by Adib Khan
Hurriedly they wash and wipe the dishes. Then Ron picks up the plastic bag, ‘Won’t be a minute,’ and disappears into the bathroom. When he reemerges, his hair is carefully brushed and a subtle scent of aftershave clings to him. It occurs to Martin that Ron’s hair is coloured evenly brown without the tufts of grey.
Ron gives Martin specific directions, including where he can park. ‘Roll of the dice and…lady Luck!’ He rubs his hands gleefully. ‘Are you sure you want to take your ute?’
Martin nods firmly.
Ron laughs. ‘As always, the cautious Martin.’ He winks and heads for his own car.
NINE
They giggle and wave to him. The dark-haired woman stops to smooth her dress with an exaggerated wriggle of her hips. The peroxide blonde looks at the ute and whispers in her companion’s ear. They burst into high-pitched laughter, shaking their heads. I am not to be the catch for the evening, Martin thinks wryly. Their steps suggest they are slightly tipsy. His eyes follow them as they run across the street and around the corner. Ron’s Holden is nowhere in sight. Martin allows himself a smile of satisfaction. He has deliberately parked some distance from the hotel. There is a strong urge to pull out and drive away. Later he could think of an excuse and make it up to Ron. He sits quietly in the driver’s seat, dithering.
He would rather be going to Colin’s as he sometimes does in the evening. There is a comfortable routine about Martin’s visits to Colin’s place. Nothing unpredictable or physically adventurous. No need for pretensions. Personal matters remain on the periphery of their conversations. Nora is rarely mentioned, and so what if gay magazines have appeared on the coffee table in the last five years? They are mostly concerned with the pleasures of aesthetics.
Colin and Martin share a certain curiosity. They can think and dream aloud together about the indulgence of owning a second-hand bookshop, perhaps, stocked with quality reading material. Occasionally Colin talks about the book he is writing, about his Vietnam days. When they’re chatting, the practical aspects of life become only trivia to be endured.
Martin usually calls first, to allow Colin time to get organised. His condition has slowed him, so that it takes time to perform even the simplest of chores. A helper comes in three times a week, during the day, with cooked meals that Colin only needs to micro wave when he’s hungry. Sometimes there’s a freshly baked sponge cake. On those days he often calls Martin.
It usually takes about an hour for Colin to prepare a pot of tea, the biscuits or ceremonial cake, arrange the cups, saucers, teaspoons, milk, sugar and strainer on a tray. Then he carries the rattling ensemble to the lounge with faltering steps. On winter nights he is settled in front of the heater by the time Martin arrives.
‘I am mortality on a speedy set of wheels,’ Colin had once boasted. ‘Learn from me while you can.’
There is a peculiar sense of fulfilment in unravelling their thoughts and exposing the fallibility of middle age. Although Colin is intellectually more gifted and yet physically more fragile, Martin likes to think they meet on equal terms. Colin sits like a skeleton sheathed in skin, speaking in a rasping voice, rarely laughing—not because he lacks a sense of humour, but in an effort to preserve his diminished quota of energy.
Martin sometimes feels a sense of wonderment, something between awe and admiration. It is as if his friend is already on the other side of a vast universe, exposed to a body of knowledge inaccessible to Martin.
Yet they have developed a trust, constancy and the certainty of mutual support. Each is trying to make the most of the circumstances.
‘We cannot expect to live as complete entities but as fragments,’ Colin said once after Martin had confessed to a bout of depression. ‘We exemplify post-modernism.’ He laughed. ‘There are exploded bits of Vietnam embedded in us. Sure, the war is over. But the strife inside will not cease. Bursting shells and the lumbering sound of tanks. The scream of the dying and the whine of bullets. The world goes on, having relegated the past to words in books. With the benefit of hindsight…Historians will insist on saying that to try and smooth out the ripples with guesses and moral perspectives. And the ones who were there? We continue to stumble in the darkness within us, hoping for a lighted shelter somewhere ahead. Sad, chastened. Often guilty. That’s our chaos. Do you know what hurts most? It’s when people say, “Get over it!”’
Colin is simultaneously irritating and comforting. Sometimes Martin wonders if it’s a facade, behind which he takes shelter from the war.
Interspersed among these conversations are those they have about fiction and poetry. ‘Truths far more difficult to tarnish than those we uphold in the so-called real life,’ Colin said one evening. They had stumbled into a discussion of fear and contrition in The Wreck of the Deutschland.
It is their habit for Martin to make a second pot of tea, usually when Colin begins to tire. The signs are evident. His head lolls to one side as he leans back, his speech begins to slur and his hand movements are sluggish.
Martin washes, dries and puts away the cutlery while Colin takes his tablets and prepares for bed. Before leaving, Martin ensures that there is a bottle of water on the bedside table, the telephone is working, the night-light is switched on and the back door is locked. Their parting exchange has become a grim joke against the future. They are like actors with their lines rehearsed to perfection.
‘Give you a call tomorrow.’ Martin casts his eyes around the bedroom to check that everything is in order.
‘Maybe.’ Colin’s grin is impish. He makes it a point to pull up the doona to cover his face.
‘No maybes. Call you tomorrow!’
The doona slips down under his chin. ‘Do you have the celestial number?’
‘Yes, but I won’t be needing it.’
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
As he leaves the house Martin never fails to feel uneasy about shutting the front door behind him. It is as if he is permanently alienating a part of himself, leaving behind a large proportion of what he knows to be humane and wise. It is this combination of characteristics in Colin that has influenced Martin over the years into an acceptance of life on its own flawed terms.
The next morning he always phones Colin. The image of that immobile figure lying under the doona haunts Martin. They both know there is a possibility that one day his phone call will not be answered.
THERE IS A LOUD thump on the door. ‘Why are you parked so far away?’ Ron demands, displeased with the time he has wasted looking for the ute. ‘There’s parking opposite the hotel.’
‘Why are we here?’ Martin asks warily. ‘Don’t tell me we drove all this way just for drinks?’ He is determined to seek a belated clarification.
‘It’s never too late for a beer. We can play pool, if you like. Meet a couple of people.’
Immediately Martin is suspicious. ‘Who?’
‘You’ll see, mate. You’ll see. Won’t be disappointed, I promise you.’
Martin places a restraining hand on Ron’s shoulder. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t you like surprises? I know a couple of women. They’re terrific! Early forties, divorced and looking for company. Thought I’d introduce you. They’re highly intelligent. You might be able to impress them with your knowledge. You know, the sorts of things you and Colin carry on about. Brainy stuff
Martin sinks his hands in his pockets and walks to the other side of the ute.
‘What’s the matter?’ Ron follows him, puzzled. ‘Aw…you’re not feeling guilty, are you?’
‘Guilty about what?’
‘I know there’s Nora and all that. You’ve stuck by her and done the right thing. No one can question that. But there are times when you have to step outside your problems. I cop Ed’s anger all the time. He blames me for what he is. He’s my son and I have to carry the burden of his frustration. But I also need to forget, to pretend once in a while that I’m trouble free. If I don’t, I’ll be bitter and twisted and end up hating myself
�
�Ron, it’s not that.’ Martin knows Ron has never developed any meaningful relationship with a woman since his divorce. ‘Okay,’ he decides abruptly. ‘Drinks and talk.’
‘Mineral water and discussion of art,’ Ron drawls. ‘This hotel is a perfect place for intellectual wankers. Thank you for agreeing to grace me with your company, m’lord.’
They walk to the hotel in silence. It galls Martin that he still can’t figure out what is different about Ron’s appearance, other than his darkened hair. Inside it is crowded. Glazed eyes, flushed faces and animated chatter. Only the men in T-shirts at the pool tables are silent, focused entirely on their games. Ron scans the large room for familiar faces. Martin notices a couple vacating a corner table.
‘That table…’ Martin realises that Ron is no longer standing next to him. He manages to seat himself seconds before a swarthy-looking man enquires about the three empty chairs.
‘Sorry, they’re taken.’ Martin can only guess that there will be four of them. There is no sign of Ron.
He thinks about Frank and Maria. Their enthusiasm for the impending move to the country has affected him. He has managed to arrange his jobs around the few days he plans to be in Daylesford. He will go back on weekends and help if necessary.
‘There he is! Table and all!’ It is easy to see that Ron is in a jovial mood. He introduces the two women. ‘Lisa Knight and Cathy Ellis. My friend, Martin Godwin.’
Martin rises awkwardly and shakes hands. He’d imagined they’d be blonde or redheaded, with loud voices, ready to laugh at Ron’s jokes and demonstrating the early stages of inebriation. They are both brunettes, articulate and sober.
Suddenly it strikes Martin. He cannot help himself. ‘Now I know what’s different besides the hair!’ He grins and winks at Ron.
The women look at each other with raised eyebrows.
‘Come and help me with the drinks,’ Ron hisses. ‘Don’t be a smartarse.’ He turns to Lisa and Cathy. ‘What would you like?’
‘Mineral water, please.’
‘An orange juice, thanks.’
‘Nothing stronger? Sparkling wine? Chardonnay? Sure?’ Ron almost pleads, then turns to glare at Martin. ‘Come on, clown.’
Halfway to the bar Martin bursts into laughter. ‘Your stomach…er, it appears to have shrunk. Instant weight loss, is it? A magical formula?’
‘Shut up! Bloody mineral water. Orange juice.’ Ron snorts. ‘It’ll keep them holy and chaste. Good for the system. What are you having?’
‘Sparkling wine. I’ve deserved it for solving the great mystery of the belly,’ Martin chuckles. ‘Let the rest of the plan unfurl. I shall watch with breathless interest, wizard.’
Ron sits with a jug of beer in front of him. He is loud and garrulous, insistent on telling the women about his first meeting with Martin. ‘He was a good-looking fella then.’ He leans back and casually puts his left arm around the back of Lisa’s chair. ‘I can remember it like yesterday. Seventeenth November, 1969. Hamilton Wharf in Brisbane. I was waiting to board HMAS Sydney on the way to Vung Tau. We behaved as if we were on our way to a harmless adventure. And then I saw this bloke, standing apart from the rest of us, looking into the water.’
‘So both of you served in Vietnam?’ Cathy asks eagerly. ‘I’m doing a Masters thesis on Australian women who have written about Vietnam, and Lisa is helping me with the research.’
‘Interesting topic,’ Martin observes. ‘I wonder if the way they viewed the war humanised it to any extent.’
‘Didn’t see many women,’ Ron quips. ‘Food almost replaced sex as the main obsession. God! The shit we ate!’
‘Do you realise how you immediately associated women with sex?’ Cathy leans forward with her hands on the table. Her voice has a steely edge. ‘Not companionship, not their profession, but almost as though they had a utilitarian purpose to serve male sexual appetites.’
Ron stares blankly at her. ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’
Martin begins to enjoy the argument that develops. He avoids looking at Ron. He recalls the calmness of the sea that day on the wharf when Ron had walked up and introduced himself. Somewhere to the north there was an unknown country in turmoil. This vagueness about Vietnam, as they left home, veiled their anticipation of danger. The scalding rawness of war was beyond Martin’s comprehension. He had tried to imagine the worst. Wounded men and makeshift hospitals. Not enough doctors and nurses. Medicine in short supply. Dead soldiers. Bombed houses and villages. But these were stagnant images. How could he know that even in the heat of summer it would be easy to shiver, and to soil one’s uniform? At sea, there were only occasional times when Martin sensed alarm and uncertainty.
But that first day he looked at the troops and those who had come to say farewell. There was something not quite right about things. About the excitement, the paper flags and the cheering. Some onlookers were tearful, but it was as though they were overwhelmed more by patriotic fervour than the possibility of losing their loved young men in a foreign country.
It took twelve days to reach Vung Tau. There was exuberance among the men on board, which not even the spartan living could dampen. It was as if the journey itself was a precursor of what awaited them in Vietnam. Was it reasonable to conclude that the experience might not necessarily be traumatic?
The men talked about home, family, friends and careers in a way that suggested their lives would not be fractured by their absence from Australia for up to two years. They expected to return to the adulation of a grateful nation. Most of them were still in their twenties, the time of life when mortality seems remote. They were robust, narcissistic, proud, curious, and craved action. They might have briefly pondered the changes that are forced on personalities by violence. There were those who were awed by what they had read or viewed in documentaries and movies about the World Wars. But the prevailing mood of confidence on the ship dissipated any gloominess, and further bonded the men in a quickly developing camaraderie. And so they sailed towards the termination of their innocence, watching orange-splattered sunsets and clear night skies, listening to the ocean and each other, without fear. They had twelve days to incubate their illusions. When they saw land, there was a readiness for martial glory.
THERE IS A SHARP pain in his ankle where Ron kicks him. ‘Martin, do you want another drink?’
‘Ron, you haven’t explained whether you view women in a broader perspective, beyond their sexuality,’ Cathy persists. ‘That is important.’
‘Well, you know…Look, I’m sorry if I offended. But Ron feels obliged to put across his point of view with some support from Martin. He receives an unsympathetic stare. ‘There are times when women can be too sensitive about such matters.’
‘Sensitive?’ Lisa demands. ‘Damn bloody right we’re sensitive! Rape as a weapon in war is an ugly problem in case you didn’t know.’
‘I wasn’t talking about rape, for God’s sake!’ Ron is genuinely distressed at what he judges to be an overreaction. ‘War itself is the problem.’
‘Did you read the reports in the papers some time ago about the Foca rapists?’ Cathy enquires.
‘Who?’
‘Bosnian Serb soldiers on trial for repeatedly raping women,’ Lisa informs him.
‘Kunarac, Kovac, Vukovic,’ Martin adds quietly.
‘You read about them!’ The women switch their attention to Martin in surprise.
‘Women were humiliated, assaulted, traded and sold to other soldiers,’ Cathy addresses Ron. ‘The Hague now recognises sexual slavery as a war crime.’
‘How did we get into this?’ Ron asks helplessly, abandoning any hope of assistance from Martin. The evening has rapidly disintegrated into an acrimonious exchange of words. He recalls meeting Cathy and Lisa last week. They were good-humoured, flirtatious and definitely interested. Or had he misread the signals again? Ron stifles a groan. ‘One minute you were talking about studying Australian women writers on Vietnam. Next thing, I’m a villain and it’s rape in Bosnia. It wasn’t
like that in ‘Nam.’
‘The hell it wasn’t!’ Martin’s voice cracks angrily. ‘Certainly nowhere on the scale of Bosnia and not as systematic, but to say it didn’t happen is laughable.’
‘Okay, how many cases involving Australian troops were reported?’ Ron challenges defiantly. ‘Go on, how many?’
‘Is every war crime reported? Every torture, every rape, ever massacre of civilians? There are soldiers who choose to remain silent, either because they are moral cowards or because of some misguided notion of loyalty.’
Cathy whips out a notebook and biro from her handbag. ‘I’d like to talk to you again about this, Martin. May I have your address and phone number?’
‘I’d rather not.’ There is no hesitation in Martin’s reply. The firmness in his voice leaves no room for negotiation.
Lisa looks at her watch. ‘It’s late. Working day tomorrow,’ she announces.
‘Thanks for the drink.’ Cathy smiles at Martin.
‘Yes, thanks a lot.’ Lisa extends her hand towards him, ignoring Ron.
The women indignantly walk out of the hotel.
‘I feel as if I’m a bloody war criminal,’ Ron says bitterly, after a moment’s stunned silence. ‘Guilty of insensitivity, guilty of being ill-informed. Thanks for helping out.’
‘There’s no point trying to wriggle out of the past as if we were without blemishes.’
‘What? So we were all guilty of rape, were we? Sure, no one was squeaky clean about sex. You weren’t! What about the days we were given for R&R after combat, huh? Whoring and boozing at the Peter Badcoe Club. There were some wild times. What about that girl you kept going back to? Didn’t hear you complaining about the unfair treatment of the women who entertained us. Or was it because they were only locals and not worthy of your high morals? Double standards, eh, Martin?’
