by Adib Khan
Frank’s heartbeat is being monitored and he is breathing through an oxygen mask. The bleeding has stopped, a doctor assures Martin. A tiny fragment from the right side of the head has been ripped off, at the point where the bullet grazed the skull.
Even a calculated and precise shot could not have guaranteed less damage.
MARIA SITS STUBBORNLY on a chair, staring at the wall in front of her. Martin has convinced Nguyen and Luu to stay in Daylesford for the night, and they’ve gone on to the house. ‘I’ll bring Maria home,’ he promised. Now he sits next to her. They do not speak for some time. Then Martin feels a touch on his arm.
‘I’m to blame,’ she says flatly. Martin puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘I am to blame,’ she repeats. Then she tells him.
It began, she says, with an argument about how much furniture there should be in the lounge. Maria preferred the sitting area to be sparse and functional, but let Frank put a large table against one of the walls. ‘I want to put Dad’s war game on it,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve cleaned all the pieces. They look brand new!’
That was not what Maria was expecting. She didn’t want anything to do with war in the house—no painting, picture or artefact with a martial theme. ‘I don’t want my children brought up with any hint of violence around them,’ she’d insisted. Frank had become increasingly agitated, but Maria remained adamant.
‘It’s only a bloody game! It’s something Dad spent months making. It’s a family heirloom, a reminder of his younger days!’ By now he was gesticulating wildly and shouting.
Maria tried to reason with him. ‘Our families have suffered enough because of war, Frank. There’s no need for a reminder. It can never be a game. I’m sorry, Frank, but that thing is not coming in here.’
He had rushed out of the house, slamming the door.
Maria had been on the mobile, calling her mother, when she heard the noise. It was a sharp crack that split the quietness of the afternoon. She thought it was Frank’s car backfiring, but she went outside to check anyway.
He was in the shed, slumped over the workbench, his hands spread across the felt-covered board which had broken in two at the point where he had fallen. There was a trickle of blood across the surface of the board, smearing some of the model soldiers and dripping onto the floor.
‘It was all so stupid!’ She clenches her fists and shakes her head fiercely. ‘So stupid and avoidable!’
Martin does not try to distract Maria or make any effort to stop her crying. He gets her a drink and sits down. When she stops sobbing, he tells her about the revolver.
THEY DO NOT SPEAK during the forty-minute drive to Daylesford. He glances at her several times. She stares straight ahead. He feels her coldness towards him.
Martin drives slowly, concentrating on the winding road. The image comes to him of Frank pulling the trigger with the cold nozzle of the revolver pressed against his temple. He cannot remain indifferent any more.
By the time they reach the house, Luu has prepared a meal—egg noodles with whatever she found in the fridge and pantry. They coax Maria to eat a few morsels before she goes to bed.
After Martin finishes dinner, he phones Moira again. She has landed at Tullamarine and is about to rent a car for the journey to Ballarat. Martin persuades her to spend the night in Melbourne.
He decides to sleep in the nursery. A large cot has appeared in the middle of the room. Its emptiness strikes him, and he grips the wooden frame. As he stands there, a feeling of strength surges through him. He feels calm. And the image of a child has an anchoring effect on him. Is this the reason Frank is alive? Something must have made him turn the gun away.
Outside, the light of the moon bathes the night. Martin can’t tell how long he has stood there. He knows he is in the process of relinquishing the blighting effect of the war. Those years were part of his life and have delivered their punishment. He has been chastened and imprisoned in his own private hell. But now the cell door is open and he is left to cross a deserted yard. This is like a prelude to stepping into other kinds of imperfections in the outside world. There is no other way that he can choose.
Thoughtfully he steps back into the lounge, which is now flooded by the silvery light. Martin examines the new curtains. He can dimly see the furniture. Against a wall is a large empty table. The item of discontent, he figures. He tiptoes into the corridor and gropes his way to the front door.
The shed is unlocked. The police found the revolver and the boxes of bullets and have taken them away. Under the glare of the neon lights Martin approaches the workbench. He steps on one of the model soldiers—they’re scattered on the cemented floor. Now one lies squashed flat under the weight of his foot.
The board itself is broken and the features of the landscape are severely damaged. He steps on another soldier, and yet another. Martin looks around him and finds a pile of empty hessian sacks in a corner. He picks up the pieces and dumps them all in one of the sacks. With excessive force he smashes the blood-stained board with his heel, breaking it into bits that will fit into the sack.
The dice are on the floor in a corner. He rolls them in the palm of his right hand and throws them onto the workbench. A pair of sixes. Maximum result. Go out on a winning note. He tosses them into the rubble in the bag. Satisfied there are no stray pieces left anywhere, Martin ties the sack with a piece of string and carries it out to the ute. Then he switches off the lights in the shed and locks the door.
The night is cold. He forces himself to linger in the darkness. The silence fills with the sound of his breathing. Slowly a thin mist seems to roll in from the distance and blur his vision.
THE NATURAL EBULLIENCE of Maria’s voice is gone, that breathing, walking, talking relish of life that Martin admired. Now her positivity is veiled by a wariness of the unexpected, and of the frailty of human behaviour, which is what ultimately determines the direction and quality of life.
Frank is proving to be difficult. He won’t see anyone the next day, complaining of nausea, headache and tiredness. Then, after a day’s isolation, he asks for Maria and his mother.
Martin has only briefly seen Moira in the hospital. She was aloof and reserved and refused his offer of lunch. The awkwardness of the meeting lifted when Maria and her parents appeared. But then Martin had realised that Moira was taking the three of them out for lunch and he had slunk away.
By now Moira must know about the revolver, and she will be holding him largely responsible.
But at least Frank’s rehabilitation is already progressing well. A second specialist has confirmed that he will not require a bone graft. There is no permanent damage to the blood vessels and the nerves on the side of his head. The suturing has been successful and the wound is beginning to heal.
AFTER HE IS MOVED out of Intensive Care, Frank is ready to see his father. Even now, though, he is sullen and hostile. Martin sits by his bed and tries to start a conversation. But Frank’s silence wears away at him.
‘Would you rather I went away?’ Martin asks without any animosity.
‘No, Dad.’
And so they begin to talk. ‘I’m sorry about the trouble I’ve caused.’ Frank gets it out at last. ‘But…I couldn’t go through with it.’
He looks at his father for understanding. Martin reaches out and grips his hand.
‘I thought of Maria and the baby. You and Mum. That overcame the rage and the helplessness of the moment. I just couldn’t do it.’ He moves his head slightly. Grimaces. ‘Dad, what’s wrong with me? Why am I like this?’
‘I can only guess, mate. But whatever it is has to be overcome. You now have very serious responsibilities. You can’t turn away from them.’
‘There was guilt, Dad. Fear. A hollowness in my stomach…like plunging downwards from a great height.’ Weakly Frank squeezes his father’s hand.
Martin stays in the ward until Frank falls asleep. By the time he leaves, it is as though someone has handed him a blueprint for what lies ahead.
IT‘S THE LA
ST TIME. Martin knows this. He sits motionless in front of the screen as it blinks its indefatigable message: PLACE YOUR BETS.
But he has no inclination to play the pokies. He has simply wandered into this place of empty time. Now a blonde and a man in a dark jacket and tie are looking in his direction.
Martin stares at the screen, his mind racing towards a future that unfurls with clarity. He will go to the bank and the estate agents and do the business of selling and buying. He will see Nora, and all the people who must be seen for him to bring her home. He will say goodbye to Andrew. He will learn to grow and tend things, with the trees tall around him.
‘Are you all right? Sir?’ It’s the blonde woman.
‘Yes.’ Martin looks at her absently and she retreats.
Martin thinks about Frank, and Fate’s generosity towards them. He picks up the tumbler of coins and walks to the cashier’s counter.
I’ve placed my bets, he thinks, for the rest of my life.
EIGHTEEN
‘I’ve had to light the barbecue twice,’ Ron says pointedly.
Martin apologises. Colin settles for mineral water and Martin opens a couple of cans of beer. He has agreed to stay at Colin’s whenever he comes to Melbourne, and he knows they’re all anxious that nothing should change after this day is over.
The charcoals begin to glow fiercely. There is more meat on the barbecue than they can possibly eat. Mindlessly Ron brushes a corner of the hot cast-iron plate with a mixture of melted butter and olive oil. He adds more chops and steaks, crushes an empty beer can and throws it in a cardboard box.
‘Will it work?’ he says to Martin.
Martin grates carrots for the salad with a methodical slowness. There is never a perfect outcome to anything that is contentious. ‘That isn’t a question I can afford to consider. I didn’t set out to create new problems, you know,’ he says slowly, his eyes on Colin. ‘But I can’t run away from them either.’ He measures and mixes seeded mustard, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, rock salt, pepper and brown sugar in a bowl.
‘You have to look after your own interests,’ Ron emphasises, turning the sausages with a large pair of tongs. ‘Wasn’t that the lesson of Vietnam?’
‘That’s what I’m doing.’ Martin smiles.
‘Mind you,’ Ron scratches his unshaven chin, ‘I was the one who was planning to move. But I’ve done bugger all about it. Guess I don’t like change. Figured you didn’t either.’
‘There comes a point when you’re forced to break from what you’ve been.’
‘No one returns happily from a war,’ Martin had heard Nguyen tell Maria. ‘Afterwards you are always afraid of shadows and darkness. There is a consistent ache of loneliness. Maybe that’s why soldiers come back with so many stirring stories about friendship and courage. They give some worthwhile meaning to the emptiness in their lives.’
TODAY MARTIN WILL not tell Ron and Colin that he has phoned his local MP, that he has spoken out at last about Ken Davis. Or that he is late now because after that phone call he had visited the Buddhist temple close to Maria’s parents’ house. Inside the temple it was cool and tranquil. In a corner a group of saffron-robed monks were chanting. The droning was serene.
He had walked up to one of the candle stands and fumbled in his pocket for the box of matches he had brought with him. He knelt down on the shiny floor. With unsteady hands he lit the candle. The tapering light was like a two-way lens through which he could gaze into time, both the past and the future. Martin saw the girl, in the quietness of an afternoon, little more than a child. She smiled shyly and held up the friendly offering of vegetables to surly strangers. He thought of her as an adult, a mother, living the simple life of a villager. Then, in old age, she was a wise grandparent, sharing her experiences with a younger generation. And he saw masses of billowing smoke, giant plumes of fire, charred bodies and mangled people.
He had intended to stay a few minutes, but it was almost an hour later that he became conscious of the time.
‘THIS SORT OF breaks it all up, doesn’t it?’ Ron asks between mouthfuls of meat, looking at Martin as if he were the perpetrator of a heinous offence. ‘Probably I’ll leave Melbourne some time next year.’
‘And I’ll be going nowhere,’ Colin says moodily. ‘Except to the hospital. Again.’
‘Things were going okay for a while,’ Ron reflects nostalgically. ‘We had a bit of a social life. But now…Ice cream? Coffee or tea?’
The conversation peters out. Overeating and alcohol induce drowsiness. The afternoon passes gently. Colin reads them his final rejection letter and then daydreams about how he might have reacted to an offer of publication. He thinks aloud about writing a verse novel. It would occupy him purposefully. He likes the idea. They exchange gifts. Books and CDs. Martin presents Colin with the imitation of Rodin’s statue. This, Colin knows, has stood on Martin’s bedside table for years. ‘You deserve it more than I do,’ Martin says.
Colin grips it with both hands. ‘The Thinker. I can’t help wishing that he had done one called The Doer. Thank you very much, Martin. I shall do my best to let it guide me deeper into the confusion of the mind!’
‘When’s the house-warming?’ As always Ron pulls the talk away from anything too abstract.
‘Soon—I’m not sure when.’ Martin looks at his watch. ‘I’ll help with the wash-up and then I have to get going.’
Ron dismisses the offer. ‘I’ll do it. I’m going to hang around and give Colin some suggestions for his verse novel!
Firm handshakes. Ron and Colin come out to the footpath. In a fragile silence Martin gets into the ute. Alignments shift. As he drives away he sees his friends in the rear-view mirror, waving, until they’re out of sight.
THE CORRIDOR IS deserted. Most of the residents have gathered in the dining area for afternoon tea. Martin stops nervously in front of Nora’s room and then steps back a couple of paces. He thinks of the small house in front of the cluster of gum trees and the spaces around them like a vast canvas. Fantasy is a different kind of reality.
He turns to see if there is an attendant nearby. Then he steps forward again and knocks firmly on the door, opening it a little before Nora can respond.
‘Who is it?’
If I am distressed or in trouble, I expect you to be supportive without flinching. You must humour me and indulge my whims.
‘Sebastian,’ he replies. ‘I have come to take you home. ‘And for the first time since Martin has known her, he hears the note of pure joy in Nora’s laughter.
P.S.
Ideas, interviews & features included in a new section…
About the author
Meet the author
KHAN WAS BORN ON 29 January 1949 in Dhaka, Bangladesh. It was his Muslim father who named him Adib, which means ‘writer’ in Urdu, one of the major languages in the Indian subcontinent. He went to a ‘crusty private Catholic school’ and he attributes his discovery and love of literature to a teacher who introduced him to The Iliad and the Greek playwrights. After finishing high school, he studied Engineering, English Literature and History until war broke out ‘between what was East Pakistan and West Pakistan’ in 1971. The war resulted in the liberation of East Pakistan, which became the independent nation of Bangladesh. ‘I was one of those helpless civilians caught in the war,’ he says. ‘It changed my entire life. I came from an upper middle-class background, fairly comfortable and complacent. It was trendy to discuss politics…but it’s very different to talk rationally about political injustice in a foreign country than to speak about it when it’s all around you…The Pakistani army came in with tanks and demolished the suburb next to us. I was shell-shocked. It turned me upside down and gave me a very different perspective of life. Even now, I’m hesitant to go back to Bangladesh.’
In 1973 Khan came to Australia to complete a Masters in English Literature at Monash University. Why Australia? ‘Somewhat facetiously I decided that I couldn’t live in a country where they didn’t play cricket,’ he says. �
��I remember telling members of my family that in America they didn’t play cricket and in England they couldn’t play the game. I thought Australia was paradise in the 1970s.’ His wife followed him to Melbourne six months later, and they moved to Ballarat three years after that. Khan now lives in Ballarat on weekdays and in Melbourne on weekends. He teaches English and History part-time at Ballarat Grammar and Creative Writing at the TAFE branch of Ballarat University. He and his wife have two daughters studying at Monash University.
Khan explains, ‘Writing fiction was purely accidental during a period of soul searching to know why I was so restless when I turned forty…Underneath all of this was a kind of insurgency, a revolt from within, insisting that I pay attention to myself. Well, I made an effort to meet the real me by recording my reflections in fragmented bits of writing.’ He says, ‘In your forties, there are unavoidable familial responsibilities. A number of writers who start early perhaps don’t have a full understanding of the fickle nature of writing and publishing…My first impulse is to advise them not to throw away their jobs. When you are in the business of writing serious fiction, you belong to a threatened minority…Putting it another way: I’m too old to go back to drinking cask wine.’
Despite this modesty, his first novel, Seasonal Adjustments, was plucked from the slush pile at Allen & Unwin and went on to win several major awards. Khan has written three other novels: Solitude of Illusions (also an award winner), The Storyteller and Homecoming, as well as a book of literary criticism, Poetry Examined. Currently he is working on a novel about terrorism, tentatively titled Spiral Road.
Life at a glance
BORN
1949 in Dhaka, Bangladesh
EDUCATED
