Questions of Travel

by Michelle De Kretser

  Ravi wasn’t finishing up at work until the following Friday. But many of his colleagues seemed to think that this was his last day. Throughout the party, people came up to him, hugged him, asked for his email address, urged him to stay in touch. How lucky I am, thought Ravi, and found himself shivering. In Sales, one track ended and another began. It crept out from Ravi’s bones. The last time he had heard it, it was playing on Freda Hobson’s Discman. The remembered texture of those days received him like a pillow: a cottony compound of grief, music, fear. When he opened his eyes, Crystal Bowles was before him. ‘Would monsieur care to dance?” He followed her turquoise patent-leather slingbacks past the mobile bar in reception. Under the mirror ball, she lifted her shoulders and made boneless passes with her arms. “La la, la la la la, la la,” sang Crystal, while Ravi’s feet tried to follow the rhythm of her hips. Her palms were slipping down her thighs: “Dance me, la la la la, dance me.” His obedient hands reached, but the music broke off. Crystal slid away.

  People were massing at the foot of the stairs; the Ramsays waited on the landing. Switches were being hit. When only the staircase hung in light, Alan Ramsay began to speak—a phenomenon that disturbed, as if an Easter Island statue had come to life. But Alan brought the glad tidings that the global upturn in sales meant Christmas bonuses for all. There were cheers, although some of those present, occupied with trying to squint up his wife’s skirt, missed the moment. As for Jelena, she had long been in the habit, when men made speeches, of looking divinely blank while noting the lie of the land. In another century, there had been a mountain village where the wine, like the bread, was black. What remained of that was a dream in which Jelena opened her wardrobe to discover that she owned no shoes. But recently her husband had made her watch a documentary about North Korea. She had been struck by the twin portraits that oversaw everything there: the Great Leader and the Beloved Leader. From her vantage point on the landing, Jelena had spotted a wall in reception that would be perfect. Gilt frames, or would a nice veneer with beading be more elegant?

  When Alan, applauded, had reverted to stone, Tyler Dean leapt lightly up to the landing. His big shorts flapped about his knees. Jelena Ramsay took a step back to accommodate them, but her smile didn’t move an inch.

  He would be quick, promised Tyler. “I know there’s serious partying to be done. But I totally had to say—Ravi! Where are you? Come on up!”

  The crowd parted. Willing hands shoved Ravi up the shining stair. When he arrived at the landing, “Dude, it’s been stellar working with you,” said Tyler. “We’re all sorry you’re leaving, even though we’re stoked because we have a place to crash in Sri Lanka now.” This caused much merriment below. “Anyway, this is from all of us to say we’ll miss you and thanks for having been part of our story.” He handed Ravi a bag.

  Ravi drew out a box and saw, in wonder, that it contained an iPod. Far away, the mirror moon glittered in Sales. Closer at hand, Jelena Ramsay was giving off violent twinkles; Ravi turned to her, half dazed. It was a casual occasion so Jelena was wearing only a single strand of diamonds, but Ravi had the impression he should kneel. Jelena widened her smile but lifted her chin to show that none of this had anything to do with her. So she had stood when they were herding her brothers, even the little one, into the trees.

  Demands were floating upwards, and, “Speech, dude,” said Tyler. He touched Ravi on the elbow, turning him towards the crowd. Ravi said thank you, more than once, and told his colleagues that he would miss them. “I have been very happy in Australia and working with you.” It was okay as an exit speech, but a joke would have been better or a complete breakdown. Pale masks, friendly and avid, gleamed up at Ravi from the darkness. They wished him no harm but wouldn’t have minded him making a little bit of an arse of himself: it was Christmas after all!

  The iPod had been Damo’s idea; Tyler had contributed a fifth of the cost. An outrageous private whisper continued to inform him that he had failed Ravi Mendis. It was outrageous because the truth was the other way around: it was Ravi who had failed to rescue Tyler’s career from the straight, flat highway to Loserville. In the end, rescue had come from Tyler’s old webmaster. Restructured out of Ramsay, Dave Horden now worked for an awesome outfit that made video games. The interview for creative director was scheduled for Monday, and Tyler had been assured that all he had to do was show up. So he really couldn’t have said why the last thing he felt like was a party. He punched Ravi’s shoulder in a kindly sort of way and started clapping. Gripping a paper bag, descending into obscurity, Ravi wanted to howl, Please keep me from making a terrible mistake.

  When he had recovered, he was standing at the back of the crowd and Cliff Ferrier had ascended the stairs. Pineapples and hula girls frolicked on Cliff’s shirt. Jelena had disappeared, and Alan was informing a distant horizon that Cliff’s resignation was a great loss. “I’m sure you all feel that Cliff’s irreplaceable. I certainly do. So we’ll be replacing him as soon as we can.”

  This was received with dutiful titters, while Alan observed that it was a matter of prioritizing the priorities now. “Over the next few days, Cliff and I’ll be meeting with all the candidates for CEO, and we hope to have news for you about that before too long. But as it happens, this week marks a very special anniversary. Twenty years ago, when Ramsay wasn’t much more than a stapler and a photocopier in my attic in Glebe, Cliff signed up for the ride. We’ll be sending you off in style when you go next February, Cliff, but what we have for you tonight is a special trophy to honor your two decades at Ramsay.”

  Jelena Ramsay was now perceived to be wending her way down from the floor above. Her shapely ankles appeared, stepping stiffly in their silver shoes. She was moving with care, encumbered by a bulky form. When she rounded the bend, it was visible to all: a china vase molded and painted to resemble a naked female torso. Jelena came to a halt, shielded by rosy nipples and golden fronds: a life-size parody of the glories they obscured.

  There were wolf-whistles and screams of delight. Crying, “My favorite hobby—ikebana!” Cliff seized his prize. Ravi’s hands, too, had shot out: they were warding off something. “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” came the roar. Fleeing from it, Ravi almost collided with a chair. But a monolith grabbed his wrists. Laura Fraser steadied him. He thought he would throw up on her, but her flesh smothered him just in time.

  Netted arms waltzed him past the mobile bar and through Design. There was singing above Ravi’s head: “La la, la la la la, la la.” The mirror ball menaced, but Laura whizzed him through Finance, steering between a room divider and a tank of orange fish. Off to his left, the stationery cupboard undulated and vanished. A filing cabinet could easily have finished them off, but she twirled him to safety through the downstairs tea room. “Dance me, la la la la, dance me.” They swept past This Month’s Top Ten, but it was a near thing with Returns. At a fire door, she released one of his hands and fumbled. Then they were through and into the car park. It was empty: responsibly mindful of their intention to end the night rat-arsed, no one had driven to work that day. “La la, la la la la, la la.” Rain must have fallen because the concrete was shining. The moon had been left behind in Sales, but the security lights snapped like stars. They swirled across the car park on a loose diagonal until the hibiscus fence put an end to it. “Dance me to the edge of love,” sang Laura Fraser. There was something wrong with that, but Ravi couldn’t remember what it was.

  The trumpet vine, in luxuriant leaf, was no longer in flower, and Laura had stopped singing. Still her netted arms clutched.

  She was unused to exertion. Her flesh moved in slow waves.

  Ravi farted.

  It just popped out: a little odorless explosion. A bodily full stop, it put an end to a bodily conversation. What can two people who are more or less strangers say to each other after a fart? It provoked humiliation in one and embarrassment in the other. The night was rather chilly, after all; they noticed it at the same time. Thank goodness Laura could cry, “Ravi! Where�
��s your iPod?” and loosen her hold. An absence was something to talk about and pursue. He must have dropped the paper bag as he fled. The fire door had swung shut, so they had to retreat up the side of the building. The smokers sheltering under the awning at the entrance hailed them. “Think I’ll stay here and bot a ciggie,” announced Laura. “Sing out if you need a hand to find your iPod.” Ravi could picture her creaking down to peer under workstations. But they weren’t after the same thing.

  Laura, 2004

  ALL WEEK, SHE HAD been bringing flattened boxes home from work; also a roll of masking tape nicked from the stationery cupboard. As it turned out, there were more boxes than she needed. She was giving away the silks, the pintucked cottons, the vintage Indian blockprints, stuffing them, some still on the hanger, into garbage bags she would lug to the charity bin. Many of her prettiest clothes no longer fitted, and all had been bought for Paul Hinkel. What an idiotic compulsion, she thought, eyeing a lacy shirt: all that money on finery he had stripped from her without delay. A buttonhole in the shirt was ripped. Laura remembered, I couldn’t wait. At the sight of the torn shirt, the Goth receptionist had blushed, turning before Laura’s eyes into a child. Then she had produced a pin.

  Boxes were stacked on the landing. Robyn would store them at her flat, which Laura was going to share until she found a place of her own. “There’s heaps of space,” Robyn had said. “It used to be Ferdy’s synthesizers.” Laura taped up a last box and added it to the stack.

  The house struck silent, secretive, large. Laura had never been there alone on a Sunday afternoon. She made a mug of tea and carried it, on impulse, to the big front bedroom. No harm in gazing, one last time, on Drummond and his works. In the gloom, as she passed him, his eyes were judge and hangman. But when she had got the blind up and turned around, he was only a genius with a green face.

  Downstairs, a bell insisted. Robyn Orr, come earlier than planned to collect the boxes—so Laura guessed. But on the doorstep: “Darl! We couldn’t let you slip away without a bon voyage!” Tracy Lacey kissed and kissed, while peering down the hall. A black-haired sprite held out a parcel tied with gold string and labeled Chocolate Panforte; and Laura crouched and enfolded, smitten, as always, by the child. Destiny accepted the embrace but didn’t return it. Something compelled her to keep her eyes open, yet close-ups of adult faces disgusted her: the slabs of pocked flesh, the giant black nostrils! But by the end of her first week at school, she had learned the uses of deception. Her expression remained compliant and sweet.

  In the hall, Tracy explained, exclaimed, lingered and wondered. For where was the old man? It was Tracy’s last chance, because Laura Fraser, always inclined to think only of herself, had suddenly announced that she was moving out. Yet at the gallery they believed that Tracy was the vessel into which Carlo Ferri decanted moods, secrets, whims. How had this come about? Tracy had no idea, although she might have said something like, “He’s an absolute sweetie, darl. It’s a matter of pushing the right buttons.” Or she might have smiled and looked as if there was no end to what she could tell. None of this was exaggeration: Tracy knew that Carlo and she would get on like a horse on fire as soon as they met. But he was never at home when Laura invited, and anyway of late the invitations had grown rare. Whenever Tracy proposed, Laura countered with a tale of work or a virus, or suggested lunch in Newtown. So if anyone was to blame for the situation with Carlo, it was Laura Fraser. But Torquil’s star had risen to deputy director, and he seemed to think that Tracy had promised to set up an exploratory meeting with Carlo Ferri. Torquil could be really unreasonable, he could sink his teeth into an idea and shake until something snapped.

  Laura was leading Destiny into a room off the far end of the hall. Tracy followed and found herself in a kitchen. There was an oilcloth on the table—was oilcloth retro now or still ethnic in the wrong way?—but no old man. Through an archway, Tracy saw a room that hadn’t been aired in years. The walls were a faded red, but the rose on the ceiling was nicotine yellow. Tracy always tried to maintain positive energy—it was the keystroke of Stew’s philosophy—but she could feel a headache coming on, the close-fitting, all-over kind like a swimming cap made of lead.

  When she turned around, it was just in time to prevent Laura from poisoning Destiny with almond-milk cordial. “Sugar is death, darl! Nothing but fresh juice, n’est-ce pas? Or organic spring water.” There was only tap, but Tracy put slices of lemon in the jug to counteract the toxins and rinsed Destiny’s glass herself. When she suggested that they go up to the roof, Laura muttered that everything there was a mess because she was packing. But no way were Tracy and Destiny staying in that kitchen, who could say what damage the passive smoking had already done?

  On the landing, Tracy paused. She had noticed a door, usually shut, that today stood ajar. Of course: la siesta! It transported her at once to the Tuscan farmhouse, Tracy, Stew and Destiny all snoring lightly in shuttered rooms after an insalata del pastore. Not a trill issued from the room, so the old man hadn’t dropped off yet. Calling to Destiny, who had gone ahead with Laura, Tracy set off. Laura said something that might have been “No!” but Laura hadn’t driven all the way from Paddo with Destiny and a panforte because Italians lose their heads over children and sweets.

  When Tracy saw what was in the room—well, as she would tell Torquil, it was nothing less than an epitome. Laura buzzed at her elbow saying, “But Carlo.” Tracy came out of the vision in which she lowered her gaze when Torquil got to the bit in his speech about her invaluable service to our cultural heritage. It emboldened her to inquire where was Carlo? “Haberfield,” said Laura. “He’s having an operation on his hip first thing tomorrow. His cousin’s driving him to hospital this evening. So we shouldn’t—” “I’m sure he won’t mind, darl,” said Tracy. “I’m a trained professional, n’est-ce pas?” She had been examining the canvases stacked on the bed but was overcome by the need to document. She took her phone from her bag and aimed. “Mum,” wailed Destiny, “Muuum.” Destiny Lacey-Buck was bored but was not allowed to be. Bored is childhood’s name for the formless, treeless, weatherless place from whence it comes: a memory and a presage. But the b word was banned in Paddo. What were piano lessons and conversazione and swimming classes and Free Expressive Movement for if not to maintain positive energy? As the flash went off, “Would you take Destiny up to the roof, darl?” asked Tracy. “Go and look at the boats, gorgeous, big hug, Mummy’s working.”

  Contemplating the vegetable ruins around her, Destiny remarked, “Everything here is very old, isn’t it?” She was still holding the panforte by its golden loop. Laura said, “Shall we have some of that, do you think?” She took the parcel into Drummond’s studio to find a knife, while Destiny wandered hither and thither among the devastation. She had soft dark eyes and a rosy-dark pansy face. In a woody tangle of summer jasmine high above her head, she saw what no human eye had seen, a pale blue egg. It was out of reach but was magically connected to a plant at home from which small pink and purple ballerinas dangled. Their name was fuchsia and they were a sign, like the egg, that Destiny’s wish for a dog would come true. Stew said, “For God’s sake, don’t start,” and Tracy said, “Think of picking up the poo.” Destiny looked on as tiny Tracy and tiny Stew plunged from the roof and were lost in blue. At her silent whistle, Hotdog cleared the bridge in a bound. He swam and flew.

  In the studio, Laura had been diverted from her purpose by the sight of the red glass star. The red rug waited in a roll on the landing, but she had forgotten to take down the star. That year, while the merry-go-round in her skull revolved to things Paul Hinkel and she liked to do to each other, she had let Theo’s death day pass unnoticed. Forgetting was the real meaning of death: she had realized that on a cold street in Prague. She addressed the star: But you haven’t gone yet, not while I’m still here. Theo would live on as long as he was remembered: even humanly and imperfectly. She would leave the red star for Carlo, decided Laura. Not as an olive branch or an apology but as a tiny object in
the night. He would understand or not, but she didn’t want to leave only darkness behind when she went.

  She had carved out two chunks of panforte and brushed the leaves from the table under the frangipani when she looked up to see Destiny making free expressive movements on a chair she had dragged to the edge of the roof. There was the protective wall, but the child already had one foot on it. Laura exclaimed and commanded. Destiny was perfectly safe because of Hotdog, but she came obediently when called. “Have you seen a little dog around here?” she asked, startling Laura, whose thoughts had strayed to Paul Hinkel. “Oooh, he’s gorgeous,” went on Destiny. “Shiny brown—no, I mean black, about this size.” She measured with her hands, described. All the while, she was trying to decide if she was crazy about panforte. When Laura came to Paddo, she would say, Have a squiz in my bag, Destiny. There would be a book or a toy or a bracelet. But there was no bag here, only dead sticks and sour water. Laura was asking one of the dumb questions grown-ups ask about school. There were only three that mattered: What must you not show? Who is the leader? Where can you hide?

  A long time later, when Tracy and Destiny were leaving, the child went unbidden to Laura. She pretended to kiss but placed her mouth very close to the large ear. Very softly and very distinctly, in her light, childish voice, she said, “Everyone says you’re ugly.” Destiny’s best friend had said this to her on the last day of school, and Destiny knew its power. At the gate, she turned her flower-face to Laura and waved.

  When her mobile rang that night, Laura didn’t hear it. She was keeping watch on the roof, and the phone was in her bedroom below. After she had packed Robyn’s car with boxes and seen her off, Laura had gone upstairs and done brutal things with secateurs. She had watered until everything on the roof looked soaked and wild. Halfway through laying into the bougainvillea, she had thought, What’s the point? So she lit a last candle in Theo’s star and settled down to see it out. The bridge was a rhinestone-studded handcuff finished with a ruby; its missing twin had closed around Laura’s heart and was squeezing. The phone beseeched in a muffled way, but a child spoke plainly: Everyone says you’re ugly. All evening, it was the only thing Laura had heard.