Indelible Ink

by Fiona McGregor

  Hugh shut his phone and came over, slinging her legs back up.

  ‘Ow, ow,’ she protested.

  ‘Did you have a bad day?’ He massaged her calves.

  ‘No, my back’s out. When are you going to Mum’s?’

  ‘A week or so. When the ads are ready. Did you finish the copy?’

  ‘Yeah, I emailed it straight back to you.’

  ‘I was out of the office all arvo. Stav wants to come tomorrow morning too. He’s got the keys to the place next door. We can look at them both then have brunch at the Fish Markets.’

  ‘Do we have to have brunch with Stav? He’s so boring.’

  ‘Dimitri’s going to retire soon, and Stav will take over the agency.’

  They stared at a mob of shoppers charging through the doors for the Australia Day sales as though fleeing a tsunami. Security guards waved their arms with the alert ineptitude of schoolboys playing cops’n’robbers. Blanche hadn’t told Hugh about her mother’s tattoos; she hadn’t known how. She had thought it would all blow over, but if what Clark had said was true, they were only spreading. The ice-cream was glued to the pit of her stomach, a warm, sticky pool. She gulped down wine to dissolve it.

  ‘Shall we order Thai?’ Hugh said. ‘Or the new wood-fired pizza?’

  ‘I need to tell you something. I had a weird conversation with Clark when we got back.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘About Mum.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s started getting tattoos.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘She’s had all these tattoos done, I don’t know why.’ Blanche ran her hands through her hair then rested them across her face and looked shyly through the paling of fingers at Hugh. ‘Clark sounded pretty upset.’

  ‘I didn‘t see anything when I was there last week.’ Hugh frowned. ‘I thought she looked really good.’

  ‘Well, they’re there, even if you can’t see them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought it was stupid.’

  ‘Tattoos? Your mother?’ Hugh started to laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It’s true. And she’s getting more.’

  ‘She’s such a fruitcake, your mum.’

  ‘Really?’ Blanche’s eyes swung onto Hugh’s face, beaming challenge and enquiry.

  ‘Well, she’s supposed to be selling her house, not getting tattoos! And doesn’t she want to be a psychologist now or something?’

  Blanche drank more wine. Hugh kept laughing, shaking his head. ‘It’s not funny,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I think it is. What else is it? Tattoos!’

  ‘Stop laughing, Hugh!’ Blanche lifted her legs off his lap. ‘It’s not fucken funny. Okay?’

  ‘I’m finish, Mrs King,’ Fatima called from the hall.

  ‘Come into the kitchen,’ Marie called back, from where she was reading an old National Geographic while she waited for Hugh to arrive.

  Fatima came in, rolling down her shirtsleeves and buttoning the cuffs.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs King.’

  ‘Oh, go on. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me.’ Marie got out a cup and set it on the table. ‘You’ve been working nonstop for hours. Have a break.’

  Fatima perched on a chair. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve been reading about tattoos in your country,’ Marie said brightly, pouring tea.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tattoos. Drawings on the skin with ink.’

  Fatima looked at her in puzzlement.

  ‘How they’re mostly done by the women. And to ward off sickness. Here.’ She touched the corners of her eyes. ‘And here.’ She touched her forehead. ‘Look.’ Marie showed Fatima the National Geographic.

  ‘Ah.’ Fatima glanced at it politely. ‘Duck.’

  ‘Duck?’

  ‘Daqq.’ Fatima pointed to the word in the headline. ‘It’s old, not many anymore.’

  ‘That’s sad. Is that because of Sharia law?’

  Fatima was inscrutable. ‘I’m from city. We don’t see much in city. Only the people do daqq who are prim ...’

  ‘Primitive?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t like.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Hugh’s footsteps came down the path.

  Fatima cleared her throat. ‘Mrs King, your cheque is no good.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Hugh walked in.

  ‘My bank say your cheque is no good.’

  ‘Hi, Fatima!’

  A blush scalded Marie’s face. ‘I must have used my old chequebook. How stupid of me. I’m so sorry, Fatima.’

  Fatima ignored her and smiled at Hugh. Superior little cow, thought Marie. She was only trying to be friendly. Days like this she wished she hadn’t given up drinking.

  ‘Did the cheque bounce?’ said Hugh.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Marie reached for her handbag. There was five hundred dollars in her wallet, and the next session with Rhys had to be paid for. Tattoos had the highest priority, up there with food. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she said, trying to hide the cash.

  ‘Two hundred thirty. The bank charge me ten dollars for cheque.’

  Hugh had his chequebook out and was writing in it already. Marie reminded herself he would soon be making the equivalent of some people’s annual wage from the sale of her house. As Hugh tore the cheque out and handed it to Fatima, she said, ‘You’ll keep note of everything, won’t you, Hugh.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘I go.’ Fatima pocketed the cheque. ‘Bye-bye, Mrs King.’

  Hugh was holding a boutique arrangement of natives, lilies and orchids. The sort they sold up at the Junction for around seventy dollars. He handed it to Marie, then stood back and examined her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. Aren’t you kind.’

  ‘Ready for the big sale?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because it is a big one.’ Hugh looked at her with emotion. ‘You’re being very brave.’

  He opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of laminates and papers in plastic folders. ‘This is going onto our website. This is the listing. And this is the main one.’ He shuffled through the advertisements, isolating the glossiest. ‘We’re going to run this in “House of the Week” in Domain.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s a real coup. It’s a jungle out there, Marie. I mean, “House of the Week” is as good as it gets.’

  ‘It looks great. Did Blanche write the copy?’

  ‘Joint effort.’

  Exceptional Family Home Offers the Ultimate Lifestyle

  •

  Designed with the style-conscious family in mind

  •

  Brilliant multi-use living and entertaining areas maximise the enjoyment of this unique harbour-side position and harbour views

  •

  Vast open-plan living and dining area flows with full-width east-facing deck

  •

  Rumpus room with potential to create games room and cellar, opening through French doors onto terraced gardens. Room for a swimming pool

  •

  Gourmet kitchen interacts with patio; sep. butler’s pantry

  •

  Grand master ensuite with panoramic views of exclusive Sirius Cove

  •

  Walking distance to the ferry, and waterfront reserve

  It was strange seeing her house described as a package for someone she hadn’t met. She was humiliated by Hugh writing out that cheque even if she could persuade herself that in a roundabout way it was still her money. She shuffled through the advertisements, aware of Hugh looking at her with the same piercing interrogation as when he had first walked in.

  ‘You’ve done well, Hugh. I like how you’ve presented it.’

  ‘Such a lovely house. Such lovely light. And so cool.’ Hugh took off his jacket. His underarms were wet. ‘Stinking out there!’

  ‘It’s
cold here in winter, actually. South-east facing can be a problem.’

  ‘But it’s summer we’re selling it in, isn’t it?’ Hugh wandered around, looking at things. ‘I’m sad actually. I want to do the right thing by it ... Are you sure you don’t want to paint the kitchen? Buyers are conservative, you know.’

  ‘They can paint it. They’ll paint it anyway.’

  ‘Listen. We’re thinking of changing tack. We think that the way to get the best possible figure is throw all the buyers together into an auction situation. It’s not worth anyone’s while to make a mistake so we’re advising a more conservative approach.’

  That word again. Marie shifted around the pains in her stomach that had begun to move like snakes to their music. ‘I read that clearance rates are around only forty percent at the moment.’

  ‘Not here. The only places in Australia that aren’t feeling the pinch from interest rate rises are the lower north shore and eastern suburbs of Sydney. It’s depressing, really.’

  ‘Why don’t we set a figure, and see if we can get it? I want to know who’s coming here after me, I want to be sure they’ll look after it. And if we can’t find anyone within a month then we’ll go to auction.’

  Hugh didn’t look totally convinced, but he ceded.

  ‘They’ll kill the cabbage tree palm, won’t they.’

  ‘God, no. They’re not allowed. A client of mine in the eastern suburbs bought a row of houses in Bondi. Backpacker hostels, absolute flea pits. He built apartments and a mature Norfolk Island pine was interfering with his plans and he had to go through an unbelievable amount of money and red tape to move it. It ended up costing him around fifty thousand dollars. And your buyers won’t be making money from apartments on this site to compensate.’

  ‘You mean it’s a liability?’

  ‘There are ways around it. Look, I know how hard this is for you, Marie. I have to tell you all of this so you know exactly where you stand.’

  Marie could see what must have been a patch of piss gleaming on the floor of the living room. She hadn’t seen Mopoke all day. She and Hugh must have stepped right over it. She fetched a rag and bucket then went to clean it.

  Hugh followed and stood over her talking. ‘You’ll still be alright. You’ll still have easily enough to buy yourself a bewt little place.’

  ‘I know.’

  Hugh fell silent. Marie became aware of his mass behind her and realised he could see the tattoo on the back of her neck. When she stood, he turned away, embarrassed. She threw the pissy rag into the bin.

  ‘Look, ah, I’ve got to go. I’m picking up Blanche. Call or email if there are any changes you’d like made to the ads. Anything you’re not comfortable with, any questions.’ He regarded her with the same piercing interrogation as when he had first walked in. ‘Anything at all, Marie. Okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Hugh.’ Out on the patio, she gave him a pot of germinating banksia.

  When he had gone, she went in search of Mopoke and found her asleep under the bed. She hauled her out and cleaned her rheumy eyes. She walked around holding her, cooing, ‘Where have you been pussy cat? Were you hiding from the real-estate agent? It was only Hugh. You know Hugh.’

  Mopoke felt so light. Her teeth could no longer handle biscuits: her breath had a trace of rot. Beneath the thick fur, her muscles were giving way to bone. She began to purr against Marie’s chin. ‘Come and get some fresh air, Moey.’ She carried her down to the bottom fence and deposited her on the ground. Mopoke stood there with her legs splayed. Marie wondered if she had dermatitis now, the goo from her eyes seemed to be increasing. ‘Come on, puss,’ she pronounced it pus, walking ahead and calling in her gooey cat voice, ‘Pus-pus, here, pus! You can make it!’

  Mopoke didn’t move.

  Marie picked her up and carried her back. She found it hard to look up at the house these days. It seemed to be reproaching her. And the garden, trees and birds, the very air in the rooms. There was something colossal in the mood surrounding her; she felt guilty for abandoning her custodianship. There was a breeze coming off the harbour and Rupert’s flag was flying straight and proud. ‘Well,’ she muttered as she entered the house. ‘I’m leaving.’ She threw a shirt over her shoulders then went up to the Junction for groceries.

  It wasn’t just the Hendersons, the metastasis of flags was everywhere even though Australia Day was almost two weeks ago. There was a woman outside the pharmacy in an Australian flag shirt and cap with an Australian flag backpack. There were Australian flag scarves on mannequins in clothes shops. The Lebanese corner shop had planted a large one outside the door. Cars had miniature flags flying from their windows like limousines. It made the suburb looked like Pennsylvania on Fourth of July, decked out in its red, white and blue. And all the cars were shiny, all the houses big, and all the shops were crammed with luxury goods for the well-fed blondes of Mosman.

  Clark was late to the seminar, the only seat free in the front row next to a woman with chestnut hair. When she turned and smiled at him, he glimpsed a jutting cheekbone and a fine web of laugh lines. The lecturer droned on and Clark found himself wanting to move closer to the warmth of this woman on a hot afternoon on the third floor of the university. ‘What did he say?’ He inclined his head to her. The woman shrugged, turning a pen in her long fingers, looking straight ahead. Clark watched the fingers, fascinated as they released the pen then stretched themselves in the crook of the woman’s arm. Never a good idea sitting in the front row: when his eyes moved back to the rostrum, he found the lecturer staring straight at him. He looked at the floor and tried to concentrate. He couldn’t understand a single word. Soon, he was looking at the woman’s hands again. Suddenly her ring finger clicked backwards, startling him, her face impervious as the top joint of her finger snapped like a tiny mechanical toy. She was double-jointed, in the same place as him! It seemed one of the most momentous discoveries of his life. Eyes on the bore addressing the room, Clark stretched then snapped his own finger back. She snapped hers. He snapped his again.

  Then she was walking to the front of the room, her height unravelling like a beautiful secret. My god, she wasn’t a student, she was a member of staff. Clark squirmed. He realised he was in the wrong seminar. She was talking about law. He stayed, mesmerised.

  He approached her afterwards to apologise, and she laughed. They stood there awkwardly as the room emptied around them. ‘Anyway,’ Clark said, ‘you don’t have to worry about me misbehaving. I won’t be in any of your seminars.’

  She was tall and broad across the shoulders and wore no make-up. Her bone structure was almost Aztec — strong lips and cheekbones, fine prominent nose. She shifted her bag up her arm and looked at Clark shrewdly with eyes that could have been green or brown. ‘I’m sure I could stop you misbehaving if I had to. What are you doing?’

  ‘A PhD. Cultural Studies. I can’t believe you’ve got a double-jointed finger!’

  ‘It’s a good party trick, isn’t it.’

  ‘We should form a circus act and tour the country.’

  They walked down the corridor to the lifts, not speaking. Clark was aware of her keeping pace with him; those shoulders seemed to carry her entire body in its passage of tensile, swinging grace. As they drew up to the lifts, he finally allowed himself to look at her and found she was smiling. He wanted to tell her that he was seeing his daughter this weekend for the first time in six weeks and he was jumping out of his skin with joy. He wanted to tell her everything. ‘What are you doing now? Want to go for a drink?’

  ‘I can’t, sorry.’

  ‘I’m Clark, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Sylvia.’

  He googled her when he got home. Typing in Sylvia and Law and the university, he found she was an associate professor, had published several articles on law reform, and that her surname was Martinez. Ah, Spanish. In an instant she was starring in a blockbuster movie as an Aztec princess — no, she wasn’t enough of a bimbo. A shaman then. He did an image google and found a photograph
of her at a book launch, in a group of five academics, and another thumbnail that when enlarged became too pixellated to see her properly. She looked ordinary in these photos, but now he had her surname as well he googled Sylvia Martinez and found four entries on MySpace and seven on facebook. Sylvia Martinez, twenty-three, California. Sylvia Martinez, thirty-six, physiotherapist, Wyoming. A teenage Goth in Brisbane. None was her. They didn’t even look like her. But as the hours rolled on and Clark wandered further into the Westfield of the web, he began to wonder what, in fact, she did look like. He only had one encounter to remember and he had rubbed it raw. Was her skin pale or tanned? How big were her eyes? And what were her breasts like? He waded through forty-six entries on Sylvia Martinez, finding an occasional bureaucratic detail that vanished on contact with his memory, like snow. All of this Clark did on the living room couch in front of a documentary about the war in Sudan, his takeaway cooling beside him. There were so many Sylvia Martinezes in the world that his epiphany began to drown beneath the banality of all those lives: a little billet-doux buried in junk mail.

  Feeling like he had eaten too much greasy food, Clark took his laptop back into his study and plugged it in. It sounded like a plane trying to take off. It would be just his luck for his computer to die on him now. He shut it down and went back into the living room and ate his congealed pad thai. An hour later he realised the television program had changed. He switched it off and went into his study to try to do some work. He opened a book and stared at the paintings by convict artists. These had always been his favourite works from the early colonial period. Now, looking at the naïve portrayal of blacks around campfires, the stiff English redcoats, he wondered why. He wondered if it was a part of him that craved mollification that loved these bright colours and childish lines. How naïve could you claim to be, after years of incarceration and journeying across the world? And he wished he hadn’t restricted himself to the north shore: he wanted to talk about the Aboriginal carvings behind Ben Buckler of a man being attacked by a shark, surely the ur-image. He realised he was saying all of this out loud, to Sylvia. He went to bed and lay awake thinking of her, the ocean humming in the distance, or was it the wind in the she-oaks outside his window, an endless breathing eventually lulling him to sleep.