Forever Young

by Steven Carroll

  Mandy nods. Yes, that is the correct answer. You don’t know where I am. I’ve gone. Disappeared into silence.

  ‘No,’ her friend continues, ‘we don’t have an address.’

  Her friend listens a little longer, eyebrows rising and lowering as she listens. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  She pauses and listens. ‘She didn’t leave one.’

  As the call continues it is clear to Mandy that it is becoming heated, and her friend’s voice is rising with the heat. At one point she can even hear Michael’s voice, harsh and loud.

  ‘I don’t. Nobody does. She was upset!’ There is a short pause and her friend adds, ‘Do you?’

  Then her friend says she is sorry, adds a thank you, and suddenly hangs up. She nods to Mandy as if to say, there, that is taken care of.

  ‘Pass on what?’ says Mandy.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ her friend replies with knowing protectiveness.

  No, Mandy thinks, it doesn’t matter. She’s right. It’s too late for these things to matter. Too late for these things to ever matter again when once they meant so much. They belong to another time. A younger time. The time for such things has passed, and she notes that at some point over the last few weeks she has ceased to think of herself as young. No longer young in that way that you see no end of things and all that is new in the world (the latest music, the latest sayings, the latest fashions) comes to you first, and everybody else is either older or old. And there is infinite time for mistakes that the next day can redress, and you don’t look upon someone else and inwardly remark upon their youth because you are youth. But a few weeks ago, watching a group of students meeting outside the university cafeteria before rushing off together in that unmistakeable way that tells you they are also setting out on the great adventure of life, she did exactly that — inwardly remarked upon their youth. They’ll tell you it’s a shadow line, the transition from being young to not being young any more. That it creeps up on you and, one day, you’re not young. Or at least you don’t think of yourself as young. And perhaps it does work like that — perhaps the realisation had been creeping up on her over time, unnoticed, and perhaps observing that group of students outside the cafeteria was simply the moment it pounced. Then again, perhaps it all happens in an instant. One moment you are young; the next you are not — and the line, however shadowy, is traversed in the blink of an eye.

  What was it that Michael wanted passed on to her? She’ll never know. It doesn’t matter. The time when such things mattered has gone. Her friend is right. And as they part at the door, Mandy promises to ring the next day. As she says this she notes that there is concern in her friend’s eyes. A concern that says, you’ve had a fall. And, by a fall, she means a lot more than a tumble from a rock.

  Later that evening, sitting on the front porch in her new house, she is once again dwelling on that moment of movement and disruption that marked her exit from the shop — and the words that were never spoken and never will be. The yard, in this outer suburban house where no one would think of looking for her, is large. An expansive lawn and fruit trees. And now a wide, clear, starry sky above. She sits in silence. This thing has come and gone and nobody knew. Only Mandy and a white-coated young doctor who, no doubt, has forgotten all about it by now. And so the knowledge of this short life is hers alone. She has made that life hers. And she now draws it to her and enfolds it. Calm as the Buddha. Calm as the lone figure in the desert. She cradles it in silence. Wise eyes, in all their six-week wisdom, stare back at her. Eyes that know infinity. And what it is to come and go, and for no one to know. And as she cradles it, she gazes out over the lawn and the street and the starry night. Rocking, ever so slightly, back and forth. Oh, good silence. True silence. Stay. Do not fail me. Do not fail me, for I will hold fast to thee and live in thy silence. For from thee, good and true silence, will come the words your Mandy longs to hear. For this mighty silence will break, that she trusts, but only after it has run its course, and the pure and true words Mandy longs to hear, new and cleansed by silence, will carry to her even into this world of infinite loneliness she has chosen to inhabit: You are beautiful, more beautiful than you know, have you never been told? And I will not harm you. Or hurt you. But love you. And when she hears those words she will know that the mighty silence has run its course and broken.

  The following week her friend delivers a letter. It is from Michael, and Mandy sighs. And she sighs again when her friend has gone and she can read the letter alone. It is a letter that expresses regret. A wrong has been done, and while it cannot be undone, it can, at least, be addressed. It is also a letter that expresses a desire to meet and a request that she ring — and includes his telephone number. As if she may have forgotten it. And the odd thing is that when she looks at the number she realises it has acquired a certain unfamiliarity. A number from the past, from the recent past, that she may well have forgotten had his letter not prompted her memory. She places the letter on a table (the house still has that sparsely furnished, recently occupied look, which she likes) and gazes out the window onto the garden.

  Once upon a time she would have given anything and everything to receive such a letter. Now it doesn’t matter. There is a story she read recently. A man finds a letter from his mistress stuffed into a book he happens to pick up in his study — the story is set in the previous century in a faraway country where they use such words as ‘mistress’ and ‘lover’, as apart from this milk bar world where no one does. After a year together this man has grown tired of his mistress and he reads this letter — which has been secretly stuffed into one of his favourite books so that he might find it — with inevitable weariness. She wishes to meet him at the garden shelter where they always meet. He closes the book, sealing in the letter, and realises that he will have to meet her, noting also the bothersome need of having to climb over a garden wall to get to the shelter. But when he arrives at the garden shelter that evening she is not there. And he waits until it is apparent that she will not come and then he returns to his room where he opens the book and re-reads the letter. And, as he reads it, noticing for the first time the faded white paper, he realises that it is an old letter. And he remembers instantly that he had been delirious with expectation when he first received it — this letter summoning him to her — and that, when he rushed to meet her that evening, he leapt that garden wall.

  So, too, the letter from Michael. Once upon a time, she, too, had leapt that garden wall. Hadn’t they all? Desire expressed as love, love expressed as desire, knows no impediment. And walls are for leaping. But not now. And whereas once she would have moved heaven and earth for just such a letter, she puts it aside, placing it on the lounge-room table. For not only has the time when such things mattered passed, so too has the time for sadness.

  That was another Mandy. A younger Mandy. Not the Mandy who looked up from a newspaper one morning recently in a cafeteria, noted the glowing youth of a group of students on the footpath outside, and knew, in an instant, exactly what the observation meant.

  So, it seems, love and youth have fled. The dog wanders in from the yard onto the porch to reassure itself, she likes to think, that she is all right. And why not? She’s all the dog has. So where does love flee to? Does it withdraw to some place quiet, like this porch upon which she now sits, to think things over? To sit and think and marshal its powers so that it may fall upon you again some day or night when you least expect it, and visit you with words you have long waited to hear, but hold out only faint hope of hearing because you no longer think of yourself as young? And, in not being young, think of yourself as too old for love’s adventures as well? But are words of love still out there, after all, just waiting to be spoken when this mighty silence she has chosen to inhabit breaks and when she least expects them, and from unexpected lips? Words born of silence, simple and new. You are beautiful. More beautiful than you know. Have you never been told? And I will not harm you. Or hurt you …

  She walks back inside, th
e dog following her, keeping a good eye on her, and picks up Michael’s letter from the lounge-room table. And, without re-reading it, she takes it to the kitchen and drops it into the bin. She will not reply. There is nothing to say. Love has fled. Fled to some silent place to mull things over and to marshal its powers.

  A few weeks later, at the end of the month, her friend from the old house calls and says there is an election-night party at a mutual friend’s house, casually mentioning, as an aside, that an old chum has come to stay in the room that was once hers. She hopes Mandy doesn’t mind. She adds that she doesn’t know why their friends are having a party. There will be nothing to celebrate. But they have all decided that the occasion should be marked. That the night their mountain withdraws from the landscape ought to be given due attention and acknowledged properly.

  But Mandy is not sure about a party. She is withdrawn and would like to continue her withdrawal quietly. As, perhaps, would the mountain. If only he could. And so she says this but her friend presses her and Mandy relents with a ‘maybe’, delivered with the tone of a ‘probably not’. And her friend, for the moment, is satisfied with this, choosing to interpret her maybe as a yes, and concludes the call by saying that she will see her then, that they all will, all her friends.

  When Mandy hangs up the telephone she notes that there was care and concern in her friend’s voice. And that it was an awareness of this concern that led her to relent with a ‘maybe’. She also notes that it is fitting, that it is somehow right, that the election and the party come at the end of the year. As though everything that has happened over the last few months might also end with the year itself.

  The house is silent. The dog is stretched out on the porch floor beside her, and the rich scent of flowers open to the moon and stars floats across the garden, from all the gardens, towards her. Summer is coming to the suburbs. Soon, fountains of water from garden sprinklers will shower lawns and children alike. And in the evenings, while she sits in this very spot with the dog at her feet, the smell of a suburb in summer, water on bitumen and concrete and lawn, will rise into the night air, along with orange moons, laughter, squeals and the revving of panel vans.

  9. If Our Children Should Ever Ask …

  The square is smaller than she imagined. On film it is large enough to drive a Cadillac onto, but she can’t imagine where they’d park one now that she’s here. Even the fountain itself looks smaller. But isn’t that always the case? The further you are from something the grander it looks; the closer you get the smaller things become.

  Rita is sitting at an outdoor table of a small restaurant on a square in Rome. A famous square. It is late evening and there are few people about, and the staff, no doubt, are anxious to pack up and go home, but she’s travelled a long way to be here, bringing with her images of vast open squares and grand fountains, and so she stays on after she has finished, after the dishes have been cleared from the table, except for a half-glass of wine, which she toys with while looking out over the square and the jets of water springing from behind god-like statues.

  Rita has given her group the slip, and she knows it won’t be the last time. But she had to come here. She told herself from the first that she must. And so she sits alone at a table for two, studying the Trevi Fountain. This is almost the whole reason she’s come to Rome. To sit at one of these little tables. And, even though it is cool, she insisted upon an outside table because that is the way she’s always imagined it. Film and life, life and film. They never match, although she’s probably been trying to match them all her life. Earlier in the day the square was jammed with tourists and she could barely see the fountain. Now, the square, apart from the occasional couple or group wandering on and off into the night like extras on a set, is all hers. And as much as she thinks she’s arrived at the wrong fountain, that this can’t be it and she’s made a mistake, she knows this is it. Just as she knows that a little over twenty years before, three young American actresses parked a Cadillac in the square and made wishes by the fountain.

  She saw the film in the local hall in the old suburb, the hall that converted into a picture theatre on Wednesday and Saturday nights. And she remembers walking home afterwards along the dirt streets and dirt footpaths (not really footpaths, just a path of trampled grass) of a suburb in the throes of being born, still hovering between a farming community and the suburb it would become: a mixture of weatherboard stick houses and old stone farmhouses. And, as much as Vic would never leave the country (and never did), she promised herself that she would go there someday, to those places where films shown in wooden halls took you, before she was too old, while wishes and promises still meant something. And so here she is. And she can still picture the Cadillac for she has seen the film since and the images have remained clear. And she can still see the three young women, the actresses (any one of whom she might have imagined herself being) standing just over there on that bright summer morning a little over twenty years before, tossing their coins into the fountain. And she can imagine the wishes they never spoke of.

  Now the two worlds have finally converged — the world of small wooden community halls converting into picture theatres twice a week and bringing Roman fountains to the dirt streets and stick houses that would, one day, become a suburb, and that world of Roman fountains itself. And so it is not a moment to be given passing acknowledgement but one to be lingered over. A lifetime of dreaming has gone into this moment, and the restaurant staff, restless as they are, can wait a little longer. The single woman at the table for two has a communion to complete as sacred and as holy as any vow whispered in a church. Two worlds have converged. I told you I’d come and here I am. A promise is a promise. And her words fall upon the statues as do the fountain’s endless showers. But you’re not what I expected. I’m not disappointed; don’t imagine that. No, you could never disappoint. You are the Trevi. I told myself that first night I saw you that I’d come, and I have.

  The cool autumn air is turning cold and she shivers as she calls the waiter. She is almost finished. Almost. It is a moment to be lingered over and certain things must be done properly. And so when the waiter stops at her table, she takes a small camera from her bag, hands it to him and smiles, saying please. And he smiles back at her, for as much as she has delayed his departure from work, his heart goes out to this lady of a certain age who sits alone and has no one to take her photograph. No one to record the moment apart from a waiter whom she has never met before and will never meet again.

  He steps back, holds the camera up, and Rita smiles. And she gives her smile everything, but she knows it’s not enough. For it’s a smile with the twinkle gone out of it, like Vic’s laugh in his later years, the boom still there but the life gone out of it. And she knows that when she finally sees the photograph that, as much as she gave her smile everything, her eyes will have that slightly lost, lonely look that the eyes of ladies of a certain age have, who sit alone at restaurant tables in foreign places. And, of course, she is the only one at the table and everyone who sees the photograph will conclude that the waiter, for the moment, obliged and doubled as her companion. And as much as she tried not to make it a lonely smile, she is sure it is. All the same, perhaps something of the accomplishment of the moment comes through too. That she kept her promise, and that she is here. And as much as she contemplates another shot, she knows that she gave that smile everything and that she hasn’t got another one in her. Not right now.

  The waiter hands back the camera and she pays the bill, then rises, and he helps her with her coat, for his heart goes out to the woman who sits alone and smiles bravely for the camera.

  The waiter watches, happy his evening is finally over, as Rita walks across the square to the fountain, knowing exactly what she is about to do. Rita nods and waves her thanks to him as he disappears into the restaurant, then turns to the fountain, its water spurting and showers tumbling onto statues for her benefit alone, it seems. You are Trevi. I said I’d come, and I have. She then takes the coin fro
m her wallet, a 1957 penny with a leaping kangaroo that she has kept for years just for this occasion. And as she stares at it she realises she is about to lose it. There is an unexpected pang and she’s puzzled because she’s not sure just what that pang means. Did she never expect to be here, and did she never expect to part with it? But the moment demands that she does. And she will. And it’s as she is about to throw it into the fountain that the ghostly voice of one of those young American actresses calls out to her — at once echoing round the makeshift wooden interior of that community hall that doubled as a picture theatre as well as all around the empty square in which she now stands. ‘No, no,’ this voice is saying urgently, imploringly, ‘you have to turn around; throw the coin over your shoulder.’

  And so, responding to that voice, Rita turns around, her back to the fountain. Then she holds the coin up, and not so much with a wish, but conscious of the whole ritual being an act of homage, she tosses the coin over her shoulder and waits, picturing the arc of its course, the kangaroo’s final leap, then hears a tiny splash in the night. And, tiny as it is, it is once again the splash of life that she hears. And the image of a young woman and her dog diving into the icy waters of the bay returns to her. She walks closer to the fountain, contemplating the coins — golden, silver and copper — glittering at the bottom under the lights, wondering where hers might have landed. The only one of its type, now indistinguishable from all the others. Each coin a wish — apart from those coins, like her own, that were more an act of homage. You are Trevi. I said I’d come, and I have.

  She wanders back to her hotel — up the incline, through the narrow streets that she imagines a Cadillac could only just pass along — the realisation slowly settling on her that although she came to the square alone, she has, nonetheless, made that table, the waiter, the photograph, the square and the fountain her own, in the same way that travelling couples find their own cafés and restaurants and return home pronouncing them ‘theirs’.