Tuvalu

by Andrew O'Connor

  Ten minutes later my misery swirled up into a solid fear. I vomited and, slumping onto the concrete and staring disgustedly at the mess, resolved to go home at the first opportunity. I had too many questions.

  Home

  The girl beside me was nervous. She wore a tight top which revealed her navel and enabled me to visualise, with some certainty, the shape of both her breasts. Whenever the plane shuddered these breasts bounced and the girl clutched the inside of the window as a rock climber might a mountain face—with sheer force of pressure. During turbulence her nasal breathing shortened and she shut her eyes. I must have sat staring at her hands for half the flight. Either that or at the girl in front, on whose head a tiny brown ant walked in muddled circles, lost amidst the black, coarse hair.

  We landed safely and I was once again in Melbourne. My new backpack was searched by customs, after which I was let into the onset of summer—T-shirt weather. Women’s arms and legs were on display and everyone was wearing sleek sunglasses.

  This time it was Celeste who picked me up, driving me to her house, where my mother had prepared a roast. Oddly, it made all the difference to me to see my mother. I had not thought about it flying over. She was just someone who was going to be there, a stepping stone on my journey to the lavender farm. Perhaps it was the food. It took my mind off death. I tried to relax, battling a headache and feeling an obligation to actively participate in the conversation. My mother drew talk from me carefully, like worms from arid ground.

  We discussed the lingering impact of the coalition war in Iraq, then Celeste’s artwork—mostly about a piece called ‘Fork’ which, she reminded me, she had been working on at the time of my last visit. It was the can-opener project. She had welded them all into a giant fork, she explained, watching me, my face. I nodded blankly and she dropped her head.

  ‘It’s crowding fucking back of the house,’ she snapped angrily, jabbing at her downcast head with one thumb. ‘No one gets it.’

  My mother caught my eye. ‘Given a can,’ she said softly, ‘people so often have nothing more than a fork.’

  ‘And so,’ said Celeste, looking up and holding out both arms, ‘furk!’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So stupid an idea. So many openers but too smart.’ She scrunched her face up. ‘Too smart, too simple, ne.’

  ‘I still want to see it,’ I said.

  ‘You can buy it. Buy it and melt it.’

  ‘If it’s all the same, I’d like to see it before I buy it.’

  This improved things markedly. Celeste brightened, nodded and shrugged. ‘I am sore,’ she said. ‘Ignore me.’

  We ate in silence, until my mother felt it time to once again draw me out. ‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘tell us all about Japan, Noah. We speak so little.’

  ‘Japan’s okay.’

  ‘You and your girlfriend,’ asked Celeste distractedly, as if it was any old question, ‘still fucking?’

  ‘No.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Why no?’

  ‘Tilly returned to Australia.’

  ‘Ah … lust but no love,’ she said, voice a mumble.

  I did not reply, stood and cleared my plate in the kitchen, afraid that I would say something nasty about the first piece of artwork I saw. My mother joined me. She gave me a hug, which I suddenly realised she had not done at the front door.

  ‘Celeste reacts badly to people being inside this house. She feels exposed. Everything she’s done with her life since returning to Australia’s here. Also …’ she said, hesitating.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She doesn’t like being the third wheel.’ I suspected my mother was blushing. ‘It’s a shame,’ she continued, ‘that Celeste’s like this, that this is all you see. She’s fantastic when it’s just the two of us.’

  ‘She was nicer last time.’

  ‘She wasn’t. She’ll calm this time, though. At the moment she’s just nervous.’

  ‘A third wheel,’ I repeated. The words were not exactly a surprise but it was still bizarre to hear them.

  My mother smiled. ‘It must be strange for you. I remember being a child, looking up at my parents and thinking they’re different to me, that they’ve stopped making mistakes. You always tried to look at me that way. I saw it and I let you. But you’re not a child anymore, Noah, and I’m here with Celeste. Now that you understand, perhaps you could go easier on your father.’

  I felt a flutter of panic. ‘I …’ My mother smiled and ran her fingers through my hair, roughing it up.

  ‘Now come back out, will you?’

  ‘I was only stacking my dishes.’

  ‘I know.’

  But Celeste, having heard whispers, was determined to pick a fight. ‘You cheated?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m home. She died.’

  After this no one spoke. My mother had an awful look of pity in her eyes, unaware that Celeste had been correct. Celeste, meanwhile, looked perplexed. She eventually stood and refilled her wineglass, which, being a large glass, she emptied half the bottle into. Without another word she left the room. I could hear her heavy tread on the ceiling above, pacing.

  ‘Well,’ said my mother, throwing down her napkin, ‘that went much as expected. I’m sorry about Celeste. And about Matilda. What a terrible thing to have happen. Was it some kind of an accident?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m home. To find out.’

  ‘You’re going back to her place?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  An eighties pop song started to blare upstairs, bass causing the crockery to shudder.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ said my mother again.

  ‘Stop saying sorry.’

  That night I thought of Tilly and there was no comfort in the little sleep I managed. It was all sweat, muscle ache and dreams.

  The following morning I wandered down to Celeste’s shed, wanting to make peace. I found her inside, dressed down in pyjamas and cutting one-inch lengths of fencing wire from a large coil before straightening them in a vice.

  Behind her was one half of Tokyo’s Imperial Palace. I recognised it at once and caught my breath. Made entirely from lengths of wire it included the buildings, gardens and moats, and shimmered beneath a bare globe hung over it specially. I marvelled at how Celeste had created the illusion of water and even greenery with nothing more than wire.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said, momentarily forgetting everything.

  Celeste’s face brightened. ‘It will stand as long as the real one,’ she said. ‘Toughest Aussie wire.’

  ‘I want to buy it.’

  She beamed at this, cutting off a length of wire for me to inspect. I tried to bend it with my hands but could not. Seeing this, Celeste held up the tools she had been using and explained how she constructed various aspects of the buildings. I noticed she used large maps and I asked her what she could tell me about the moats.

  ‘No information,’ she said. ‘I have maps for the buildings and for the gardens. And for where moats are. Nothing else. Why?’

  ‘I know a girl in Tokyo who says she jumped into one of these moats—right here.’ With a finger I pointed to where Mami claimed to have jumped.

  Celeste let out a sceptical laugh and shook her head hard and fast—like a child. ‘Not possible.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. She says things, this girl, things that are hard to believe.’

  ‘She sounds bad.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But you like her?’

  ‘No. Not like that.’

  Celeste shrugged and returned to her work, a slight smile on her lips, like a last comment I could not rebut. I had no interest in rebutting it; I thought about Tilly and the journey ahead.

  ‘So,’ Celeste said, ‘will you please your father?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Live with him, go to university, get a job, get a wife, leave him for this new wife?’

  ‘Put like that, probably not. Who told you he wanted me to do all
that?’

  ‘Your mother. Once your father, too. He came here for lunch. They both fighted—fought. Mostly it was about you. That’s odd, no? You are in Japan and you don’t care, and they are here. They need to talk and they use that talk on you, they spend every word on you.’

  I watched Celeste return to her work. ‘And what did my mother say?’

  ‘She said you will come home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you are tired of alone. Then you’ll marry here.’

  ‘So they talk a lot, Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Only about you or bills or selling things.’

  Celeste seemed pleased to say this. She held my eye and, almost out of spite, I shifted the conversation from my family to hers. ‘What about your children?’ I asked.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you see them?’

  Celeste glued a piece of metal in place—a part of the guardhouse I had stopped to inspect shortly after Mami tried to hang herself.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They have lives. I have this life. I hear sometimes, they hear from me. We are close but really we don’t know anything. They left home like me. We talk on the phone but they tell me nothing. When you do not see someone, when you do not see eyes, it becomes easy to lie to and hard to see a lie, I think …’ Celeste stopped talking to glue two pieces of wire, both belonging to the guardhouse. Only when each was safely in place did she resume our conversation. ‘I was in Japan. They chose jobs, my children. I wanted to be involved in the lives. I had a husband but he was a risk man.’

  ‘A risk man?’

  ‘He loved the risk. If he had everything, he would risk everything for more. He was in construction.’

  ‘What, a speculator?’

  ‘Construction man.’

  Frenziedly, she flapped one hand and scraped glue from the edge of a finger. ‘He bought old buildings and made them better. Or he made buildings from nothing. Or he made money just to make buildings. He always wanted to make something big. I loved that. He was a dreamer. But not really dreaming about me, I knew.’

  She ended up biting the dried glue from her finger.

  ‘In Japan gambling is difficult. Without casinos it’s difficult. You have to go to the yakuza. You have to go to secret casinos. Little. My husband did not like that. He liked to gamble always, every day.’

  Celeste shook her head. ‘He gambled at work, with work. He looked like a good salaryman. I was always embarrassing when people came to dinner. I said too much. My cooking was bad. He liked to pretend but he was all risk. When he did projects he made them too big. He always wanted to win. We were rich. Then we went broke the first time and the second time, and I said, “goodbye love”.’ Celeste waved her long-fingered, glue-free hand at me.

  ‘The children were at the university then. In and out like our money. Then back in and they got angry. This is not fair, they said to him. He was sad and he was with other women. I knew this but I did not want to prove it. I did not catch him because I did not want to. The children left us, all going to different cities. They were angry about the university, about the money. Only my husband was left—to get old together ne, but he did not like this idea. Also, I did not like this idea, not his way. He slept with some young women. One was our daughter’s friend. I screamed. He went to parties. I stayed at home. I sat on the floor calling my children, leaving a message, leaving another message. The bad time. After it, I took a lot of money. I left. He agreed and I was very lucky because soon he went broke again. His buildings had a problem—they fell. Maybe he’s rich again now, maybe not. Maybe he has more children, maybe not. I don’t know. I don’t think about it. He’s a risk man, so I stay here. I stay away. I don’t need risk. I don’t need his crazy life. This is enough.’

  ‘Do you regret it all?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dreams you must chase. Maybe they leave you, not like you think, but after they finish you are somewhere new. Like chasing an animal.’

  I was impressed with this response, and to note Celeste discussed her own lingering disappointments with the same almost thoughtless candour she did mine. She gave up on the Imperial Palace, setting down a largish pair of pliers.

  ‘Let’s drink tea,’ she said.

  I followed her upstairs to the kitchen. My mother had gone to tennis. She played every Tuesday and was the top competitor in her division. I had had no idea she was so good at tennis. I wondered, watching Celeste strain the tea, what else I did not know, what other things my mother had done before marrying my father and being saddled with me. I had an idea of her as a young woman, but now saw that it was garnered from a handful of stories which she herself had chosen to tell. She had had the luxury of being able to edit her own past, tailoring it to fit her present. I thought of her words the previous night, and of my father.

  We carried our tea to the balcony and sat in silence watching a willy wagtail hop along the rail in a series of flighty, nervous bounces. It was careful to keep one eye on us at all times, as though expecting an attack.

  ‘Mum seems very happy staying with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have your children seen this place?’

  ‘Yes. Once each. Maybe it’s like a job for them now.’

  ‘You must miss them.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why I make my art. A long time ago it wasn’t needed. I had my children. They were my art. I did everything for them. Maybe too much, maybe not. I was like three mothers.’

  An hour passed, which we filled talking about everything from coffee to confetti, then I stood and pretended to stretch, watching the bird—which had come and gone throughout—resolve to take off and flap ineffectually towards the city. Tilly came to mind.

  ‘I’d better get on and pack,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘A bit of a road trip, but I’ll be back by Friday. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  I stepped into the house, then turned. ‘I’m going to go and see Tilly’s father. What should I take him?’

  Celeste beamed. ‘I will arrange Japanese flowers.’

  I travelled early the following day, using yet more of the money Mami had given me, and arrived at Mr Willoughby’s farm around midmorning. It was a cold day despite the clear sky. I paid the taxi driver and took the long path in. The air was clean and cool, and there was more green in the fields than I remembered. Blue smoke wafted horizontally from the chimney. But as I got closer I realised it was all wrong. It was not the same house. It was the old shack. I quickened my pace and was soon standing inside a scorched section of earth the size of a basketball court. Littered with blackened bricks and charred stumps, it was all that remained of the house in which I had stayed.

  I kept on towards the shack, where unseen birds chirped lazily in shrubs. The ute was parked out front. My presence went unnoticed until a cat came out to greet me, running its long body over my leg. I nudged it with my foot and it cantered towards the ute, pausing underneath. I could not remember if there had been a cat the first time or not.

  Setting down the Japanese flowers, I knocked on the door, then cupped my hands at a window to peer inside. Before I could see anything I heard the deadlock turn. I stood straight, brushing lint from my jumper. I was nervous, so nervous my hands trembled, but I dared not bury them in my pockets. I completely forgot the flowers, which were off to one side, out of sight. The door opened and Mr Willoughby appeared, looking frail, almost unsteady on his feet. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and he had the skin of a sober drunk—flushed red and layered with a fine film of sweat. He was wearing only a dressing-gown.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect you.’

  Silently, the cat slipped around him and on into the shack.

  ‘I tired to ring but—’

  ‘Disconnected. They hooked the line to this place right after, but it never stopped ringing. I cut it off.’

  I swall
owed gloomily as Mr Willoughby pulled his dressing-gown tight and tied the belt with a bow.

  ‘You’d better come in. That sun’s got no heat.’

  The kitchen was a mess and filled with acrid smoke, like a fog.

  ‘I’m having trouble with the chimney. Dead bird in it, I think. Can’t get a fire to take.’

  Mr Willoughby clicked the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. When it clicked off he filled both, yawning. ‘No milk,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  In one corner of the kitchen the floor was littered with once frozen, finely diced carrots, peas and corn. I took a seat at a rickety wooden table.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘The house? Fire.’

  Before I could ask more Mr Willoughby excused himself to get changed. When he returned, dressed in jeans and a shirt, face shaven, he explained he was going shopping. I offered to accompany him into town but he shook his head and started for the door. ‘No, I’ll go alone. How about steak?’

  ‘Steak?’

  ‘For dinner.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Make yourself at home. It’s comfortable enough. I’m almost done moving in.’

  When the ute’s diesel engine faded, I crossed to a small bookshelf and flicked through a work about Russell Drysdale before picking out a larger book, The History of South-East Asia. Published in 1959 it finished with a chapter discussing European domination. I replaced this carefully and, after some indecision, began reading Graham Greene’s A Burnt-Out Case. I read all afternoon. Two hours became four, four eight. Darkness fell. On my third visit to the bathroom I opened one of six stacked cardboard boxes and found it to be full of empty whisky bottles. It was no surprise to find the same in the other five.

  I took a shower. Above the recess, between heavy, full bottles of shampoo and conditioner, there were intricate spider-webs. When I splashed them they shuddered. Afterwards I dried myself with my T-shirt, then put it on wet. Back in the living room, clocks ticked. Even here there were too many clocks and a piano.