The Blind Eye

by Georgia Blain

  Silas had been obsessed before, each time he fell in love in fact, but this was different.

  I was at sea with it, completely out of my depth, and he looked away, the expression on his face one of shame. I believed them, he said, not looking at me.

  What?

  Those stories of Pearl’s. That Constance had something, something that other people don’t have, that I was ensnared, trapped, and he grinned in embarrassment as he shook his head. I mean, I didn’t, not really. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. But I guess I did.

  9

  All that I know of Rudi does not amount to much. In fact, until I met Silas, I did not even know he had a daughter. If, as Pearl told Silas, she was born shortly before the others started leaving, it would have been around the time that Rudi stopped publishing, otherwise he would, no doubt, have written about her and the vision she supposedly possessed.

  His writings were, to say the least, eccentric, his beliefs unorthodox, and at the stage in my life when I discovered them, I thought they were extraordinary. I had just left medicine and even though my father thought I was a fool (he forgave everything except a lack of intellectual rigour, a deficiency that was defined, always, by his own standards), I felt my decision had been unquestionably right. I had discovered a way of thinking that made sense, and I wanted to take it to its outer reaches, to the places from which Rudi was writing.

  Jeanie told me that she remembered recommending his articles. She always told her first-year students about them, and she always knew who would be amazed by them and who would find them barely worth the paper on which they were written.

  It was like a game I played with myself, she smiled. Working out those of you who were truly passionate, and those who weren’t.

  She, too, had read the story of the redback spider. Apparently one had bitten Rudi, and the first thing he had demanded of the friend who found him was that he let him be; he wanted the venom to take its course and he wanted his friend to act as witness, to write down everything he said or did. Although the dosage was obviously toxic, the sensations he described were remarkable in their similarity to a recent orthodox proving of the spider that was conducted about a year ago.

  You know he believed that simply holding the correct remedy in front of the patient could be enough?

  I did.

  And then he took it further. He tried to conduct trials to show that thinking of the remedy alone would suffice. She smiled. He was absolutely obsessed, mad on one level, brilliant on another.

  As we wheeled the barrow back up to the house, I told her how I had gone out there to find him.

  And did you?

  I shook my head.

  It was Pearl who had told me he had left. Guess he didn’t want to stay. She had rubbed her glasses with the cloth of her dress. Not once she was gone, and she had lifted a newspaper from the shelf near her and slammed it hard on the fly that had been buzzing, circling her head, while we talked.

  snake

  Lachesis. – – . . . The Surukuku Snake of South America . . . Characteristics. – – To the genius and heroism of Hering the world owes this remedy and many another of which this has been the forerunner. When Hering’s first experiments were made he was botanising and zoologising on the Upper Amazon for the German Government. Except his wife, all those about him were natives, who told him so much about the dreaded Surukuku that he offered a good reward for a live specimen. At last one was brought in a bamboo box, and those who brought it immediately fled, and all his native servants with them. Hering stunned the snake with a blow on the head as the box opened, then, holding its head in a forked stick, he pressed the venom out of the poison bag upon sugar of milk. The effect of handling the virus and preparing the lower attenuations was to throw Hering into a fever with tossing delirium and mania – much to his wife’s dismay. Towards morning he slept, and on waking his mind was clear. He drank a little water to moisten his throat and the first question this indomitable prover asked was: ‘What did I do and say?’ His wife remembered vividly enough. The symptoms were written down, and this was the first instalment of the proving of Lachesis.

  John Henry Clarke, A Dictionary of Practical Materia Medica

  1

  The tide turns at Port Tremaine more quickly than one would ever expect. In the long, lazy heat of the day, the water might just reach the middle of the jetty, licking the bottom of the fourth set of stairs from the shoreline, leaving a wide stretch of weed-littered sand between the road that runs along the beach and the stillness of the gulf waters. Under the harshness of that sun, the air is thick with the rich, salty smell of rotting weeds as the brown and green clumps curl up, dry and brittle, and it seems impossible that there could ever be no beach, that the road could become the only border between town and sea.

  Then the tide turns, swiftly, stealthily. The soft ripple of the water as it flows in leaves tiny fish flicking in a desperate attempt to fight against the pull of the current. Parched dry weeds flatten out into crescent strips of brown, black and glossy green as the ocean licks them, submerges them, swiftly creeping towards the third set of stairs and then the second and first, until it is soon covering a beach that once seemed too wide, too impossible a distance to traverse in order to reach the cool, cool sea.

  That is when you get caught, if you aren’t a local, if you aren’t in the know. Visitors who come to fish drive their cars with boats in tow all the way to where the sea reaches the land, not realising how quickly it can turn, leaving them bogged or, if they are even more unlucky, submerged.

  When the tide was right, Mick would close the garage early and take a few beers, plus the previous night’s chops for bait, and spend the last hours of the day with Jason or Steve. They would sit on the bench that formed a barricade at the end of the jetty, the remaining few metres having washed away years earlier, and cast their lines out to where the pylons rear haphazardly out of the clear depth of the sea.

  They were usually the first to see the few outsiders that ever came to this place. They would watch them pull up in their cars, look out across the gulf and then decide to drive their boats across the expanse of sand to where the ocean finally meets the land. With their lines dangling, Mick and Jason would wait, knowing how easily someone could find themselves trapped, caught, by the rapid turning of those tides.

  As he swam in from the warm, still water to the shore, Silas, too, saw the station wagon parked out where the beach ended. He had been floating on his back, washing away the dust and grit that had clung to his skin, coating him as he had made the long walk back from Rudi’s, disappointed that he had not seen Constance at all that morning. He had spent four hours trapped in the stuffiness of that shack, without once catching sight of her, listening to Rudi’s enthusiastic descriptions of the latest project he had embarked upon.

  It is a proving, he had explained, a testing. The therapeutic effects of the common brown snake, and he had shown Silas the copious notes, scrawled across scraps of paper, that he had begun to take.

  You drink the venom? Silas had asked, amazed, because he had never really listened to any of Rudi’s explanations; he had not even begun to understand the first elements of the process.

  It is Constance who does this for me, and Rudi had spread his papers across the table. Ideally we should have many more provers, but what can you do? He had shrugged his shoulders.

  He had wanted Silas to read his notes. He had cleared a chair for him, eagerly moving books to the floor, asking him if he was comfortable, if there was anything he could get him.

  And, please, any questions, I am happy to answer.

  There had been no escape. Nor had there been any possibility of just skimming the pages; Rudi had wanted to discuss it all, each point, explaining that this was only the beginning of his most important project to date. It was the differences he was looking for, the subtle differences between each of the most venomous snakes of the region, and he was relying on Constance to help him build up a picture of each
potential remedy.

  As Silas dried himself under the shade of a scragply white gum, the gravel sharp beneath his feet, his whole body stiff from the hours he had spent pinned to that hard wooden chair, he wondered at how the venom had failed to harm her.

  Knotting his sarong around his waist, Silas looked out to the jetty. He could see Mick waving at someone in the distance, calling out with one hand cupped around his mouth, and he turned as Steve came into view, his thick body tensed with an expectation of something about to happen as he hurried along the road towards him.

  Tide’s turned. He was rubbing his hands together, barely glancing in Silas’s direction, as he held one thumb up, signalling to Mick that he knew, he understood and was on his way.

  Out in the glaring heat of the afternoon, they gathered next to the white clock-faced tide gauge: Mick, Jason, Steve and the owner of the stranded station wagon, eager to strike a deal.

  It was Steve who laid down the rules. Beers all round, and we’re talking a slab. Each.

  The owner didn’t argue.

  Not sure what was about to happen but curious, Silas followed, out to where the tide had risen past his calves, almost to his knees, and to where the car was rapidly sinking into the soft wet sand. This was a ritual he had not yet witnessed, and he grinned to himself as he felt the water dragging on the edge of his sarong, the weight of it, and somewhere, caught in the folds, tiny fish nibbling at the backs of his knees.

  Steve told them all where to stand and Silas, who had not been given a position, took the only space available, at the driver’s wheel, next to Mick.

  One, two, three, easy boys. The veins stood out on Steve’s face, the grunt was animal as he gave his instructions.

  With both hands under the car, Silas could feel his sarong slipping away, pulled down by the water, and he wondered, for a moment, whether he should try to hold it. As he tripped on the loose cloth, he heard someone shout out, his voice a howl of pain, and then he realised he had lost it; the cloth was floating around him and he was standing there, naked to all.

  It was Steve who asked him what the fuck he thought he had been doing.

  It was Jason who helped Mick up to the shore.

  Jesus, and as Steve lifted his sunglasses, Silas realised it was the first time he had seen him without them.

  It was an accident, he protested.

  Steve’s spit was thick and yellow and it floated, bobbing close to his calves as they made their way back to the others, the water churning around them, neither of them saying a word.

  Jason already had the car, the engine at full throttle, and as Silas apologised, offering to help ease Mick into the back seat, Mick just stared at him.

  It was an accident, Silas said again, and then, slightly angry now, he shook his head. For godsakes, you don’t think I did it on purpose?

  Mick just kept his eyes fixed on Silas, his gaze unwavering, as Jason slammed the door shut and Steve gunned the engine, and Silas was left standing alone, his attempt at a final protestation heard by no one but himself, the thick dust coating him as the car disappeared up the main street and headed out towards the highway.

  He did not go back to Thai’s until the last of the crimson in the sky had purpled and the ocean glittered black beneath the single light at the end of the jetty. He just sat there on that bench, and wondered what he was doing in this place, until finally he pulled himself up and made his way along the deserted road past the boarded-up houses and across the dirt yard.

  She was on the verandah alone. The light was on in the house behind her and Silas could see Matt, back for one of his rare visits, asleep in the armchair in front of the television, the kids lying on the floor around him.

  Thai just looked at him, taking a long swig of the beer by her side and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Hear you pissed a few people off today, and the clink of the bottle was loud as she knocked it over, the beer spilling out in a sticky stream near her feet.

  They’ll get over it, Silas told her, tired now.

  She stood up slowly, unsteady on her legs as she leant against the door frame, closing her eyes momentarily to stop the sickening spin in her head. She had her tobacco clutched in one hand, the dope in the other, the bottle she had just left lying in the pool of beer.

  Mick reckons you’ve got it in for him, and she lurched slightly.

  What? Silas didn’t understand. He didn’t even know Mick.

  That’s what he reckons, mate, and she coughed, trying to clear the huskiness in her throat.

  Did he say why?

  She just shook her head, that’s what he reckons, the repeated words a faint mumble as she pushed the flyscreen door open and stumbled inside.

  2

  I was momentarily surprised when Silas told me he had been married, that he still was in fact, and then I realised it was not so out of character as I had thought.

  He said he had married Rachel after knowing her for only three days. It had been a habit of his, falling in love whenever he was in an alcohol or dope-induced stupor. Which was most of the time, and he shook his head as he remembered. Rachel and I were out of it from the moment we met. We thought it was a great joke. We were married in a registry and we had everyone we knew back to my place for a week-long opium-smoking binge. I didn’t even remember we had got married until about a month later. He smiled. I had even forgotten I’d given her my grandmother’s wedding ring. I woke in the middle of the night and saw it on her finger and wondered how she had ended up wearing it.

  As he spoke about Rachel, Silas recalled how he had thought he’d found perfection. He had loved the way she talked too much; he had loved the chaos that always surrounded her, the wild scatter of shoes, bag, matches, cigarettes, clothes that she would leave in her wake; the way she would lie back on his grandmother’s chaise longue and open a bottle of wine at eleven, the ashtray overflowing next to her, and forget whatever it was she was meant to do that day; the too-dark lipstick she always wore; the pile of half-finished books she would leave on the floor; the lies she told without even blinking, her bright blue eyes steadfast as she recounted impossible stories; he had loved it all.

  And I thought I loved her.

  But you didn’t?

  I don’t know. I have no idea what I thought or felt, and Silas smiled. Sometimes I think that you can convince yourself of anything, that nothing is real.

  There is truth to what he said.

  When I first slept with Greta, I did not think I loved her. Loving someone was not, for me, a prerequisite for sex. We were younger then, and when you are young, you sleep with people, and then you suddenly stop sleeping with them and you are never particularly good at articulating why you have done one or the other, nor do you think all that much about how your actions will impact on another.

  So I did not think that I loved her and I didn’t think, all that much, about how she felt. Despite all that, I probably whispered all the words that you whisper; I probably told her she was beautiful, I probably even made plans for what we would do, maybe hitchhiking down the coast together, perhaps a holiday overseas, I don’t remember. I tried to convince myself that it was, for her as well, just sex, but later I had to admit I had been lying. I knew Greta well enough, or at least I should have known her well enough, to realise she had a fragility that should not be taken lightly.

  It is still difficult for me to sort out how I felt or what she believed I felt, but I do know I would never have instigated meeting up with her again, preferring to forget rather than remember. I also know she only contacted me because of the lie Silas had told her, and that I went reluctantly, only agreeing to see her because I did not know how to say no when she suggested it, not because I had any positive desire to make amends with the past.

  When she finally began to talk about what had happened all those years ago, she said that she was not sure why she had told Silas what had happened when we were together.

  I hadn’t told anyone before. I suppose I just f
elt I could. I guess I thought he was such a mess, he wouldn’t judge me.

  She said that she had shown him a photograph of the two of us.

  From that time we went to a photo booth – you know the ones? I didn’t but I nodded.

  She told me she had felt like an idiot as soon as she had brought them out for him to see, that she had grimaced as she had laid them out on the table and that Silas had laughed, that he had said it wasn’t that bad, that everyone had terrible hair then.

  But it wasn’t that; I could see it all, right there in my face. I was such a mess.

  When she had asked Silas whether he had ever behaved in a way that still made him feel sick with shame, he had not answered her.

  I told him that night, she said, I told him everything, and it was so hard to say it out loud, to recognise that person as myself.

  I looked at Greta, sitting across the table from me, and I could still only see her as she was then, over ten years ago, when I first moved into her house with her. She had advertised the bedroom at college and I was looking for somewhere to live. The room was big and cheap, and she seemed somewhat calmer at home, so I took it, and we went out for a drink to celebrate.

  In those first few months, we were in that house alone. It was summer, and we would sit out in the courtyard talking, the nights hot and still, the scent of frangipani syrupy in the evening air, stray forks of lightning chasing each other across the sky as Greta told me about herself, and I listened, fascinated.

  It was a car accident that had killed her mother, and she had seen it all. She had been there, in the back seat. With her knees drawn tight to her chest and her eyes wide, she would remember, bringing out new details for me each time she told the tale: the terrible thud as the car finally stopped rolling, the taste of blood in her mouth, the coldness of her mother’s skin, the stupidity of the police as they tried to pull her away. I could not comprehend the enormity of the devastation she must have felt, and I would listen, astounded by her ability to speak of what seemed to me to be an immeasurably appalling tragedy.