Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  Jay looks as if he is trying to work something out. I get the sense that he is going about this the same way I would. He is not weighing up the pros and cons; he is waiting for the answer to reveal itself, for inspiration to strike. This is what we romantics do. We favour intuition over logic.

  Daniel is not a romantic. If Daniel was standing on the shore he would be thinking about rising sea levels and depleted fish stocks.

  ‘You’re kind of a primitive, aren’t you, Edie?’ he said to me early on in our relationship. ‘You just feel things, you don’t think about them.’

  ‘But I do think about things,’ I said. ‘I think about things constantly.’

  ‘But not logically. You think about them emotionally.’

  I hadn’t realised until then that this was a problem. I’d thought everyone was like me. Yet another problem; I already had so many.

  ‘You don’t work problems out, do you?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No, I wait for the solution to strike me. It just happens. You mean you weigh up the pros and cons and then go with the majority?’

  ‘That’s how everyone does it, Edie.’

  I found it hard to believe. Everyone except me was running their life as if it was an accounts book? Surely not.

  I watch Jay poking the seaweed. I like the way he does that. He is concentrating. It is just him and the seaweed. What is he thinking? Should I go and talk to him?

  But what would we talk about? I can’t just go up to him without a plan. Although we have now shared a strange and intimate hall floor moment I am far from at ease with him. His spiky aura and pierced eyebrow daunt me. I wish Sally was here to coach me.

  Then it comes to me — his music. I can tell him I heard him on the radio, how much I liked his song. As I take a step towards him a line from the song runs through my head: You looked at me, as if I was the answer, though you didn’t know the question. And this strikes me as being so true, so honest and so deep it stops me in my tracks. Can I really talk to him about that? Don’t I have to move through shallow and medium before I get to deep? Weather, then curry, then meaning of life?

  But I am not good at shallow or even medium. I am an all or nothing girl, either frozen on the edge or plunging straight over the precipice into beliefs and values. I am, perhaps, the Evel Knievel of the conversation world.

  ‘Kismet’. I have looked the word up. It means luck, fate or fortune. Perhaps I can talk to him about that? Ask him if he is writing a song about it.

  As I stand there, working on an opening line, a girl runs down the track to the beach. She is wearing jogging shorts and a singlet. Her hair is pulled back from her head in a ponytail which bounces in a joyful way behind her. It is Sally. She runs straight towards Jay and punches him on the shoulder.

  I would never have thought of doing that. Not even if I’d had a day to prepare for this encounter. Not even if I’d had a week. But Sally just does it. Spontaneously.

  He perks up. I can see this even from a distance. His shoulders straighten.

  She touches his arm, tosses her ponytail.

  Watching Sally flirt is like watching Olympic gymnastics. I could no more do that than execute a triple back-flip off the mat. I swish my hair experimentally and imagine the judges holding up their score cards. Zero, zero, zero for Australia.

  He touches her arm back. I bet they’re not talking about kismet.

  I visualise myself as Sally, that flirtatious charge running from Jay to me. My heart accelerates. I want to but I can’t.

  They laugh. Could they be laughing about me? I turn and walk in the other direction before they can see me.

  A voice accosts me as I pass the skate park. I am deep in thought and don’t register who it is at first.

  ‘Hey, Edie.’ Tim, the surfer boy, slides down the ramp towards me. Stopping just centimetres away, he flicks his skateboard up with his toe. ‘How’s the surf?’

  I drag my mind back from thoughts of Heathcliff and windy moors. ‘Blown out.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Might be good tomorrow morning. Bit of southerly swell pushing in. There’s a low off Fiji.’ I might not be sponsored by Rip Curl, but my years with Dad have left a legacy — I could surf chat at an elite level.

  ‘Reckon the Point’ll be working?’ he asks.

  ‘Worth a shot if it glasses off. The banks are pretty good.’

  ‘What sort of board have you got?’ Tim looks at me as an acolyte would at a guru.

  This adulation goes to my head. ‘Six three, thruster for when it’s big.’ This is what Rochelle rides. ‘Got a fish for the not so solid days and a minimal for the small days. Sometimes ride a seven four, when it’s in between.’

  Tim nods. ‘Yeah. I need a few more boards; that’s why I want the sponsorship. What length do you reckon is best for Bells? I’m on a five nine here.’

  ‘Best to go a bit longer.’ I am not making this up. Name any well-known break in Australia and I could tell you the optimum board length given the prevailing swell direction and size. This knowledge has seeped into me by osmosis. Who knows how far I could have gone with this if I’d actually had any interest in it?

  ‘I told my dad I needed a new board.’

  This reminds me…‘I got Dad’s autograph for you, but I haven’t got it with me.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll see you round.’

  I am starting to suspect this is more than likely.

  ‘See you out there tomorrow,’ Tim calls after me as I leave.

  Chapter Eleven

  Everywhere I go I find a poet has been

  there before me.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  I am nude hiking. Again! The figure I saw last time approaches. It is a man. He is wearing old-fashioned clothing — a black wool coat and battered felt hat — and has a gun slung over his shoulder. He is either too polite or too shy to mention my nakedness.

  ‘Seen any deer?’ he asks. Rain drips off the brim of his hat.

  I am too perturbed at being naked to answer.

  Friday: 48 days

  Pain level: 8.5

  Location: Upper intestine

  I can tell Friday is going to be a bad day as soon as I wake up. There is the lingering unease from my dream for one thing. Nude hiking makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like it. Stop dreaming about nude hiking, I write in my Tips for Self-improvement section.

  Rain is thundering on the tin roof and the trees outside my window are bowed over with the southerly squall. The surf is roaring. Mum always liked it when the surf was big. She would bodysurf on the breakers, arms stretched in front of her, gliding towards the shore like a dolphin. She danced with the danger, the wildness, returning invigorated like a warrior. Sometimes she scared me.

  I am paddling in the shallows when I see Mum stand up on the sand bank. The tide is low, so inside the reef the beach is sheltered, safe. Outside, the waves roll like sea monsters, smash on the sand bank, suck and roar.

  Mum waves to me. I wave back and continue to bob and splash, confident she is now on her way back. The water is warm and clear. The fish are swimming in silver shoals. I chase them across the rocky reef, trying, always trying, to touch them, but never succeeding. Only when the sun turns orange do I realise it has been a long time.

  I lift my head, looking seaward, expecting to see Mum, my beautiful Mum, pop out from beneath me. She isn’t there. I swim some more. Eventually I haul myself from the water, shivering. I know when I stand up on the sand I will see her.

  And there she is, her long arms slicing through the water. Back to me.

  I listen to the waves crash on the sand. No doubt Dad and Rochelle are out there somewhere, undeterred by the minor inconvenience of wind and rain.

  You should be doing that, says Daniel’s bonsai. What’s wrong with you? Your father is a surf champion.

  I glare at it. ‘Shut up. I wish I’d never stolen you. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known you were so mean. You didn’t talk much in Sydney.’

  Daniel’s b
onsai maintains a huffy silence; its ever-browning leaves indicate an unspoken accusation.

  ‘Do you think Daniel would have liked it if I’d made sausages?’ I ask.

  You wouldn’t have been any good at it, says the bonsai. Did I mention his new girlfriend’s a gourmet cook?

  Oh, a critical bonsai is the last thing I need in my life. I would send it back to Daniel, but that would mean admitting I’d taken it in the first place. And I can’t just throw it away. The bonsai and I are stuck together until death us do part. A leaf falls from a branch into the pot.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  You should be, says the bonsai.

  Pulling the blanket over my head, I contemplate the day ahead. Twelve zoea to draw. The good part, of course, is I get to see Professor Brownlow. And even though he is out of bounds, I can’t stop the little pulse of excitement this gives me. I suspect my crush is counterproductive, even harmful, but I am powerless in the face of his sexy hidden depths.

  Nature has a lot to answer for. Your body brews a potent cocktail to put you in a state of erotic obsession. I know this, but I am still a hopeless addict. You can’t buy opiates this strong, but you can make them at home with nothing more than a conveniently available male. Regardless of his marital status.

  Last night I finished the Murakami and I am ready to dazzle Professor Brownlow with my insights.

  What insights? asks the tree. This is a very insightful question.

  To be honest, I have borrowed most of my insights into Murakami from Google. But intellectual appropriation is the new black as far as I’m concerned. Idiosyncratic humour, poignant nostalgia, alienation and loneliness. I jot these down in my notebook so I won’t forget them.

  The other interesting thing I read about Murakami is that he likes to run. This is an understatement. Murakami likes to run in the way a fish likes to swim. He runs ten kilometres every day, more if he is training for a marathon. He has said that everything he knows about writing he has learnt from running. I find this hard to fathom. What would you learn about writing from running?

  I wonder if I should take up running. I have tried it once or twice before, but the trouble is — it hurts my legs. Perhaps that is the point: it hurts, but you keep going. Take up running, I write in my notebook. I will start tomorrow. It is too late today.

  I get out of bed and, in keeping with my mood and the weather, I wear brown.

  Sally calls at seven o’clock as I am munching Vegemite toast in the hammock. ‘Hustle, hit and never quit,’ she says by way of hello.

  Sometimes I think Sally is from a different planet. On Sally’s planet everyone is upbeat and rah rah all the time. They believe that anything is possible, you just need to live the dream and that life is not a dress rehearsal.

  Personally, I am hopeful that my life is a dress rehearsal. In that case, I might be able to get it right next time. ‘I’m not in the mood for life coaching. Go on without me in your quest to bring fulfilment to the masses,’ I say.

  ‘ANT.’

  ‘I get depressed when I can’t think negative thoughts. I’m getting withdrawal symptoms. Too much optimism gets me down.’

  ‘You’re cross with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I saw you on the beach last night.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You are such a liar sometimes, Edie.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘That you don’t fancy Jay.’

  ‘I don’t. I don’t like his aura.’

  ‘Okay, just checking. Thought you might have been cross with me for flirting. Since when were you into auras, anyway?’

  ‘Hey, I grew up on the north coast. It goes with the territory. His is spiky. Mine is soft and fuzzy. I feel like I might get stuck on his spikes if I get too close.’

  Sally laughs. ‘Jesus, Ed, you make things hard for yourself. Okay, let’s do the coaching. Do you believe that within yourself there is the potential to make real and positive change?’

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Yes, is the correct answer,’ says Sal.

  ‘Yes.’ Herr commandant.

  ‘Do you want to clarify your personal values and live your purpose in life?’ Sally’s voice has the ringing beat of a television evangelist.

  ‘Yes.’ I click my heels. I would stand to attention, but it’s hard in a hammock.

  ‘Your task for today is to do something you would normally never do. Something fun and exciting.’ Her voice rises. ‘Something…spontaneous.’

  ‘Hallelujah, sister.’ I throw my spare hand in the air. ‘Like what?’

  Sally sighs. I have disappointed her. ‘It’s spontaneous, Edie. I can’t tell you or it wouldn’t be spontaneous, would it?’

  ‘You could give me some tips.’

  ‘Spontaneity just happens. You follow your instincts, you take yourself by surprise. You do something on a whim. That is the objective of the exercise.’

  ‘That sort of thing doesn’t usually work out very well for me. I’m better at planned stuff. Give me a few days and I’ll think of something spontaneous to do.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ says Sal. ‘It had better be good, Ed, or I’m going to use you as a case study of what happens to people who don’t take their life coach’s advice.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to do it? Can I terminate our contract?’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’re my only client and I’m hanging on to you.’

  ‘Sieg heil, mein führer.’ Me and Sal. Sal and me. Sometimes I think my relationship with the bonsai might be more functional.

  Be spontaneous, I write in my notebook.

  Inside, Rochelle is lying on the lounge-room floor lifting a barbell. Her iPod and speakers are blaring out Michael Jackson. She is wearing flimsy nylon shorts and a singlet that shows off her toned arms. ‘Training.’ She puffs. ‘For the All Girls.’

  The All Girls is the only all-female surf competition in Australia, held here in Darling Head. Practically every year of my life, Dad has asked me if I am going to enter. He has left the brochures lying around and dropped not-too-subtle hints. The chances of me entering the All Girls are rather less than that of resurrecting the dodo. I change the subject before Rochelle asks me if I’m going to enter. ‘You like Michael Jackson?’ I ask.

  Rochelle puts down her barbell and sits up. ‘Good rhythm for weight training.’

  ‘Thriller’ starts. I have to admit it’s pretty catchy. Poor old Michael Jackson. Poor old Michael Jackson’s children. ‘What do you think about Blanket as a name for a child?’ I ask.

  Rochelle laughs. ‘It’s not as bad as Moon Unit or Dweezil.’

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘Frank Zappa’s kids.’

  I decide I have much to be grateful for. I could have been called Sex Wax or Wipeout.

  The church on my way to work is telling me that forbidden fruit creates many jams. I frown, thinking of Professor Brownlow. This is rather close to the bone. A balding man in a pressed blue shirt stands next to the sign. He has the freshly scrubbed look I associate with Christians. He catches my eye and I accelerate away. I have a creepy feeling that he can see the evil Sooty Beaumont lurking beneath my mild-mannered Edie exterior.

  At work, the beautiful and mysterious Professor Brownlow also seems to be in a sombre mood but he smiles as I slide the Murakami towards him.

  ‘Thank you for that, Ralph. Very idiosyncratic humour, isn’t it?’ I try not to think of him lifting me up onto the laboratory bench and having his way with me, but, of course, this is the only thing I can think of. My mind is not the humble servant I wish it would be.

  ‘It was interesting the way he fell in love with that girl, just for her ears.’ His eyes flicker to the side of my head as he says this.

  I don’t recall the ears part, but a warm glow spreads through me anyway. This is a man who understands desire. How many men would recognise that even the ears of the beloved have special powers? I am jelly, custard, trifle in his hands
. He can have me any way he wants me. Bugger the karma. I am just about to agree with him when he frowns.

  ‘No, that was a different Murakami book.’

  ‘It sounds like a good one.’

  ‘Do you like Japanese authors?’ he asks.

  My mind flickers to Sooty Beaumont and her Japanese lover. I rein it in. ‘Oh, yes,’ I coo. ‘They have such poignant nostalgia, such alienation and loneliness.’ It is lucky I prepared for this conversation. In fact, although I love to read, Japanese authors have never been my thing. All that contemplation of cherry blossoms and mountains left me cold. But after reading the Murakami I am having second thoughts.

  Professor Brownlow’s eyes meet mine and he smiles a smile of such beauty, such purpose and intent it illuminates me from inside. And even though he doesn’t say any more, I am sure we have connected in a very, very meaningful way.

  I drift off to my microscope and the first three zoeas of the day are drawn in a haze of sexual fantasy. It is the way to go; from a job satisfaction, if not work quality, point of view.

  Then, just when I thought zoeas held no surprises for me I encounter The Evil Zoea. Unlike its cute relatives this one has a sinister face. The pointy horn on top of its head is longer and sharper-looking than the others. Its eyes are bulgier, protruding from its face like high-wattage searchlights.

  Last night Dad brought the Attack of the Crab Monsters DVD home. As sappy as it was to see crabs being wheeled around a sinking island, my subconscious thinks otherwise. Crabs are evil. Slow drumbeats start up as I adjust the focus. From the depths of the sea — a tidal wave of terror. I avoid the zoea’s eye as I draw it, lest it turn me into a crazed zombie who would strangle Professor Brownlow with my super-strong zombie hands.

  Zoea number five is as innocuous and dull as its predecessors. Thank goodness. I make a mental note to avoid crustacean-themed horror in the future.

  At lunchtime I remember I am supposed to do something spontaneous and fun. I sigh. I am not in the mood, but I pick up my backpack and stand up. Professor Brownlow is on the phone, but he smiles at me as I wave to show I am going out. I take this smile as proof that he is harbouring fantasies about me too. I sigh again. Such a shame he is married.