Hartley could feel the knife in the inner pocket of his jacket. It was light against his chest, and he could easily half-turn and bring it out before Robert was aware. He could take a step towards him and plunge the weapon into Robert’s stomach, which was covered only by a maroon striped shirt. How often he’d thought about such a decisive resolution. Robert would go down immediately surely, too ill for a theatrical death. There would be no struggle, just a heavy, incongruous collapse.
It was the very moment for the knife, but standing there in the sun, with Robert flat-footed and stooped beside him, Hartley knew the truth — he couldn’t do it. He could never do it. It had been a delusion of desperation. Robert was too human, too unsuspecting, too innocent. Hartley saw the reality was far from the heated visions and justifications of his sleepless nights. Even if he could do it, killing Robert was no answer: Sarah had to make the choice between them. That was the only way. No one else could put Robert aside.
The decision, the impact of the moment, left Hartley giddy with intensity. The sunlight seemed to flare in his face, and the traffic noise below became a buffeting roar before subsiding again. It was as if for an instant some great winged creature of flashing iridescence had been about to alight, and then soared on. Hartley waited until the swoon had left him, and then made conversation again. ‘How do you pass your time here?’ he asked. The knife had become inert in his pocket, the slight serrations familiar to his fingers.
‘I’m not house-bound, you know. On better days we go out for meals, to galleries, or movies. Twice I’ve been to the zoo. And I’ve got a bit of a family project.’ Robert told him about the family albums and his ambition to have the photographs sorted and annotated. His uninvited visitor seemed happy to prompt information.
‘Will you resume your practice when you go home?’ Hartley asked finally. It was as if he had become separate from himself, able to make fatuous conversation, listen to himself, while something vital was dying within him. Spoken words had a derisory, hollow echo. Only Sarah could make things right.
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘I still have a financial interest in it, but I’m past the actual dentistry. I’ve retired.’
‘You’ll travel more, I suppose?’
‘When I’m stronger. The treatment takes it out of you. Anyway, is there anything else you need for the sign-off you mentioned?’ Robert saw no point in the conversation. He had the time and not a lot of company day by day, but he was slightly irritated by Hartley’s presumption in heading onto the balcony and asking personal questions. There was something in the way he held himself that suggested he took his presence as of right, something brittle and assertive all at once. Why did this odd chap keep coming when he wasn’t required or welcome? And Robert was feeling grotty.
Sarah arrived home as Hartley was prolonging his visit by talking of Auckland life. She put her bags down, came quickly into the living room, drawn by the sound of voices, and with a smile to welcome a visitor. Robert stood somewhat in her view, and she was at the French doors before she recognised Hartley. It was the juxtaposition she most feared: Hartley standing on her balcony, soft, grey hair agitated slightly by the breeze, and talking to her husband.
Both of them turned towards her. For a moment there was neither movement nor speech, and then Robert made a clumsy introduction. ‘This is Mr — ah — ah — Mr Olders from the outpatient place,’ he said. He couldn’t remember the Christian name. ‘This is my wife, Sarah,’ he added.
For Robert the scene and situation had no particular significance. His wife coming home with groceries, and he introducing a minor functionary of the medical services — a small man rather more inquisitive than his official capacity required him to be. For Sarah and Hartley it was a fracture point in their lives, when clocks stopped and all was fiercely back-lit: when a neural surge gave a momentary aura to commonplace surroundings. When the cock crowed and Satan smiled.
Now she would admit their love, Hartley thought. Everything would come out, and there would be a decision at last. For the first time the three of them were physically together, although they had been bound up with one another for months.
Now it has come, she realised, the confrontation so often evaded. She could feel the world tightening. Within everything there seemed an unbearable pulse.
‘I think we may have met,’ said Hartley.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Anger is often the first reaction to shock, and anger was what she felt — and fear. How could he claim to love her and yet plan such a situation? She felt her face flush and a small muscle in her lower lip twitch.
‘Maybe some time at oncology when you’ve been with me,’ said Robert. He wasn’t aware of any tension. His head throbbed with sinus congestion, and he just wanted this guy to bugger off and leave him with Sarah. ‘People are coming and going all the time there.’
‘You think that’s it?’ said Hartley, looking at Sarah, lowering his head so that his eyes were angled upwards like those of a child in mock contrition. ‘Of course my work takes me quite often to the unit.’ He turned quickly, mounted the balcony railing, and then faced them once more, sitting on the flat metal top with his feet hooked under the bottom rung for stability. Robert gave a snort of laughter at the unexpectedness of it. It seemed an oddly boyish thing to do. ‘You think we may have met that way, Sarah?’ Hartley continued. He used her name for the first time in Robert’s hearing, and to her it sounded like a gong. ‘Just a glimpse in passing, eh?’
‘I can’t think of any other place,’ she said softly.
‘I’d be careful up there,’ said Robert.
‘Not a coffee bar, a gallery maybe? Not Omaha Beach maybe?’
‘Omaha Beach?’ echoed Robert, bewildered.
‘No,’ she said. It was more an appeal than a denial.
‘Perhaps walking in the cemetery?’ His hands were spread one each side on the rail, and he leant forward with that intensity so typical of him.
‘No.’ It wasn’t fair what he was doing. He was bringing everything down to confrontation. She wouldn’t choose. She couldn’t bear to have it all come out like this. He was spoiling everything they had enjoyed together.
‘What are you on about?’ said Robert in gruff incomprehension, but Hartley paid no attention to him.
‘I hoped I meant something,’ he said, ‘but now I know better.’
‘I’m not sure what you— I’m not sure,’ Sarah said. An agony of emotion closed about them.
‘If you can’t remember,’ said Hartley, ‘then neither can I.’ There wasn’t going to be a future with her: she lacked the strength to take what he offered, the confidence to step away from the old life. She was like Madeleine after all. She’d failed him, as everything and everyone had failed him.
Love is dispossession, and Hartley had given more than he could live without. He wasn’t aware of a conscious decision. He lifted his feet from the rail and gave a sort of shrug that was enough to start him falling backwards, as he made no effort to hold firm with his hands. Just for an instant he felt the exhilaration of utter release. His hair flopped from his forehead and he gave a strange, broken smile. There was a soughing that could have been a sudden exhalation, or just the air against his fall.
He was gone before Sarah or Robert could move to hold him.
‘Christ,’ exclaimed Robert, amazed rather than horrified, and when they looked down, Hartley was lying on the concrete with one arm out, and his jacket pushed up by his descent, as if he had just shrugged it on. There was no movement, and from that height no blood, or malformation: just a rumpled and awkward stillness, as if he had tripped and chosen to lie still. He was alone, but people on the street noticed him, and began coming through the imposing gates, at first with shocked timidity and then reassured by their own number.
‘Christ,’ said Robert, ‘why would he do that? An accident, or what? He must be bloody mad.’
‘You stay and ring the ambulance. I’ll go down,’ Sarah said, half-blinded by the sunlight. Her tongue fel
t grossly enlarged. She could feel bile rising and gagged without being sick. For a moment she persuaded herself that everything was in the grip of grotesque imagination, or dream, and that she could force herself back to a life with reason in it. But all around her was obdurate and would not fade. Something of such strange innocence, value and trust had been lost in horror and despair. She heard herself saying his name as she hurried to the stairs, ignoring the lift in her need for movement.
She wet herself slightly, took her handkerchief and clenched it briefly between her thighs, then continued her descent, adopting a strange trot that she found she couldn’t break from. What had they done except love each other? But as she hurried on — down, down, down — the meaning became clear. The past had been contesting with the present for possession of the future.
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank the Randell Cottage Writers Trust for the opportunity to be writer in residence at Randell Cottage, Wellington, for the last three months of 2015, during which time this novel was completed. Also acknowledged is the material taken from Epitaph by Paul Gittins (Random House New Zealand, 1997).
Previous Works by Owen Marshall
Short Fiction
Supper Waltz Wilson, Pegasus Press, 1979.
The Master of Big Jingles, John McIndoe, 1982.
The Day Hemingway Died, John McIndoe, 1984.
The Lynx Hunter, John McIndoe, 1987.
The Divided World, John McIndoe, 1989.
Tomorrow We Save the Orphans, John McIndoe, 1992.
The Ace of Diamonds Gang, John McIndoe, 1993.
Coming Home in the Dark, Vintage, 1995.
The Best of Owen Marshall’s Short Stories, Vintage, 1997.
When Gravity Snaps, Vintage, 2002.
Watch of Gryphons, Vintage, 2005.
Selected Stories, edited by Vincent O’Sullivan, Vintage, 2008.
Living as a Moon, Vintage, 2009.
Novels
A Many Coated Man, Longacre Press, 1995.
Harlequin Rex, Vintage, 1999, published in France as Les
Hommes Fanes by Payot and Rivages, 2006.
Drybread, Vintage, 2007.
The Larnachs, Vintage, 2011.
Carnival Sky, Vintage, 2014.
Poetry
Occasional: Fifty Poems, Hazard Press, 2004.
Sleepwalking in Antarctica, Canterbury University Press, 2010.
The White Clock, Otago University Press, 2014.
Collaboration
Timeless Land, Longacre Press, 1995. With artist Grahame
Sydney and poet Brian Turner.
Edited Anthologies
Burning Boats, anthology of short stories,
Longman Paul, 1994.
Letter from Heaven, anthology of poems,
Longman Paul, 1995.
Beethoven’s Ears, anthology of short stories,
Longman Paul, 1996.
Authors’ Choice, anthology of New Zealand stories,
Penguin, 2001.
Spinning a Line, collection of writings about fishing,
Vintage, 2001.
Essential New Zealand Stories, anthology of short stories,
Vintage, 2002. New enlarged edition, 2009.
Sunday 22, anthology of short stories, Vintage, 2006.
The Best New Zealand Fiction, vol 5, Vintage, 2008.
The Best New Zealand Fiction, vol 6, Vintage, 2009.
Broadcasting
An Indirect Geography, radio play, Radio NZ, 1991.
‘Inside New Zealand’ and ‘NZ: Sanctuary Seekers’ scripts,
Natural History NZ Ltd documentaries.
About the Author
OWEN MARSHALL is an award-winning novelist, short-story writer, poet and anthologist, who has written or edited thirty books including the bestselling novel The Larnachs. Numerous awards for his fiction include the New Zealand Literary Fund Scholarship in Letters, fellowships at Otago and Canterbury universities, and the Katherine Mansfield Memorial Fellowship in Menton, France. In 2000 he became an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit (ONZM) for services to literature; in 2012 he was made a Companion of the New Zealand Order of Merit (CNZM); and in 2013 he received the Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement in Fiction. In 2000 his novel Harlequin Rex won the Montana New Zealand Book Awards Deutz Medal for Fiction. Many of his other books have been shortlisted for major awards, and his work has been extensively anthologised.
He was a school teacher for many years, having graduated with an MA (Hons) from the University of Canterbury, which in 2002 awarded him the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters and in 2005 appointed him an adjunct professor. See more at www.owenmarshall.net.nz.
Copyright
The assistance of Creative New Zealand is gratefully acknowledged by the publisher.
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First published by Penguin Random House New Zealand, 2016
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Text © Owen Marshall, 2016
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ISBN 978-1-77553-857-8
eISBN 978-1-77553-873-8
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Beautifully written, brilliantly observed and ultimately optimistic, this novel by one of New Zealand’s finest writers powerfully captures those times when death puts life on hold.
Sheff is disillusioned with journalism and, with plans to travel overseas, chucks in his job. But first he goes south to Alexandra, where his father is dying. He becomes caught up with his family in the agonising inertia of waiting for death. Slowly he comes to terms with suppressed issues of loss, love, resentment and commitment, and acknowledges he must reach out for new relationships. Sheff’s gradual transformation — sometimes darkly humorous, sometimes disconcerting — is handled with insight and subtlety.
‘[Carnival Sky] is not an eye-catching, attention-seeking novel but one that is distinguished by its wry tone, and an abundance of beautiful observations and memorable descriptions. Marshall’s great achievement is to have told a story about the biggest of themes — life, love, death, family — using the most restrained of palettes and on the smallest of canvases.’
— Paul Little, North & South
‘Owen Marshall’s Carnival Sky is beautifully written and brilliantly observed … Carnival Sky is a novel in which, to the unobservant or the skimming reader, little seems to happen, but things are changing all the time. It is a novel that repays close reading, leaving a feeling of optimism despite dealing with loss and resentment, for it also deals with love, compassion and commitment and the necessity for forging new relationships. Like his father’s tumbling stones, Sheff’s gradual transformation to a better and more colourful life, is complete.’
— Dorothy Alexander, Manawatu Standard
‘In most respects, Carnival Sky is, thus, vintage Marshall. It has all his trademark acuity. Life lifts off the page in tireless vignettes of ordinary existence. Ah yes, you say to yourself, I recognise this. This is how it is. As
usual, realism is his mode of transport beneath life’s oceans … [Sheff’s] emergence from emptiness is the book’s trajectory — a worthy and true trajectory, albeit so slight that one scarcely notices it until right at the end where one realises he has successfully traversed from awkwardness to easefulness. And that, truly, is a lovely realisation.’
— Margie Thomson, Dominion Post
‘Big themes are treated delicately — mortality and memory, grief and self-discovery — and, although the book is, at its heart, about a man in the midst of a crisis, Carnival Sky also explores the universal pain many adults feel when faced with losing a parent … The small cast confront the meaning of life (and death) and learn how, in times of grief, the search for normality is sometimes all that’s left to us. It’s also about holding tight to the things we hold dear and letting go of the things that hold us back. Owen Marshall earned his reputation as one of our brightest literary stars long ago and Carnival Sky reinforces his place in that firmament.’
— Elisabeth Easther, Weekend Herald
Based on a real love triangle, this fascinating novel is by one of New Zealand’s most respected authors.
William James Mudie Larnach’s name resonates in New Zealand history — the politician and self-made man who built the famous ‘castle’ on Otago Peninsula. In 1891, after the death of his first two wives, he married the much younger Constance de Bathe Brandon. But the marriage that began with such happiness was to end in tragedy.
Love as a Stranger Page 23
