Homesickness

by Murray Bail

  And they all laughed and glanced down at their clothing.

  Mrs Cathcart had to correct the impression: ‘Sir Robert Menzies was a fine speaker.’

  ‘The Australian Prime Minister,’ Kaddok put in.

  North turned to Borelli. ‘The explanation might merely be habit. Why, for example, do men and women in Paris talk with cigarettes hanging from their bottom lips? In India people slowly shake their heads when they mean “yes”.’

  ‘The French. Aren’t they piggy to foreigners?’ Sasha asked.

  Gerald leaned forward. ‘I’m not 100 per cent sure about the Americans. I must say I’ve always had my doubts. As you say, they can talk.’

  ‘They’ve had television for a long time…’

  ‘The Yanks are all right. They’re generous. That you would have to admit. And great artists, great scientists…’

  ‘You mean they’re clever.’

  ‘What about Canadians? Have you ever met an interesting Canadian?’

  The comparisons, their anecdotes. Gerald pursed his lips.

  ‘Yes, I’m not crazy about the Canadians.’

  ‘I don’t remember any,’ Violet mysteriously cracked.

  ‘I’ve never been one for the Germans,’ Sheila confessed. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘The Second World War,’ Kaddok chipped in.

  ‘What about the English?’

  The English… What about the English?

  ‘Ar, the old Poms are all right,’ said Doug. ‘Let ’em go.’

  ‘They’re miles better than the Irish.’

  ‘You don’t find the English have their nose in the air, perhaps a trifle superior?’

  ‘No more than the French,’ said North.

  ‘The English are on a plateau,’ said Borelli. ‘It’s green and cultivated, and they’re resting. They’re having a good time.’

  ‘The Scots don’t have a sense of humour,’ someone said.

  ‘Mind you, I’ve heard the Poles keep to themselves. It’s not on our ticket, is it?’

  No, Poland was off.

  ‘I don’t like the shoes they always wear,’ Sasha laughed.

  ‘The Poles wear peculiar-looking shoes. The Russians wear socks with sandals. The Dutch wear clogs.’

  ‘Europeans.’

  The intricate pull of hyperborea prevailed, assisted by the magnetic pole. Towards…cold metals, the ornate railings of boulevards, verglas, and gutterals.

  Gerald thought the Spanish were a marvellous people but could be better.

  ‘The Italians and the Greeks…’

  ‘I don’t mind the Italians.’

  ‘We’ve got them at home all over the place. They’ve got their own newspapers. No skin off your nose!’ Doug suddenly turned to Borelli.

  ‘He’s not Italian,’ Louisa insisted.

  ‘They were piss-weak in the war,’ said Garry.

  Mrs Cathcart mentioned the Dutch: ‘They’re very clean.’

  ‘Like the Swiss,’ Kaddok agreed.

  ‘What about the Swedes then?’

  ‘They’re a cold people!’

  Socialism and suicides. Blue eyes. Volvos.

  ‘Hasselblad cameras,’ Kaddok told them, though they hardly listened to him.

  What about Einstein’s tram at Berne? Did you ever see reindeer racing in Finland?

  ‘Indians,’ Sheila recalled now, ‘are sometimes oily. Perhaps it is the tropics: I had trouble communicating. They all have moustaches.’

  ‘I think of those blacks in Africa.’

  ‘What about the Japs? What makes them tick? I’m darned if I know,’ said Doug.

  ‘They’re like the Chinese, aren’t they?’

  ‘You should see them in Singapore.’ North went over to the window and Ken Hofmann moved to go to an exhibition. When he tapped Louisa’s shoulder she nodded without turning, letting him go.

  Japan’s GNP figures and the village structure in corporations were supplied by Kaddok. He mentioned Mr Honda, the Nikons and Canons.

  ‘I think everyone has been rudely disappointed,’ Gwen was saying, ‘in the Arabs.’

  The Cathcarts had both heard they were dirty.

  ‘Yes, I must say I don’t like the look of them.’

  ‘Egypt was interesting…’ Sheila said.

  Here Garry arrived from the Automobile Show, something he had been looking forward to. He plomped himself down in Hofmann’s chair.

  ‘But friends of ours were robbed of everything, in full view of the Pyramids.’

  In Russia they say you’ve got to carry your own plugs for the basins. It’s hard to get a hot shower in Italy, France. The Japanese in their wisdom don’t believe in street names.

  Doug slapped his knee. ‘I keep saying, we’re not bad the more you look around.’

  ‘I think we’re very lucky,’ added his spouse. ‘There’s too much talk.’

  Fair enough! General consensus at that; pursing of lips.

  ‘We’ve got ourselves,’ said Gwen simply. She told the truth. It was vaguely understood: a kind of refuge, always there.

  More nodding. Silence. It was hard to hold on to the subject.

  ‘Well, we’ve seen a few countries…’ said Doug. Then catching sight of Garry, he cried, ‘Howdy, stranger!’

  Slumped in the chair, Garry waved.

  ‘I say,’ Gerald smiled, ‘you look as if you’ve had a good time.’

  ‘I say, thanks.’

  A snicker from Violet, second on the left.

  Leaning across the table, Borelli whispered to Louisa: ‘In London I’ll get you a postcard I think you’ll like.’ A single postcard: but he alone seemed to understand what she would enjoy.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘It is a drawing by Blake, “The Builder of the Pyramids”. That’s all. I was reminded before when someone was talking. The builder has the most extraordinary nose. And isn’t that a good title?’

  Louisa nodded. ‘I’ll remind you.’

  ‘Old Garry’s peeved about something,’ Doug turned to his wife.

  ‘It was a real bloody let-down.’

  What was? The Auto Show. Not everyone listened any more.

  ‘They had the engines running and you could hardly see the machines for the bloody smoke. I was coughing like a bastard. Have a whiff of my coat. I saw an immaculate FJ though, at the back, and they had an original Hartnett, alongside an Edsel. That was worth seeing. The rest were all big Yankee jobs.’

  ‘What, Duesenbergs, Packards, Bearcats with the circular windshield, and so on?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And quite a crowd?’

  Garry held his hand horizontal below the eyes, like a water level.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t go,’ Sasha turned to Violet.

  ‘Then I got bloody bushed in the subway on the way back. I thought for a while I’d get done over by a bunch of negroes. You’ve got to watch them.’

  ‘Ah well…’ Doug consoled through his nose.

  Leaving the table Borelli joined North at the window. The doctor folded his arms nodding. Sasha went over, making three.

  A few days remained in America. ‘How time flies,’ Sheila sighed, somehow causing Violet to splutter-laugh.

  Sunlight crossed the floor and mounted the linen table.

  Several times Borelli glanced back at Louisa while he was talking, but after opening her bag for some private reason she went up to her room. When Borelli turned he saw an empty chair.

  Among her new friends Sheila released a most beautiful smile. The way it unfolded like a large bird leaving a cage: mouth and nostrils stretched to tremendous widths, and her eyebrows arched, her ears angled back. It had never been refined, Sheila’s smile. Now it sometimes grew when no one spoke, as they remained sitting there; and then others would begin smiling, looking at her.

  That peculiar interior perspective of hotels: the quiet corridor and blank doors. As James Borelli trod towards his room, three of the crumpled table napkins left behind slowly unfolded of
their own accord. The corridors were empty of staff pushing trolleys loaded with sheets and soap. Quality of light: goldish, thick. To the left and right a prime function of the hotel, of any hotel, operated smoothly: scattered personal effects of travellers remained as they were, waiting for the sudden light.

  Paraphernalia and the personality of travellers: another doctoral thesis could be written. In 113 a nomad’s razor and brush lay alongside the bed, while the man’s habitual Spirex notebook and ballpoint were in the bathroom. A spare khaki jacket—now said to be rare—and a clean shirt (blue) spilled out of a canvas bag squashed on the floor. Little more. No camera, for instance. Engrossed in a range of things, Borelli travelled, unlike Phillip North, without a library. And with the curtains pulled wide open the room looked unnaturally bare, distinctly a transition point. The telescope dangled, ignored. Two along Violet and Sheila looked at a forties musical on afternoon television, their curtains drawn. After pacing with his hands behind his back Borelli went outside to the next door.

  He knocked.

  ‘Louisa…?’

  For the door had swung with his touch. It had been slightly ajar.

  ‘I’m sorry! Excuse…’

  She must have been tiptoeing, rushing forward, for she slapped her arms across her breasts, a white X. Yet this left all that was below exposed, a focal point. Louisa was naked.

  Twisting his head, protecting her, Borelli had to leave. In mid-twist he stopped. He tried then to look only at her eyes, normally natural for him, normally so easy, but his eyes wanted to wander down, and so they did. Such rise and fall, slope and fullness, soft alabaster possessing its own warmth and illumination. Her surprisingly wide hips he hadn’t noticed before. It was all there and before him.

  Louisa smiled slightly, nervous now.

  ‘Close the door.’

  ‘What? Uh…’

  She had lowered her arms. Borelli put one hand near his chin. He closed the door.

  Louisa laughed. She stepped forward. She placed her hands around his neck; he rested his unnaturally on her hips. All over, her body was warm and frail, perfumed from a bath.

  ‘Why are you trembling?’

  ‘Well I shouldn’t be here,’ he said hoarse. ‘I shouldn’t be, should I?’

  ‘We’re nervous,’ she laughed. And in a singsong voice, ‘But we shouldn’t be.’

  It was ten minutes to four, New York.

  ‘Let me see you again,’ he said.

  Louisa stepped back. He shielded his eyes: joy and despair.

  ‘I am nice?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he added. ‘Stripped of your jewellery.’

  As he slowly shook his head Louisa half turned and laughed from the back of her throat, ‘Just like you.’

  She was so bold now in her nakedness. It surprised him: it began to flood him. She did a fancy pirouette but he couldn’t smile. When she came back to him, he frowned.

  ‘I can’t stay. And you know, I shouldn’t be here,’

  But he drew her to him and into his clothing. Near his wide-open eye a tiny vertical vein vibrated in her neck. The silver balance-wheel in a watch, fuel-line to an engine. It was hers; Borelli kissed it.

  Louisa whispered, she tried to look at him. ‘This is better, this is better.’

  But there was the spreading expanse of what she had offered, of what was natural now. He couldn’t quite understand, he frowned, but lifted her. On the point then of shaking his head he stopped: someone outside in the corridor.

  Louisa didn’t notice.

  ‘Better put something on,’ he whispered. ‘Sweet one. Go on.’

  Louisa didn’t appear to listen.

  ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’ she wanted to know.

  Borelli looked at her. These were the questions of a married woman. He glanced at the door and the corridor.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are your parents alive?’

  ‘My mother is.’

  ‘Poor boy…’

  ‘Why, what’s the matter? But go on quickly. Get dressed. Louisa? Or I’ll have to go.’

  Louisa wanted to dawdle though.

  Gazing away she pronounced his name several times. She tried it in broad Northern Strine. It was so unlike her it made him shake his head. This Borelli was dark-haired, yet pale; so serious and watchful to her. There was a density of his she wanted to dismantle. Louisa kissed him quickly several times and then rested her chin on his shoulder.

  At a right angle to them. Room 315, Hofmann balanced on one foot removing his socks. Violet had left poor Sheila to her postcards; and while Hofmann went through the exhibition he had just seen—hop-hopping—Violet unhooked her brassière, glancing at herself in the tall hotel mirror. She was only half listening. Upright and horizontal lay perfume bottles and puffs, paper-towel products, brushes and oval pink lids, and in the air remained the vague scented humidity of talc. In this way the room resembled a dressing-room of a theatre; and those who used the mirror here were replaced with similar regularity, in short repertory.

  ‘Where’s your little girlfriend?’ Hofmann suddenly asked.

  Violet blew out smoke. ‘Sasha’s traipsed off with her doctor friend, again.’

  ‘Old North?’ Hofmann folded his shirt. ‘I haven’t spoken much to him.’

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Violet pausing—although naked, she had nothing else to do. ‘He’s not exactly old. No, I wouldn’t say that.’

  Hofmann didn’t answer; he didn’t want her getting thoughtful.

  But when Violet turned, thin in her nakedness, she began laughing. ‘My, I’ve got me a coloured boy.’

  The smooth sides and back of him were striped with red and blue bruises from the flag.

  She was still laughing when he grabbed her wrist. They fell on the bed, on top of the clothing. ‘Ere, not so fast,’ she gasped, always the star of stage and screen. She leaned over to stub out her cigarette. But with Hofmann already at work she let out a cry.

  The same soothing muzak was piped into every room. When it changed Hofmann sauntered back to his room, a few along. He passed Borelli and they nodded slightly.

  Divided more or less into two: there were those who frowned in silence trying to hold and separate the constellation of impressions, mainly useless impressions; and those who cluttered it with words, any words, shattering the approximate form of things. The first were easily recognisable. In the foyer they pondered the carpet with their toes, as if they’d found a fleeting impression underfoot. The rest, comprising the hub, stood as a group distinguished by skipping head movements and voice, and light-coloured clothing. A surprising number stamped in the one spot, rubbing their hands. It wasn’t cold. To fill in time they offered cracks, quips, comments and isolated adverbs. Yes. For example, Garry: ‘Did everyone bring their mosquito nets?’ They received only casual acknowledgement, but were still appreciated. It was considered normal: mortar between the bricks.

  They were finishing the instant coffee—‘good old nylon coffee’—a crack—and two or three, the ladies, had trouble fitting their mouths around the huge hero sandwiches. Many wore coats, furs, mufflers and whatnot; and the early tea certainly added to the atmosphere. It was almost dark outside. The traffic had more of a distant night sound. Abruptly Doug Cathcart breathed on the pale blue eyes of his binoculars and felt for his handkerchief; Kaddok there had the leather-hooded telephoto lens protruding ready from his abdomen.

  The tour organiser from the hotel hurried over. Natty, natty.

  ‘All right, gang,’ he said looking at his watch, ‘you’re on. Good luck.’

  Good luck? What does he mean?

  But the entrepreneur clapped Gerald on the back, smiling. Americans can do that: easy.

  The Landrovers, long wheelbase models, were fitted with metal spades and spare cans of juice, spotlights and winches. Driving the front one a barrel-chested American had a scraggy silver beard, a scar on his forehead and whisky on his breath. When he spoke he either swore o
r grunted in some Indian lingo—a nasty bastard. He was the Park Ranger. The second driver, his partner, never left the vehicle and only afterwards when the party compared notes did they discover he was the ranger’s exact double. Both men also wore the same crumpled safari jacket equipped with sheath knife, a cartridge clip and a water bottle. In this respect they were similar to their specially equipped Landrovers.

  A practised forward-arching motion of his arm out the window; the ranger then shoved into whining four-wheel drive and the convoy got going.

  The Game Park was located in the central most unexpected part of New York, uneven terrain of abandoned benches, of bushes, rock formations and small ravines.

  The ranger wasn’t answering questions.

  So Phillip North said to Sasha, ‘Well I’m told they have foxes, jack-rabbits, skunks and owls. And of course the squirrels.’

  At that the ranger let out a roar of a laugh and shouted over his shoulder: ‘You hear that, Charo? That’s rich.’

  ‘Yes, bwana.’

  A black man in khaki shorts and bare feet crouched in the back; had to uncoil slightly to answer.

  Muttering to himself the ranger laughed again or rather hissed through his teeth. It sounded remarkably like the Landrover engine.

  Wedged against him, Sasha glanced at North. He shrugged. Better leave him alone.

  Turning into the park the headlights were switched off and Violet in the back was told to douse her cigarette. The ranger drove carefully. Many of the trees had lost their leaves. The track wandered in and out; edges of dark branches tried to scratch and sprang back. Black bushes bulged like boulders, yet ordinary footpaths and stone benches were glimpsed at the sides. Before long the petroleum hum and horns of Detroit faded, the lights of the surrounding tall buildings almost all blotted out. The Landrover swung into a large bush; they were enveloped unexpectedly in leaves.

  He switched the engine off.

  All quiet then: the leaves rustled when anyone moved.

  Quickly, they followed the ranger out some thirty paces, all but Kaddok stumbling and tripping, the virtually invisible black man taking up the rear, lugging two wicker hampers under his arm like suitcases.