Carnival Sky

by Owen Marshall

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHEFF’S FAREWELL PARTY was at the squash club lounge in Epsom: a new room that overlooked a secondary street, and faced a supplier of plumbing and bathroom fixtures. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from his home, and he could drink more if he didn’t drive. Most people were there when he arrived, and at nine o’clock Chris gave his speech, and also the gift from the paper. Sheff would have left it unopened, but others noisily insisted he display the present to which they had contributed. A framed Hotere lithograph of considerable value. Their generosity affected Sheff more than he’d expected. Strengths get taken for granted and petty failings magnified in the necessary association of colleagues, and he ensured his speech was positive as well as light-hearted. Nothing maudlin, nothing confessional, nothing prolonged, he’d told himself during its preparation. It was just another work-do for most. One more change of personnel that might provide opportunity for some, but was inconsequential to the majority.

  The wine was reasonable. Sheff had suffered some awful plonk at staff functions. He thanked Chris as they stood together at the large window.

  ‘Raewyn jacked it up for us,’ the editor said. ‘She got onto a website that had decent stuff direct from the Waiheke winery.’ In the mild summer darkness the security lights within the trade shop were a subdued glow, glossing the pale and seductive curves of baths, basins and toilet bowls. A jogger passed below with easy strides and offset elbows, his yellow singlet clear for a few seconds beneath a street light.

  ‘Yes, but you have to sign it off.’ The white and red lights of passing traffic seemed to stream slightly as if viewed in time-lapse photography.

  ‘I’m brassed off that you’re going at all.’ Chris meant it, despite his smile.

  ‘No one’s indispensable – the gaps soon close.’

  ‘But we had the team about right, and now you’ve mucked it up. Anyway, I hope whatever you do turns out to be a good choice. I’ve sometimes thought of buggering off myself, but with Noreen and three kids I can’t take too many risks. Newspapers seem all about accounting now, don’t they, rather than journalism?’

  ‘It’s a death struggle with the web,’ said Sheff. The jogger must have reached his turning point not far out of sight, because he passed beneath again, the running style maintained.

  ‘Or a forced marriage,’ said the editor. ‘Where the advertising goeth, there goeth we. Hard copy is becoming the dinosaur and may end the same way.’ He wasn’t down about it, however. He had climbed high enough in the organisation to have reasonable security no matter how the industry adjusted, and he enjoyed a party. ‘What we’ve promised ourselves,’ he said, ‘is a Mediterranean cruise next June – Santorini, Rhodes, Crete, Sicily, pretty much the whole shooting box.’

  ‘Good on you.’ Sheff imagined him in a deckchair, hat brim to his chin, while Noreen arranged an itinerary for the next island from her Lonely Planet guide and a heap of brochures.

  Chris started to turn from the window, but then swung back. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I knew there was something else. The McInnes Foundation Journalism Award people rang yesterday. They wanted my endorsement of you as a judge this year, and as they pay handsomely I accepted on your behalf. Not quite like winning the $15,000 prize, but then you’ve had that already. Anyway, they’ll be in touch. Okay?’

  The McInnes award was specifically for investigative journalism, and commemorated a woman reporter of no great ability, but very wealthy family. Sheff had received the award three years before for a series of articles on price-fixing in electricity supply, and the prize money had been spent on a living-room renovation that Lucy was delighted with, but had little opportunity to enjoy.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘They have a pretty good awards dinner.’

  ‘Most likely I’ll see you there, but make sure you keep in touch before that. Don’t just drop out on us.’ Chris smoothed his thinning, close-lying hair as if to reassure himself some remained. ‘Well, better mingle, I suppose,’ he said.

  Sheff’s farewell party was so like those he had attended for other people, that at times during the night he forgot it was in his honour, and was momentarily surprised when singled out. The company, conversations and occurrences were interchangeable, the wives and husbands of his colleagues materialising as if from a conjuror’s hat, Wayne’s laughter becoming louder as the night progressed, some exploratory sexual tension arising among those unattached, and the amiable, but nevertheless conscious, relaxation of hierarchy.

  People endorsed his decision to take a break. Good on you, go for it, I admire you for it, you’ll find it the best thing you ever did, they told him. Reinvent yourself, take a breather and smell the roses, they said. A change is as good as a holiday, nothing like a new challenge, you only live once, I’ve been seriously thinking of a lifestyle switch myself, they said. People tend to encourage daring in others if it has no risk of adverse consequence to themselves.

  A sonorous dentist, married to Tania who worked in advertising and also did a gardening column, cornered Sheff by the kitchen slide and gave him life advice. Sheff’s one strong recollection of Tania was of amazingly pale legs with mole spots like currants in rolled dough. ‘You’re on the button, Jeff. Absolutely right decision,’ her husband said.

  ‘Sheff,’ said Sheff. On their first date Lucy had told him that he should have his own restaurant. Her way of reminding him that he, too, had a name that could be played on.

  ‘There’s these times, aren’t there, watersheds and crossroads, when the die is cast in the lap of the gods. Carpe diem and all that, and you’ve got to have the guts to have a go. You don’t want to die wondering. What is it exactly that you want to do?’

  ‘I’m just stale and need something different for a bit. That’s all really.’ Sheff noticed the greying hair like a herb posy at the V of the dentist’s black shirt. It occurred to him that there were few women dentists, yet they had successfully stormed law and medicine. Women recognised that material gain was insufficient recompense for a lifetime in people’s mouths.

  ‘It’s good to move on, don’t you think? Test the waters,’ Sheff volunteered. He understood he was in a conversation of platitudes.

  ‘Absolutely. Couldn’t agree more, Jeff. Live for the day. March to your own drummer. Follow your dream. Anything’s possible if you believe.’

  But it’s not, thought Sheff. It irritated him, that sort of claptrap, and it did harm. High aspiration and the determined pursuit of it was one thing: unrealistic dreams were quite different.

  For all people there are unattainable things, and they need to accept that and concentrate on the best of what is possible. ‘Sheff,’ he said. ‘It’s Sheff. Good to see you again,’ and he edged past the dentist and headed off towards Nick, Raewyn and Lloyd, who had found chrome and bright vinyl chairs, and the four of them became the core of a familiar laager where the conversation went on with customary ease. Sheff played his part, yet was able to watch all with some detachment. He was unlikely ever to be with these people again as a group, and that more than any of the speeches brought home to him the significance of the decision he had made. No matter what friendships continued, the relationships of the workplace, often closer by necessity than those with family, would be lost.

  He was forty-four. Almost certainly more than halfway through his life. He had no child, no partner, no burning zeal for any cause, and now no job. On the other hand, he told himself, he had a home, money in the bank, a profession, and his health was okay as far as he knew – apart from a few niggles, including a knee that made popping noises sometimes when he went up stairs, and an ingrown nail on his left big toe. So he was finely poised between anxiety and anticipation. As he listened to Lloyd sharing an anecdote about a Green Party election rally, he had a sense of being outside himself: levitating under the ceiling of the squash club lounge, feeling the music and the increasingly raucous conversations pulsing up, and being able to see his group bent towards each other on their tubular chairs. Raewyn, solid, yet a
ttractive, well able and accustomed to looking after herself in men’s company. Lloyd, younger than the others, in the grip of a snide and wary ambition. Gangling Nick, surprisingly well dressed, whose happy family life was the balance for anything that might go awry elsewhere.

  Sheff could see himself just as clearly: tallish, a slight belly as the result of a sedentary life, and fair hair, still a mop at the top and back, but somewhat oddly receded from the brow, as if yanked back a couple of inches. He seldom considered his own appearance, and was mildly surprised if he saw himself in a mirror, or keeping pace in a shop window. It was the recognition of an inalienable external companion rather than anything essential: a carapace familiar to those on the outside, but of little significance to his concept of self. Women would have a very different attitude, he supposed.

  He did see his own reflection soon afterwards, briefly, as he entered the lavatory and took one of the three cubicles, but he wasn’t left alone with his thoughts. He had barely closed the door when someone else came in, heels clicking, and took the next space. ‘I know you’re in there, and I apologise in advance.’ It was a woman’s voice that Sheff didn’t recognise. ‘The women’s loo is full and I can’t wait,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve had some damn bug since this morning. I want you to be a good boy and sing.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sing. Sing anything at all just to cover any noise. I can’t sing in case someone else comes in and it’s even more embarrassing. Please, just sing, right now.’

  For a moment Sheff felt songs were absent in the world, but then he began on ‘Jingle Bells’, repeating the one verse that was all he knew and becoming louder and more confident with each round. ‘Okay, you can stop now,’ the woman called, and the lavatory was quiet again except for a subdued hiss from the urinals. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it. Just give me a minute to make my escape,’ and Sheff heard the cubicle door, the washbasin tap, the click of heels and then the outer door. He’d got into the swing of ‘Jingle Bells’ and sang it a couple more times under his breath before going out to wash his hands.

  When he came back into the main room he looked about to see if the woman was watching for his entrance, and obvious because of it, but everyone seemed quite at ease and occupied. Sheff felt admiration for the woman, someone with presence of mind and willing to take a gamble in an emergency.

  He didn’t hang on until the party’s last gasp, didn’t want to appear reluctant for the farewell to finish. The residual core of drinkers and dancers gave him a rowdy send-off, then turned back to their entertainments. ‘Hey, Sheff, don’t forget your present,’ called Callum. A junior reporter whose grammar and punctuation were so poor that Sheff wished he’d never sanctioned his appointment. Raewyn told him not to be a stranger, Lloyd stood up to shake his hand, Nick, knowing as a friend they would be in touch, raised an arm. Sheff gave an exaggerated bow at the door for the benefit of those who glanced his way, and so nine years on the one paper were brought to an end. No trumpets, but at least almost all the staff had taken the trouble to come.

  The lithograph was awkward to carry, the frame too big to tuck comfortably under his arm. He’d walked only two blocks when heavy rain began, drops like pellets that beat a tattoo on roofs, and pavement, and were cold on his head. For a few minutes he continued to hurry through it, reminding himself that the art work was glassed and bubble-wrapped beneath the paper, but his light shoes were quickly sodden and the water ran down his neck with an unpleasant trickle and tickle. A corner dairy offered one of the few overhangs, and he stopped there, stood in the small alcove formed by the doorway.

  Although shut, the shop was dimly lit, and Sheff could see, just inside the door, the advertising easel board that stood on the footpath during shop hours. He’d passed it many times without regard, and never entered the premises. Now, for want of alternative, he gave attention to it, and the displays beyond in the miasmal, phosphorescent glow. ‘Open Seven Days Late’ it said, which had a teasing ambiguity, and ‘Milk, Bread, Chips and Pies’. Above the freezers were posters of a wondrous array of ice creams and ice blocks – Paddle Pops, Magnum Temptation, Cookie Crumble, Super Fru, Bubble O’Bill, Goody Goody Gum Drop.

  In neighbourly familiarity the proprietors had painted their names on the window close to the entrance. Wilf and Beth Fergusson. He had seen Wilf once, cleaning the outside window with a long-handled squeegee. His peach-downy cheeks, and his mouth drawn open slightly by concentration and the upward tilt of his head. Sheff couldn’t recall having seen Beth, but imagined her a Jack Sprat wife: cadaverous and laconic in contrast to her husband and the rhyme. They would now be in bed together, not clasped, but presenting curved backs as they faced away to sleep.

  Sheff wished himself in bed, or still at his farewell party, rather than sheltering beneath the Fergussons’ overhang, the rain still loud upon it. Because he was looking into the dairy interior, he didn’t notice a man approaching, until he spoke, with easy informality. ‘Pissing down, eh?’ The guy came close to Sheff, peered through the glass for a moment to see if there was life within. ‘Fair pissing down,’ he said, nodding in self-affirmation. Sheff could smell the booze on him.

  ‘A downpour all right,’ said Sheff. They listened to the rain and watched it bouncing on the slick roadway in the glancing street light. The water chortled in the gutter and bore oddments of litter bobbing away.

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What you got there then?’ He was a small man wearing a Swanndri, and tight jeans too long for him, so that they concertinaed above his pale sneakers and were tatty at the heel. He wiped rain from his face, but retained a satisfied smile arising from alcohol rather than any fulfilling experience or achievement.

  ‘A picture,’ said Sheff.

  ‘A pictcha. Jesus.’ He seemed astounded, and then yawned twice. Half an hour ago Sheff had been at his farewell among well-dressed colleagues, most of them anyway, and with good wine and food, and now he was huddled in a shopfront beside a man with teeth missing and a Swanndri. And a man open to the call of nature, for without further conversation he stepped closer to the road, but still under cover, unzipped, and arched piss into the already running gutter. It seemed to go on for a long time, the rain and piss falling noisily together on the wet street. The relief of it made him philosophical. ‘It’s a bloody strange thing,’ he said, before turning back towards Sheff, ‘but quite often I piss more than ever I’ve drunk. How the hell do you figure that?’ Sheff made no reply.

  ‘Got a cell phone?’ asked the small guy.

  ‘Not with me, no.’

  ‘Bummer. Could have called a bloody taxi.’

  ‘It may ease off any time,’ said Sheff.

  ‘What you up to then?’

  ‘Just a function.’ The more familiar his companion became, the more Sheff felt himself withdraw, even physically, as the man pressed close, his face raised with a gap-toothed grin, alcoholic breath unavoidable.

  ‘Just a function,’ he repeated, accentuating the formality of Sheff’s voice. ‘Let’s see this bloody pictcha anyway,’ and he took hold of an edge of the frame and began to strip off the wrapping, swaying a little with the effort.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Sheff.

  The small tug-of-war continued briefly, and then they both stopped. For a moment the reason escaped them, and then they realised the drumming of the rain had ceased. Neither of them referred to it. ‘Arsehole,’ said the small guy in abrupt change of mood.

  ‘Shithead,’ replied Sheff, and he hitched the litho firmly under his arm and began walking.

  ‘Fuckwit.’

  ‘Weirdo.’

  ‘Motherfucker.’ He hadn’t followed Sheff, and remained at the dairy, raising his voice in each exchange as Sheff receded. He started to laugh. ‘Cocksucker.’

  ‘Useless bastard,’ called Sheff, and he too started to laugh. Jesus, he thought, you never know, do you? The Swanndri guy was plastered, and the next day would remember nothing of their meeting. They mi
ght walk past each other in a week or two with no recognition: stand quite privately together in a cinema queue, or Thai takeaway.

  By the time he reached home, the rain was a fine drizzle that drifted as pale halos around the street lights, and elsewhere gave fluidity to the darkness. Sheff took off his wet shoes, jacket and trousers, and in shirt, underpants and dressing gown stood at the bench to make himself coffee. His farewell present was propped on a kitchen chair, and bubble-wrap showed in places where the wet paper had collapsed in the drunk guy’s grasp. ‘Jesus,’ said Sheff, still bemused by the oddity of the experience. Talking to himself had become a common habit since his separation, and quite unrecognised. It gave him a sense of comradeship. ‘You never know what the hell, do you?’ he said.

  Before going to bed he checked his emails, grumbling to himself at the delay in connecting to Thunderbird. The computers at his work were much more efficient. And when he did get access, no undeserved reward or opportunity awaited him, no individual commendation for his professional contribution, no arch, suggestive endearments from someone who missed him. Just the false glee of a prancing message congratulating him on being the 10,000th site visitor, a monthly power bill, and the invitation to become the Facebook friend of a woman called Alana who was quite unknown to him.

  A little after four he woke because his nose was running, and when he touched it his fingers became sticky. He turned on the bedside light, saw the bright, arterial blood on his hand and pillow. The flow wasn’t great, and stopped almost immediately. He hadn’t had a nosebleed for some time, and could think of no reason for one. He snorted cold water in the basin, and took off the pillow case and left it soaking. Afterwards he sat for a time in bed with his head forward, not wanting to lie down until he was sure the bleeding had stopped. With deliberation he breathed through his nose, and counted forty inhalations. There was no more bleeding, and he lay down and turned out the light. He wasn’t greatly alarmed by what had happened. It occurred to him that there were so many biological systems and structures in the body, that it was surprising failures weren’t more common. There must be thousands of things that could go wrong, and a lot of them without initial symptoms. He ran through a list of such afflictions, but not dwelling on any lest that tempt fate. You could be eating a burger, laughing at television, making love, and at just that unsuspecting moment death begins, makes an irreversible decision that will be realised in time. How much wine had he drunk at the farewell? Not so much that his nose would bleed, surely. Maybe being caught in the rain after the heat of the squash club rooms, and the small, drunk guy grappling for the lithograph, had brought it on.