by Murray Bail
‘Notice. There are no shadows here at noon.’ That Ecuadorian remained at their elbow. ‘No one can bear living without his shadow. People come here for the picnic, sure, but all attempts to populate the region have failed.’
A little mirror had been nailed to a post, and Louisa Hofmann automatically touched the back of her head. She smiled when Borelli observed she had her face in each hemisphere.
‘If only that could last!’ Standing behind her, Violet gave a harsh yet understanding laugh.
A special mailbox stood on the other side. If people had letters they could post them here for fun. (A circular postmark divided by a horizontal dotted line: EQUATOR, ECUADOR.)
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this way,’ Borelli called out.
The local man agreed. ‘We have scientists coming every day from all over the world. To observe. It proves the hypothesis.’
Louisa joined Borelli. ‘Is this what you wanted us to see?’
He nodded but turned. ‘Phillip, now have a good look at this.’
A tall plastic curtain formed a kind of opaque ‘box’ across the Equator. Borelli pulled it aside. There stood a standard white bath on cast-iron paws. It had the wire tray for soap and a brick-coloured plug on a chain. Out in the open, positioned longways to the Equator, it looked out of place, ridiculous even. On closer inspection they noticed the heavy bath was mounted on two short pieces of tram line. These intersected the Equator at right angles. The bath could be pushed with an easy movement of the hand into the Northern Hemisphere, or the Southern (where it rested now), or smack on the Equator itself.
‘Excuse, excuse.’
The local man pushed his way to the front, enveloping them in the dense perfume of his hair oil.
‘These shouldn’t be here,’ he clicked his tongue.
He held up a snorkel and mask. A square hand-lettered card on string fell down.
‘Niños,’ he muttered, looking around.
He must have had poor eyesight, squinting at the card, holding it at arm’s length. Even those standing behind could read:
THE GREAT BARRIER REEF
Gwen whispered it to her husband.
‘What does it mean?’ the busybody from Ecuador asked. From the beginning his fastidious frown irritated them.
‘It’s the longest coral reef in the world,’ Kaddok told him. ‘One thousand two hundred and fifty miles long, one of nature’s miracles.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
He threw the rubbery gear to one side.
‘Excuse me, continue with the demonstration. Por aquí. Por allá.’
‘Right. Now let’s see,’ said Borelli.
This was an outdoor laboratory. Doubting Thomases, empiricists, the last remaining vorticists evidently came here in droves. Bathwater let out in the Southern Hemisphere spins out clockwise, like Time. See?
‘Just like home,’ Sasha agreed.
Filling the bath up again, Borelli pushed it across into the Northern Hemisphere. Here it ran out…anticlockwise.
They cheered. The old man in London had been dead right.
‘Very good.’
‘Do it again!’ Sasha laughed.
‘Ah-ah,’ said Borelli. ‘We now come to the important experiment. Am I right, doctor?’
North had his arms folded. ‘Cut the cackle.’
Setting the bath carefully astride the Equator, Borelli yanked the plug like a man starting a lawnmower, and for good measure imitated a trumpet fanfare. With hands on each other’s shoulders, they watched… The water fell straight down the hole. No vortex.
Borelli gave a bow.
‘Again!’ cried Sasha.
‘Americano?’ the local man asked. No one took any notice and when they turned he had disappeared.
‘Watch him!’—Kaddok almost fell in aiming his Pentax at the performing plughole.
‘Very interesting. Most unusual.’
Even Sheila put on her most thoughtful expression, although she had seen it before.
‘It makes sense when you think about it,’ argued Hofmann.
‘Well worth the trip,’ said Doug slapping his stomach and turning away. ‘It broadens your knowledge.’
They wandered along the Equator for a while, hands behind their backs, tagged by half a dozen hawkers in ponchos offering souvenir corkscrews and spiralling brooches. There were paperweights from a local rock crystal which showed at the flick of the wrist the site in a paradoxical snowstorm. While Violet bargained for a keyring with a marvellous miniature bath plug on a coilspring, solid silver, señora, the others looked on amused, or like Mrs Cathcart made a beeline for a nearby kiosk. There she bought a handful of postcards which illustrated in colour this phenomenon of water running down the hole, without a swirl.
It was a fine spot. Thrust up by such volcanic forces the mountains opposite were green-black, in shadow. Only their own small plateau with the kiosks seemed to be illuminated. The largest mountain directly ahead had been laced with a recent line of shining poles and wires, like the raised knee held down in Lilliput. There was a thin sharp wind.
Hofmann had returned alone to the bath. Pushing aside the curtains, positioning himself, he began pissing down the plughole, hands on hips, a type of luxuriousness.
‘Hell-o!’
Hofmann splashed his shoes. ‘Excuse me,’ he fumbled.
‘Ah, I thought it was one of the Indians. You know the dunny’s by the gate?’
‘But I thought I’d have a go at this. It was here,’
Frank Hammersly gave a laugh. ‘Fair enough.’
Wide in the shoulders, and easy. Strong as a bull. Fit as a fiddle.
Hofmann finished. ‘That feels better.’
‘We must have a similar ticket…’
‘Possibly. We’re taking it easy, of course. A leisurely sort of cruise. You’re on business? Are you making any money?’
When he wanted to, Hofmann could speak like a friendly dentist.
‘Winning a few, losing a few,’ came the platitude. Putting a foot up on the bath, Hammersly felt for his cigarettes.
The bus sounded its horn.
Hofmann zipped up.
‘OK,’ Hammersly waved. ‘I’ll see you.’ He took his foot off the bath. He was looking around for the snorkel and mask as Hofmann ran to the bus.
Landmarks vaguely remembered or briefly seen but forgotten re-appeared and fell into place, supplying the key to other sections. Nondescript yet memorable street corners (why?); the main plaza with its fountains; colonnades, oppressive palace of the Archbishop; the wide shaded street with the villas of the eminent quinologists; a palm tree from a certain regular angle—established and grew as facts. A kind of sadness then grew out of the familiarity, the dusty facades of buildings. That repetitious ’48 Buick with its wheels off, the female fenders painted with land-reform slogans, scarcely rated a glance now. It was a fixture, embedded in the ground near the leather shop and cigarette advertisement. Other entire suburbs and smaller plazas remained a blank. These they would never see. Normally they took the narrow street to the main plaza on the right. From there they radiated after strolling the arcades. The plaza provided authority. In an alleyway behind it some had come across an Indian market, congested and noisy, but obviously safe.
With such brief boundaries the confidence they had acquired was unstable. It was merely awareness of their freedom of movement. Wandering singly or in groups their curiosity lured them into corners and strange culs-de-sac where the racket of the market or the plaza could suddenly no longer be heard. The cluster of craft shops facing the hotel, the faded yellow words on a building, the Archbishop’s palace, the street lights strung on dark wires between the buildings, and the porous nose of the nervous desk clerk were evocative of the city, the spread of buildings, called ‘Quito’. In fact, they knew very little.
Those like Borelli who preferred the local people to museums and religious carvings—although Gerald Whitehead tried to explain they were one and the same—searched the faces
which zoomed in and went passing, for a clue. Somehow they were different from Australians, from the English. They were close, but far away. Their intentions were smooth. The women avoided his gaze. When Borelli entered an alleyway (once) ragged boys began throwing stones; waving, he ambled back. What did that mean? Why should they? Several blocks away Phillip North bending over some parrots in rusty cages lost his wallet containing travellers’ cheques and the image of his dead wife seated on a garden chair.
‘Bad luck, but that’s one of the things about travel,’ said Garry.
And he told them how he and Ken Hofmann had dumped the women and went looking for a cockfight, and for the first time saw a man dead in the street. Yeah? People had stood around and stared.
‘What’d you do?’
‘We thought it was the cockfight.’
‘He was dead all right,’ said Hofmann. ‘We turned back.’
And for kicks they both had their shoes shined.
‘Ever had that done?’ Garry lifted his foot up by the ankle. ‘How about that? It was really funny. This little codger must have spent ten minutes rubbing away. Didn’t he, Ken?’
What some people do for a crust.
Nodding; comparing notes.
‘We got lost,’ said Sasha, ‘and we had to get a taxi. Hey, how much is twenty sucres? I thought so.’ She turned to Violet. ‘We was done.’
Families squatted on the pavement, some leaning against the poles, eating tinned pet foods. The major brands competed here: Mighty Dog, Kal Kan, Jo-Bo, Perk, Puss ’n Boots, Chug Wagon and Wag. A mother, no oil painting, but wearing a marvellous woollen shawl, dropped dobs of Wam into her son’s stained mouth.
‘They have nice-looking coins,’ Sheila remarked.
Doug had spread them out on the table. ‘What did you get at the bank? Thirty-eight to the dollar?’ He pointed to the coins. ‘Fifty-three. You know the leather shop? There’s a young fella there in a red shirt.’
Gerald picked up one of the coins, then another sprouting cactus and terraced temples. He cleared his throat. ‘These are centavos.’
‘What?’
‘He’s given you Mexican money.’
Everybody laughed.
Cathcart was now emptying his pockets, comparing coins.
‘Give them to some of the beggars.’
‘I’ll buy some,’ Sheila said, ‘I take them back for children I know. It’s something of a habit.’ She turned. ‘They’re little blighters now. If I don’t, they’ll only ask.’
‘I almost forgot,’ Sasha cried out. Swinging around, her breasts tangled, and her voice came from under the table.
‘It’s for you…’
She planted a Panama on North’s head.
‘Aw, shucks,’ he mumbled, gauging the rim with both thumbs. ‘Aw, shucks…’ He put it back on. He put on an act.
Leaning back they laughed with him.
‘It suits you,’ Sasha decided, her nipples rising. She stood in front of him. ‘You look lazy and seedy.’
He said, ‘I thought everyone knew that.’
Sasha sat down beside him.
The hotel as meeting place: the firm knowledge of its location. How it stood in their minds, at the back, waiting. It was theirs. Friendly were the dimensions and shadows of the mellow foyer and its miniature-pillared news-stand displaying postcards and street maps, Ecuadorian Made Easy, Bibles, and leather-bound manuals for American cars out of production decades ago. There were the wide-elbowed chairs and low tables. There was the aroma of that universal floor polish favoured by hotels, and the creaking wooden lift, the familiar state of their scattered clothes, and the window where the outside and ordinary world could be looked down upon—here like some social-realist painting seen from a distance.
North thought of going to the zoo in the morning. Would Sasha like…
‘But I thought you’d given up animals?’ said Sasha, and she met Violet’s eye.
‘Ah, that’s true. But perhaps I could try out this hat, you see.’
When Sasha turned she was smiling.
‘But we have that museum tomorrow.’
‘I think that’s in the afternoon.’
With a kind of dull anger Doug and Mrs Cathcart picked up and examined each of the Mexican coins again.
‘Where’s Louisa?’
Violet turned to James Borelli.
‘I haven’t seen her. She must be up in her room.’
‘Someone bang on their door!’
‘Louisa’s nice, isn’t she?’ Sheila ventured. She looked anxious but the others seemed to agree.
They were still discussing Louisa when Gwen Kaddok returned with a brown paper bag. ‘I’ll show you,’ she said, ‘what I found.’
Normally Gwen remained to one side, what with Leon; and so they wondered. Putting her hand in the bag she felt around, then pulled out by its hair a charcoal-grey head. It was a man’s, slightly larger than a cricket ball.
‘No!’
‘But that’s awful!’
‘I’ve always read about these. Let’s see.’
‘Gwen, give us a look. Where’d you get it? How much was it?’
‘Careful with it, please. Careful.’
And Gwen herself remained gazing at it as others turned it over. They tested it with tips of their fingers.
‘The poor man. Imagine.’
He had tiny nostrils.
It was difficult, no matter how hard they stared, to estimate his age.
‘Take it off the table,’ Mrs Cathcart shouted. ‘For goodness sake. I think I’m going to be sick.’
And here Sheila surprised almost everyone by suddenly laughing. Not only was it unexpected: her eyes seemed to be blazing. The laughter came from deep in her throat, a-bubbling. Could it have been embarrassment? Its unsteady nature made some of them glance at her.
‘The shrunken head,’ Kaddok rattled off over it all, ‘called tsantsa. War trophies of the Jivaro Indians. They’re head-hunters. Upper Amazon.’
‘Perhaps it’s where our head-waiter comes from!’ Borelli cracked.
‘What? Oh stop it!’ Sasha laughed.
They were all having a good time.
North passed the head back to Gwen. ‘I think it demonstrates very much the dangers of psychoanalysis.’
This made Borelli laugh and Sheila returned to gazing open-mouthed, but Gerald leaned across, ‘These days you’ll find they are made from goat skin and horse hair. It’s a racket for the tourist trade.’
‘What?’ Doug swung around.
Gerald shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Only a hundred and thirty sucres,’ Gwen was saying.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mrs Cathcart asked.
‘I don’t like this city,’ Doug announced. He shifted in his seat. ‘Everyone’s either crackers or they’re getting at you. I’m not stupid.’
It was the stillness, a kind of aerial brooding over all. Them sad natives singing the yarabí’ in the street outside. Some could be heard from the bar. What an atmosphere, unnatural, even inside. It was ragged. People kept bruising their shoulders for no apparent reason at all. Darkness had descended on the houses stacked in cubes, filled the hollows and the holes, merging with the mountain normally to their left, so obliterating all perspective and sense of direction, making even the source of sounds ambiguous. Only a few holes pierced the dark, some in vague clusters like the Milky Way. The land had become sky.
Curious too how the barman with the sliding wet-nut eyes was drenched below the hairline: a forehead of crystal until he wiped. For it wasn’t hot here on the Equator. It was mild. And he wouldn’t talk, not even gracias. At latitude zero there existed that all-pervading stillness. Pores and pulse expanded, ebbed and contracted, overflowing in the inexperienced. Most in the party had gone to bed with itchy skins.
At the bar Garry Atlas splashed his drink on a pair of crocodile-skin shoes: the South American racing driver, Ricardo Monzan. ‘I know you,’ Garry moved his cigarette to his mouth. �
�Christ, put it here. This is something. Hey, Hammersly,’ he called out. ‘Come here. Meet the great Ricardo Monzan.’
Monzan wore the stereotyped slender red overalls (fireproof) favoured by the international stars. FIRESTONE was embroidered across one breast. And yet he was a pear-shaped man, going bald.
‘Christ, what a—’
Monzan held up his hand. ‘If you don’t mind. I have a father and a brother called Jesus. My father is living in Buenos Aires.’
So he speaks English.
He nodded at the barman. ‘And my good friend there. His name too is Jesus.’
Garry winked at Frank Hammersly, ‘Fair enough—’
‘I remember,’ Hammersly put in. Jack Brabham thrashing you in the—what was it?—American Grand Prix. How did that feel?’
‘The South African…’
‘Brabham’s Australian! He was World Champion.’
Emptying his glass Monzan placed it on the bar.
‘Everyone knows that.’ Hammersly persisted (veins bulging in his neck). ‘How long have you been driving?’
Monzan displayed the calm, the experience, typical of racing drivers, glancing first at the other bourbon drinkers and then up the wall where he’d noticed a crocodile-shaped vertical crack,
But Monzan’s tanned hand alongside the glass trembled. He had to hold on.
Garry scratched the place on his neck normally reserved for problems.
‘Are you here for races or what?’
Monzan blinked.
‘On the way somewhere or sort of a little holiday then?’
The South American pointed to their empty glasses. This made him better though no more understandable.
‘All right, I’ll be a slob,’ said Hammersly recovering nicely, ‘another beer.’
‘Say,’ Garry turned, taking the opportunity, ‘I was going to ask. What is it you do for a crust?’
From his wallet Hammersly drew out a card the size of a matchbox:
F.J. HAMMERSLY
REPRESENTATIVE
Sporting goods from the country and people with a record of firsts
(PRINTED IN AUST.)
‘It’s mainly public relations,’ Hammersly explained. ‘Living out of the old suitcase. I travel the globe.’
