off her bare stomach. Slippery discs of the sea marching across her abdomen and Marcelo, lying next to her, admiring them. Admiring her.
‘Where are you, Pow-la?’
‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Well, they say oysters can help with . . . Casanova used to have fifty for breakfast.’
Marcelo’s expression was blank. ‘Who is Casanova?’
‘You don’t know?’ She was squirming. ‘He was famous for his sexual prowess.’
Marcelo looked puzzled. ‘What is “prowess”?’
She giggled, unable to explain any further. In fact, she could hardly breathe.
Marcelo was leaning towards her, the tip of his shoulder touching hers. As he placed the box of oysters back on the jetty, his hand accidentally brushed the side of her thigh.
She couldn’t look at him, too conscious of the points of contact of their bodies.
‘Zinc,’ he said eventually, his voice a little husky. ‘Oysters have more zinc than any other food. Excellent for healing wounds.’
‘Oh.’ She laughe
d, a combination of relief and disappointment. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
She shifted her weight slightly, so that their bodies were no longer touching.
‘Hey!’ her father suddenly hollered. ‘I’ve got one!’
They turned to see Sid pulling the crab line up, hand over hand.
Marcelo stood up and peered over the jetty. ‘It’s big, Sid.’
‘Yeah?’ Lachie clambered out of the water, followed by Caitlin.
A nearby fisherman joined them too, but seemed more interested in Caitlin than in Sid’s catch.
‘Whoa, Gramps!’ yelled Lachie, seizing his sister’s arm in excitement. ‘That’s a blue crab!’
With help from Marcelo, Sid hauled the line up onto the jetty. An enormous, spiny blue creature waved its pincers beneath the net.
‘Jeez, mate.’ The fisherman tipped up his cap. ‘That’s one of the biggest blueys I’ve ever seen. Whatcha use for bait?’
‘Just the gear I bought from the general store.’
‘Well you’re a lucky bugger, aren’t you? She’s a monster.’
‘Have a beer?’ Sid snapped open the esky, relishing the attention.
The fisherman introduced himself as Stan, and began acting as if Sid was an old mate.
‘Photo time.’ Sid pulled his mobile out from beneath a towel.
That’s supposed to be in the glove box, thought Paula. Even Dad is breaching my rules.
Lachie took the phone from his grandfather and prepared to take a snap. ‘This can go on your Facebook page, Gramps.’
‘Your what?’ Paula gaped at him.
‘Look, I’m not sure yet. Lachie seems to think it’s a good idea.’
‘Why would anyone in this family think Facebook is a good idea? Especially after what happened to Catie?’ It was insensitive of Lachie to suggest it at all, Paula thought, glaring at him.
‘But it can help Gramps stay in touch with his mates, Mum,’ said Lachie. ‘From Rotary, right, Gramps? And Greenleaves. And Glen Waverley.’
‘I can’t imagine any of your friends are on Facebook, Dad,’ Paula objected.
‘Brenda from Lorne is,’ her father replied.
‘Who?’
She suddenly remembered the woman her father had courted on their first night on the road.
‘I am too,’ volunteered Stan the fisherman.
Sid held up his hands as if vindicated. ‘See? It’s the new world order, love.’
Paula stood speechless.
‘How about I take the photo?’ Stan suggested, reaching for Sid’s phone. ‘Get in there, Sid. Hold up the crab.’
Her father motioned to Marcelo. ‘Come here, mate. You did the “lucky dance” with me.’
They laughed together, crouching down on the jetty and holding the crab by its claws.
Lachie and Caitlin edged into the frame next to them, giggling. ‘Come on, Mum, you too.’ The fisherman nodded at Paula. She stood behind them, resting her hands on Marcelo’s shoulders. ‘Good. Now hold it . . .’ Stan began to fumble about with the phone. Marcelo moved his right hand up onto his shoulder, and laid it over Paula’s. Patting it in a friendly way, a natural extension of the camaraderie of the moment.
And then, slowly, his thumb slid over the soft pad of flesh between her thumb and forefinger.
It was an unmistakably intimate touch.
Paula’s mouth went dry.
‘Okay, gang.’ Stan crouched low before the group. ‘Here we go. One . . . two . . . three . . . smile!’
Paula didn’t need any prompting.
After overnighters at Denial Bay and Ceduna, they headed to Cactus Beach, pitching camp in the dunes alongside a semi-permanent community of surfers. Men and women and winsome tanned children, buzzing about in bare feet adorned with hand-woven anklets. Tribes of friends with long, matted hair, greasy at the crown and wild blond streaks, the work of Nature’s hairdresser. The ever-present scent of coconut oil in the morning, corned beef at lunch, pungent smoky weed at night.
Paula spent most of her time lying in a low hammock that her father had strung between the caravan’s demountable veranda posts, reading novels and occasionally texting Jamie.
We picked up a Brazilian backpacker in Adders.
Seven years younger than me, but super cute.
She laughed at Jamie’s immediate response: Careful, cougar.
Closing her eyes at regular intervals, Paula inhaled the salty sea air. Listening to the wind blowing across the dunes, sometimes punctuated by garrulous laughter or an expletive. Wondering why they hadn’t taken a family holiday like this years ago. And every now and then, she’d glance up to see Marcelo running through the scrub, board under his arm. Wet and beaming with the rush of surfing the Cactus left break, the Castles right break, Point Sinclair’s Witzigs, Backdoors and Cunns.
‘So, you’re good on a horse and a board.’ She smiled at Marcelo on their first night at Cactus, as Sid passed them mugs of a homemade brew he’d christened ‘Surfin’ Sangria’. Combining a Barossa red with brandy, Sid had popped several cinnamon sticks in the concoction for good measure. She’d feared it might taste like rocket fuel, but the effect was more subtle. She sat sipping her drink, lowering her eyes beneath the rim of her glass, watching Marcelo.
‘In Rio Grande do Sul, my home state, the surf breaks are not consistent,’ he said. ‘But I was lucky growing up, my father’s older brother lives near Ilha dos Lobos, a small island on the Torres coast. My brothers and I went there every school holidays.’
He paused, swallowing a mouthful of Sid’s Surfin’ Sangria.
‘My uncle taught me how to surf there. It’s wild, tow-in surfing with massive waves. I had to learn quickly, because the conditions are so challenging.’ He smiled. ‘My uncle was very good to me; he had no children of his own. After my mother died, I kept getting into fights on the farm, bad ones. So my uncle taught me Brazilian jiu-jitsu.’
‘Je-what?’ asked Lachie.
‘We call it the gentle art,’ Marcelo replied. ‘It’s a martial art, where you learn to defend yourself against a bigger person by using leverage and technique, but mostly this.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It helped me to channel my anger. I think it saved me after my mother died.’
Lachie’s eyes widened.
‘Show us,’ said Sid.
‘Yeah, go on.’ Lachie stood up and began dancing on his toes like a boxer.
‘I don’t think . . .’ Paula objected.
Marcelo raised a hand. ‘This is the gentle art, Pow-la, I will not hurt anyone.’ He beckoned to Lachie. ‘Come to me.’
‘Slowly now, Lachie,’ urged Sid.
‘Go, bro!’ called Catie.
Lachie punched the air, as if warming up. Marcelo simply stood watching, his face a mask of calm.
Suddenly Lachie lunged forward and swung his right arm at Marcelo.
It was hard for Paula to determine exactly what happened next.
Marcelo blocked Lachie’s arm, but not with any overt force; it was as if he simply caught it, cushioning the blow with his hands. Then he pulled Lachie into a tight embrace, one arm around his shoulders and neck, before sweeping him down onto the sand.
‘Jiu-jitsu takes the fight to the ground, where ninety-five per cent of all fights end up,’ said Marcelo in a matter-of-fact way, as though he was gardening, not wrestling. ‘On the ground, everyone is equal. It doesn’t matter how tall you are, how heavy you are. What matters is your strategy.’
‘Hang on,’ said Sid, watching as Lachie squirmed beneath Marcelo’s weight. ‘What’re you doing there?’
‘This is called montada, or “mount”. Using only my hips, I am in control,’ said Marcelo.
Catie giggled and took a snap of her brother struggling in the sand, using Sid’s phone.
‘For Facebook?’ asked Paula.
‘Yes,’ replied Caitlin. ‘For posting on Sunday.’
Paula nodded, tiring of her own vigilance. There was nothing unusual about Caitlin’s online activities, or i
ndeed her mood. Whenever she quizzed her daughter about the Facebook scandal now, Caitlin simply offered up some philosophical gem: Stuff happens, Mum. It’s the twenty-first century. It’s the world we live in.
It’s the world you live in, Paula was tempted to say.
‘I can’t get up,’ Lachie called, still squirming beneath Marcelo.
‘You must tap out now, Lachie,’ said Marcelo.
‘What’s that?’ Lachie croaked.
‘Admit defeat. You tap your opponent’s leg, or whatever body part you can reach.’
Lachie winced. ‘But I can’t reach any part of you.’
Marcelo laughed. ‘Here.’ He shifted his weight to allow Lachie to tap him.
Lachie rolled away, panting.
‘Are you okay?’ Paula asked, concerned.
Lachie looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, Mum.’
‘Officially cactus at Cactus, I reckon,’ said Sid, reaching out to help Lachie up.
They resumed their places by the campfire.
‘How long’ve you been doing that Brazilian jitsa for?’ asked Sid.
‘Jiu-jitsu,’ Caitlin corrected him.
Marcelo poked at the coals with a long twig. ‘Since my mother died when I was fourteen.’
Paula sucked in a breath.
Tiny burning embers rose above the flames.
‘What happened to her?’ Caitlin asked quietly.
It was the question Paula had been wanting to ask since their first night with Marcelo, at Barry and Shirl’s barbecue in Walkerville.
He sat back on his heels. ‘She was robbed in the favela in Porto Alegre, the slum where my older brother Lucas lives. He was fifteen when he left to get better-paid work in the city, idiota. He fell in with the wrong people and started taking drugs, then selling them too.’
Marcelo’s face was tight. ‘On the day she died, my mother was taking money to Lucas. He was always asking for money. My mother couldn’t say no, so I went with her. I was right next to her when it happened, I didn’t even see the knife. Three men surrounded us and they . . . stabbed her for her handbag. She would’ve given it to them if they’d asked.’ His voice broke. ‘It happened so fast, there was nothing I could do.’
Wife on the Run Page 16
