by Marele Day
‘Claudia Valentine,’ I said into the phone.
‘Hello. I … I want to make an appointment.’ A woman’s voice, slight accent, desperate tone, talking in a whisper as if she didn’t want to be overheard.
I kept my own voice neutral, not too curious or oversympathetic. Rock solid. The kind of voice a person in trouble could rely on. ‘Certainly. When would you like to see me?’ As soon as possible. Daytime. Nights were difficult for her. Tomorrow was the wedding, I had the kids for the weekend. ‘Monday?’ I suggested. Yes, yes, that would be fine. We settled on a time and place. ‘And your name, please?’ I said in a businesslike fashion.
‘Rosa. My name is Rosa.’
‘Do you have a contact telephone number in case …’ It was pointless continuing, she’d already hung up.
I hadn’t been on the phone long but the pizza was almost gone. There was plenty of salad left though. ‘Who was that?’ asked Amy.
‘Someone who wants to talk to me.’
‘About murder or something?’ David asked, picking out a piece of goat cheese and discarding it.
‘I don’t know yet. Want to go up the street for dessert?’
We walked up to one of the many cafes in Darling Street and sat outside eating cake. With cream. I wondered if I’d ever be able to eat cake again without thinking about Delightfully French and John Larossa. Probably.
Back at the pub the kids automatically went into their new room. It had been a long day. ‘Good night, Mum,’ said Amy. ‘Sorry about … your father.’ She reached up and kissed my cheek.
It was odd hearing her call him ‘your father’. I guess she’d always heard Mina refer to him like that, plus he’d never really been a grandfather to her. It made me want to curl up beside her and tell her all about it.
I sat on the balcony till long into the night, my children sleeping soundly across the way. The occasional car swished by on roads wet with night cleaning. Behind that was the hum of the city across White Bay, the tiny squares of light in the office buildings, Centrepoint above it all. How many times had I sat here looking out at the city, imagining my father out there somewhere. Which doorway, which park bench, which gutter he might be lying in. I could have gone looking for him. But I never did.
THREE
The wedding was a flurry of pink organza, the twittering of Mina’s old chorus-girl friends, and an embarrassed-looking groom. It was all over now, Brian and Mina were on their honeymoon, the kids had gone back to Queensland. I was sitting on a wharf in Balmain dangling my legs over the side. Alone.
I looked across to the suspension bridge being built to replace the Glebe Island bridge, one of the last opening bridges in Sydney. Nearby were the silos of the former container terminal, now bearing the distinctive squiggly ribbon of the Olympic Committee and Sydney 2000.
My father would never get to see those Games. I don’t know why that should have filled me with a sense of melancholy, he was never overly interested in sport. I have a photo of him as a child, one of those school photos which look the same whether they were taken ten, twenty, thirty years ago. He would have been David’s age, and looked a lot like him only more studious, not so cheeky. I stared into the face to see if it revealed anything of the man he would eventually become. But he looked like all the other kids. Big teeth, eyes squinting in the sun. It was a small country school, the whole school assembled for the photo, all fifteen kids, most of them barefoot. A couple of photos and a dinner set which, like my mother, I would probably never use, were the only solid evidence I had that he had ever existed.
I sat gloomily looking into the water. Well at least I was sober. Yeah, that was a real comfort.
I would get the death certificate. Perhaps seeing it in print might give me the sense of finality I needed to break the old habits. Like my son, I wanted ‘proof’.
I pulled my legs up just in time, narrowly avoiding the wake from one of those stupid little jet skis. Mopeds on water. Only the people who speed along in them wouldn’t be seen dead on mopeds. I stood up. Tomorrow I was meeting a prospective client, that was something to look forward to. Sure. As if anyone comes to a private investigator bearing good news.
FOUR
The Births Deaths and Marriages Registry was in Thomas Street, Haymarket; about five minutes walk from the Hoyts Cinema where I was meeting Rosa, the woman who’d phoned. There were still one or two streets left in Haymarket that were seedy enough to give the area character. Real life went on here, trucks unloaded, shopkeepers took delivery, customers flocked to buy their wares. Most of the shops were Chinese supplies shops which sold herbs and pharmaceuticals, or groceries with fruit and vegetables out front.
On the corner across the road from the Registry Office was the building that housed the Burlington Centre, where you could get any number of household items, most of them Asian in style. There were also lots of restaurants—Indonesian, Thai, Chinese—and a variety of other shops: Sincere Real Estate, PN Productions which explained its wares—sheepskin seat covers and sheepskin products—in Chinese and English, hairdressing salons, Laser Video and a Tax Agent. Chinatown, a little urban ecosystem all of its own.
It was warm inside the Registry, an airless, fuggy kind of warmth, artificially created, supposedly to make life more pleasant. How people could work in here eight hours a day without falling asleep was beyond me.
The quickest you could get a certificate over the counter was three hours. Legally that is. And on this occasion I didn’t need to do it any other way. I could fill out the form then come back after meeting the client.
I filled out the yellow Death Certificate Application form. There was a place to queue but hardly anyone was there at that hour so I went straight to the counter and handed over the form, plus the forty dollars required for an urgent application.
Then I made my way up George Street. There were three cinema complexes in a row down this end of town. The closer you got to Town Hall, the flashier the cinemas got. The cinema complexes gave rise to other diversions: fast food outlets, including a Japanese takeaway that, while smaller, had the same sterile atmosphere as McDonalds, and, the main diversion, video arcades. Beside the Japanese restaurant was Galaxy World with a list of House Rules—Proper Behaviour, Clean and Tidy Dress, No Bare Feet, No Food or Drink, No Smoking. Most of the people in here were young and male. A group of Vietnamese dressed in smart casual gear all hovered around the one machine, a few young dudes in suits playing their own individual machines.
Still fifteen minutes to go before I was to meet the client. I went in, just for a look. There were large screens with lots of action happening on them. People were playing the machines as if their lives depended on it. In the world of virtual reality, they probably did. No-one talked to anyone, the machines consumed all the interest. In five years time I’d probably find my son in here.
It was ten to eleven when I walked into the Hoyts Cinema complex. Seven cinemas, a cafe, bar, toilets, icecream counter, more video games—you could practically live in it. I wove through the queues of people lining up to buy tickets to the eleven o’clock movies and went into the cafe. I ordered a cup of coffee and sat down in a position that gave me a good view of what was going on. The clientele was not that much different from those in the video arcades across the road. Unemployed or wagging school—they were of that age when they could have been either. Some were watching previews on the bank of video screens, others playing the games machines. In here it was all virtual reality. At least they weren’t out stealing cars.
Eleven o’clock precisely. The people in the queues were in the cinemas now. I casually perused the place. The woman had sounded nervous, anxious. Perhaps she wouldn’t come. She hadn’t left a number, there was no way I could get in touch with her.
As soon as I saw the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman weave her way through the crowd of kids and enter the cafe, I knew it was her. She looked vaguely familiar but I was sure I’d never met her before. ‘Rosa?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled, rel
ieved.
I offered her a seat and asked if she wanted something. ‘Just coffee,’ she said. I signalled the man behind the counter to bring two coffees. Usually you went to the counter to get served but as we were the only two in there, I didn’t think he would mind the trip. Besides, this was Sydney. In Sydney you can get anything you like. If you wanted sauteed orang-utan the waiter would go out and get it for you. With cream.
There was a cloud of worry behind Rosa’s eyes and a darkness beneath them. Her curly hair was cut short, short enough to show the thin gold rings through her pierced ears. She had on a flowered dress in shades of brown and russet, and a beige jacket over the top. Matching beige handbag that she held on her lap.
‘You’re Claudia Valentine,’ she said, to make absolutely sure. The kind of checking and double-checking of a person in an unfamiliar situation.
‘Yes,’ I smiled assuringly, ‘that’s right.’ I handed her one of my business cards. We made some small talk about the weather, about the movies being a good place to go on hot days because of the airconditioning.
‘I’ll be out back,’ said the waiter as he delivered the coffees. ‘Just give me a call if you need anything.’
We were left alone. But still Rosa seemed reluctant to start. She told me instead about the long trip into the city. The bus from Lugarno, where she lived, then the train from Riverwood. Lugarno was a southern suburb of Sydney, on the Georges River, with water views. On the social map of Sydney, wealth but no status. Once full of fibro fishermen’s sheds and weekenders, now there were grandiose houses. I’d been there once but it was a long time ago.
From where I was sitting I was able to look beyond Rosa to the people standing in a loose semicircle around the preview screens. I think a new batch of kids had arrived but they looked the same as the old ones. However, there was one person who hadn’t been there before. He had the thick black curls that I usually find attractive but the rest didn’t quite make the grade. He was thin as a snake and wearing reflective sunglasses. Something spivvy about the way he was dressed. It wasn’t the checked jacket or the black shirt, the cream slacks or woven shoes, rather the way these items were put together. There must have been surroundings he’d look good in but it wasn’t here. The way he was standing he could have been looking at the screens. Could be looking this way, too. Hard to tell with the glasses.
I’d started my pocket cassette recorder going the minute Rosa had sat down but I’d run out of tape if she didn’t start soon.
‘What can I do for you, Rosa?’
It took her a while before she finally said: ‘My cousin Anna said I should call you. Anna Larossa.’
I’d now received a cheque from Anna Larossa, no questions asked. The case was over. Except here was her cousin sitting across the table from me. I remained silent. I didn’t know what Anna had told her. For all I knew she might have just said she’d seen my name in the Yellow Pages.
‘Can you find a missing person?’ As if she’d misplaced her wallet or lost an umbrella. But the way she said it, she was talking about someone close—a husband, a child. ‘Missing person’ made it easier to talk about them without collapsing in a heap. But only just.
‘Depends who it is and what leads there are,’ I said, sympathetic but businesslike. The guy with the sunglasses had changed position but he was still hanging around.
‘It’s my daughter. Madalena. I’ll show you.’ She opened the handbag sitting on her lap. The man was looking this way. Something told me that the last thing she should do was pull out that photograph.
‘Not now,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Do you have a Kleenex?’ I said suddenly. She looked puzzled but reached into her bag and handed me a couple of tissues. I blew my nose and put the tissues in my pocket. ‘Thanks.’ Then more softly, ‘Does anyone know you’ve come here today?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘We’re going to the movies. Don’t show any surprise, I’ll explain later.’
We stood up and walked to the box office. We got tickets straightaway. It was 11.20, the ads and previews would be over, the movie about to begin. He watched us queue and he watched us enter the cinema. I chose seats right up the back. I leaned close to Rosa and said in a low voice, ‘In a minute a man is going to walk in here, black curly hair, checked jacket, sunglasses maybe. Tell me if you recognise him.’
He came in. Stood there for a minute, deciding what to do. The screen throws light on the faces of the people watching the movie. The best way of finding someone is to go right down the front and look back. But then you’re visible too.
He wasn’t going down the front. He looked this way but I wasn’t sure if he’d spotted us or not. The light from the screen starts to peter out back here. A couple came in behind him. He moved forward and sat down in a seat next to the aisle. Not real smart. He now had his back to the exit. He looked around. This time I’m sure he saw us. He turned back to watch the movie.
‘No,’ said Rosa, ‘I don’t know this man.’
It was an action movie starring Sylvester Stallone. Not my first choice but then we weren’t here to watch the movie. Onscreen explosions momentarily lit up the audience even more. I thought he might look around but he didn’t. There were more explosions that seemed to last forever, then Stallone started crawling through the undergrowth. The dark undergrowth. Time for us to go.
We made our way to the end of the row then slipped out the other exit. Maybe he was really enjoying the movie, maybe he’d decided we were just two friends having a cup of coffee then seeing a movie. Maybe I’d noticed the luscious hair and the rest of it was sheer coincidence.
We walked out of the cinema complex, down George Street, then turned into the street where my car was parked. ‘I hope I didn’t alarm you. I guess I made a mistake. There’s no reason why anyone should be following you, is there? ‘
‘No. No …’ In the second ‘no’ was a small seed of doubt.
‘We can talk and drive,’ I said, opening the passenger door for her.
‘But I need to buy some material,’ she protested, ‘in case my husband …’
‘In case your husband what?’
‘In case my husband asks where I was today.’
The domestic situation didn’t sound good.
‘Well, we can sit in the car and talk.’ She got in. I closed the door and came round to the driver’s side. First thing I did when I got in was look in the side mirror. Then the rear vision mirror. No-one. He was probably still in there watching Sly save the world.
‘You were going to show me a photo of your daughter,’ I said, bringing us right back to where we’d left off.
She opened her bag again and took out a photo. She held it between us, not wanting to let go. A pretty, smiling girl. The family resemblance was obvious. In the photo she was wearing a simple dress with lace sleeves, flowers in her dark hair, a bridal bouquet in her hands. She couldn’t have been much older than Amy.
‘It was taken last year at a family wedding. Madalena caught the bouquet, you can see she is so happy. I made this dress for her. It was a big wedding. So much food, so many people!’ The smile died on her face and she fell into silence. I glanced in the mirrors again.
‘All the bad things come at once. My husband has worries at work, our house is robbed and Madalena disappears.’
‘When did she disappear?’
‘Ten days ago now.’ She pulled her gaze away from the photograph and looked blankly out the window.
‘Have you informed the police?’
‘No. No.’ She spoke quickly, dismissing the possibility of police involvement.
‘Would there be a problem with that?’ I asked.
‘My husband wouldn’t want the police. He wouldn’t want people to think there are problems in the family.’
‘Are there problems?’
‘Not more than any family. Madalena is fifteen, she wants to go out with her friends. He doesn’t like that, he doesn’t like her friends. No-one is good enough for Madalena. He think
s maybe her friends robbed the house.’
‘When was the robbery?’
‘The day after she disappeared.’
Maybe it wasn’t a robbery at all. ‘Did he go to the police about the robbery?’
She shook her head.
‘What happened the day she went missing?’
‘She went to play netball at another school. She didn’t come back.’
‘Which school?’
‘Concord.’
I didn’t like the sound of it. After the game, walking to the station in her sports uniform. Maybe she doesn’t know the area very well. Looks lost, someone stops and offers to give her directions, offers her a lift. It only takes a minute.
‘The day before that, Madalena and my husband had a big fight.’
‘What was that about?’
‘The tattoo. I didn’t like it either. She said she’d had it done weeks ago. Up here,’ Rosa said, indicating her upper arm. ‘If she is wearing something with sleeves it’s not visible. But with the hot weather she forgot and my husband saw it. He told her to get out of the house but he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it,’ she repeated, trying to convince me. Rosa was on the edge, one little breath would be enough to blow her over. ‘I want to see her, I want to know she is OK, you know?’
It was getting hot and claustrophobic inside the car. ‘You want to buy material?’ I said. ‘There’s a good place not far from here. Brocade, red lace, satin, tulle.’ I was once hired by a tango dancer to go shopping, I know these things.
By the time we got to the fabric shop I had quite a bit of the story. I got the impression it was a relief for her to tell someone. She made a few quick purchases then I saw her to Town Hall station. I told her it was important that I come and look at Madalena’s room. It would give me a feel for the kind of person Madalena was and maybe provide a clue or two. I assured Rosa I’d be discreet. The neighbours would just think I was a friend dropping in. Her husband need never know at all. It would have been best if I’d been able to talk to them both together, but Rosa didn’t want that. She seemed afraid of him. It must have taken quite a bit of courage for her to come and see me. Before she got on the train she finally gave me the photo. I stayed there till the train disappeared around a corner of the tunnel, swallowed up by the darkness.
