‘Okay.’ Simon climbed down into the pool. The handles on the ladder were rough with rust, but his feet found easy purchase on the rungs. It felt kind of good to walk on the bottom of an empty pool. It was something not many people got to do, he supposed. Little segments of the surface view disappeared the further down he walked, until all he could see was the top tiers of the grandstand, the tips of trees and the sky. The sun receded too, the temperature dropping as the pool fell into shadow. Simon hadn’t noticed it before, but a set of tiles ran in a thin stripe around the inner edge of the pool. They were covered in an intricate design, a complicated pattern of deep blue and ivory that reminded Simon of the surface of rippling water.
Pony saw him looking. ‘Byzantine,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Byzantine. That’s the design of the tiles. They’re amazing, aren’t they. That colour is Byzantine blue. I want to find more tiles like that and cover the walls completely.’ He got up and ran both arms through the air with his imaginary tiles. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling out the chair. ‘Try the seat.’
Simon put the camera bag on the table and sat down. He pictured the whole pool covered in the tiles. He imagined them lit by rows of soft blue lights, the feeling of being inside all that colour. Enjoying a meal. It would feel like eating underwater.
Pony stood beside Simon. ‘Why are you carrying that camera?’
Simon zipped open the bag and peered inside. ‘There’s pictures of us there. Together. I’ll show you.’ He took the camera out and turned it on. It was surprisingly small, covered in buttons and switches.
He found the pictures he wanted. In the first photo, Simon and his mother were sitting at a wooden picnic bench. She had her arm around him, squashing him into her shoulder. He was making a face. It was the place they’d stopped for morning tea. The next photo was Simon and his dad, standing by the car, ready to set off again. Simon’s dad had his hands on his hips, one leg on the car’s running board, like a noble explorer. Simon copied him, aping his pose, smiling. All three of them in the next picture; Simon’s dad had asked a stranger to take their photograph. His parents each had an arm around Simon’s shoulders. Simon remembered the weight of their arms.
‘Where’s that?’ said Pony, leaning over the chair.
‘On the drive down.’
‘Never understood why people take so many photos,’ Pony straightened up, hands in his back like an old man. ‘People spend too much time trying to remember what was fun and don’t have any fun.’
There was silence for a minute.
‘What was it like?’ Simon said eventually.
‘What was what like?’
‘Losing your parents. To know they were gone. Does it stay…I mean—’
Pony shrugged. ‘I guess. It gets less bad I suppose, with time. But it never really goes away. There’s always—’ He tapped his fingers against his chin, at the place where acne ended its journey along his jaw. ‘Something, though,’ he laid his hand across the middle of his chest. ‘You start to think it never actually happened.’
Simon thought about that. It made no difference really. Pony had landed here, that was all. They both had.
‘It’s weird,’ Pony went on, ‘you start to think I could hug Mum with these arms. You think I could reach up, easily, and find Dad’s hand.’ He shut his eyes, rubbed them with his fingers. ‘Are you going to stay?’
‘Maybe,’ said Simon. ‘Depends.’
‘Yeah, well. Won’t be the same without you here.’
Simon smiled, and wiped his hand across his nose.
‘You know what’s great?’ Pony stretched his arms.
‘What?’
Pony sat down on the bottom of the pool. ‘This.’
‘What?’
‘You lie down here.’
‘Then what?’
‘Jeez. You watch the stars come out, idiot.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. There’s nothing else like it.’ Pony lay down on the pool’s floor, his head towards the ladder, his feet pointing to the deep end.
After a moment, Simon lay down next to him.
For those minutes, as the sky darkened, as they waited for the stars to show through, Simon pretended that there was no world outside the pool’s walls, that all that existed was the sky. He closed his eyes and in his mind brought a beach to life. In the distance, he saw two figures walking. Side by side, hand in hand, the day’s dying light falling across their shoulders. He let them walk on for as long as they wanted. Because he knew even in winter the horizon shimmered, made mirages from ordinary things, made the world real only for as far as you could see it.
MY THANKS
Firstly, to my family, without whom I would not be the person I am. My parents, Paul and Judy Currie, whose unquestioning love, support and humour afforded me the most ridiculous privileges growing up I could ever want, and still do. To my little brother, Andrew Currie, my all-time hero, whose resilience and spirit I can only ever marvel at. To my grandparents Don and Dorothy Fraser, to whom this book is dedicated, who have given so much and asked so little, who have put up with and inspired me in equal measure.
To all my friends, teachers and colleagues at QUT (viva class of 2002!), especially Stuart Glover and Glen Thomas. To Tom Doig and Ryan Paine, my editors at Voiceworks, who once gave me a place for my writing to live, and to Ronnie Scott at The Lifted Brow, who still does.
And finally, those who have been there over The Ottoman Motel’s long road to publication. At the start, the incomparable Amy Barker, thanks for lending me your hotel and your relentless inspiration. To Judith Lukin-Amundsen, the first person to tell me I could write a novel if I wanted to. To Krissy Kneen, friend, colleague and superb author, for sharing the highs and lows. To Chris Somerville, for making me laugh and providing plenty of competition. To Favel Parrett for her bottomless encouragement. And, at the pointy end of my manuscript’s life, I am forever indebted to Benjamin Law, Krissy (again) and Caro Cooper.
To all at Text Publishing, who made me feel welcome there even before I signed with them, thank you. Particular thanks to Mandy Brett, without whom this book would still be very much an abandoned bottom-drawer memory. I cannot regard Mandy’s wisdom, patience and skill highly enough.
To my other worlds outside of writing, thank you to my dearest friends Gordon Mander and Clare Sladden, for being there always. To my employer, Avid Reader Bookshop, and in particular Fiona Stager and Anna Sheen, thank you for letting me pursue my passion and giving me the best workplace in the world. To Mad Espresso, eternal thanks for letting me occupy a table and nurse one of your brilliant coffees for almost the entire rewriting process.
And finally, if it’s possible to fall more in love with someone every day, then that’s what I do. To my favourite, to the reason I live my life, Leesa Wockner, who, if she reads this, I hope will agree to marry me, despite the number of commas in this sentence.
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