DB jabbed at the barbecue with the tongs, slashing a gourmet sausage in half. Sometimes he disliked his father, who had never got his own memo that having a child occasionally meant allowing focus to be pulled from oneself. Sylvie had pointed this out to him, long ago when she was still attempting to get on with his parents, and he saw it now on frequent occasions. He suddenly remembered his own son and looked guiltily around the yard. Rudy and Ravi were huddled over one of the cages, peering grim-faced into it. Jesus . . . DB craned his neck to see them better.
‘Watch the sausages, Benjamin,’ his father scolded him, and then he’d been distracted by an argument between his father, Mr Williams and the balloon guy about the appropriate level of carcinogen required to perfect each sausage.
This had become quite heated, and everyone had insisted that everyone else was wrong, and the balloon man had taken offence at DB’s father calling him a cheap purveyor of parlour tricks and left in a huff telling them it was weird to have a kids’ party with no kids, and everyone had looked uncomfortable until Mr Williams started talking about the pro bono case again, and DB’s father began pointing out all the ways they were going about it the wrong way, and suddenly DB could feel his chest getting tighter and the elephant trunk-penis felt like it was squeezing his brain to the point of explosion and the heat from the barbecue was radiating into his eyeballs and . . . there was Rudy like an escapee, holding the fat rat with a strange little look on his face, and DB realised the rat was quite dead and he’d wanted to shout out that the party was over there and then, even though it had never really been a party to begin with, so they could all just bugger off home.
‘We need to bury Malcolm,’ Rudy instructed the group, his voice solemn and respectful, for he had at some point christened the rat after their Prime Minister in what was an act of complete affection with no trace of irony.
‘I really can’t let you do that,’ Ravi said, meeting DB’s eyes. ‘I need to account for all my animals.’
DB was ready to concur but then Rudy had looked at him with such hope in his eyes that he knew he needed this to happen.
‘Please,’ he whispered to Ravi. ‘Please. It’s his birthday.’
Ravi looked reluctant.
‘I’ll pay you more. For the dead rat and for the trouble.’
Eventually Ravi acquiesced, and the party had continued, just the five of them, only it had naturally turned into a funeral for Malcolm. They’d pulled their balloon hats from their heads as Ravi gently placed the rat in the little hole DB had hastily dug for it, then they’d looked on respectfully as Ravi scraped the dirt back over the top. Then they gathered in the house to eat venison sausages and commence the wake, Rudy adorned in a black cape he’d acquired somewhere, as well as a fresh pair of pants because he’d forgotten himself in the commotion and wet his old ones. Now, he moved between them all like a commiserating widow.
‘There, there,’ he told them each, patting their hands comfortingly.
‘He watches a lot of documentaries,’ DB explained as his father and Mr Williams looked on.
They lapsed into silence. In it, DB considered what kind of career move this was. Bold, he suspected, but in an adverse way. Mr Williams pulled himself to his feet, clearing his throat.
‘We can’t let Malcolm go without marking this solemn occasion with a good drop.’
He brought over the whisky and poured them all a glass.
‘Perhaps a few words are appropriate,’ he continued, taking up his glass.
He beckoned to Ravi, who shook his head. Mr Williams acknowledged this.
‘Then I shall meet the task.’
He stood, gathering his thoughts, a finger to his lips as if quieting himself.
‘I stand here today a man humbled in the face of death.’
DB glanced over at Rudy, who was utterly transfixed by the speech.
‘I did not know Malcolm well but the few hours we had together demonstrated to me that he was a rodent of fine standing and good character.’
DB’s father rolled his eyes but thankfully remained silent for his grandson’s sake, perhaps because his mouth was full of whisky. Mr Williams paused, peering into his glass, rolling it gently in a circular motion. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other then continued.
‘Some of you may know that I run a very large, very successful law firm.’
He paused, mostly for the benefit of DB’s father, DB suspected.
‘You may not know that my grandfather started this firm. His old man worked in one of the infamous Collingwood boot factories – you know, from Power Without Glory – and he made enough money to send my grandfather to university to study law, if you know what I mean.’
DB did and he was glad his son did not.
‘So you can guess the kinds of upright citizens my grandfather started out defending. Arsonists, thugs, blokes who’d catch their wives up to no good with the milkman and sink their bodies in the Yarra. And those cases were the ones on which he built his career and the earliest days of this firm. It was my father who encouraged him to move away from criminal law towards commercial stuff, but my grandfather always had a soft spot for miscreants, defending them pro bono until he died.’
Mr Williams smiled fondly at the memory. To his right, Ravi glanced surreptitiously at his watch.
‘Were they guilty?’ Rudy asked, eyes wide.
Mr Williams gave him a conspiratorial wink.
‘Not according to the jurors.’
He chuckled. So did DB’s father, despite himself. DB acknowledged that this moment, though transfixing, was not his finest parenting hour.
‘Anyway, what I mean to say is that my family has long stood by our principles of sacrifice in the service of others. Of offering our expertise to those in need, with no expectation of financial reward. And our belief that justice is for everyone, no matter who you are.’
DB glanced at his son again. Rudy had no idea what Mr Williams was saying but he seemed glad he was saying it.
‘And in the same way my grandfather started our family’s tradition of volunteering our services to those in need – something we are proud to continue to this day – today we have laid to rest a fine rodent who did the same, providing to the children of our community joy and happiness wherever he did roam.’
DB avoided his father’s gaze, certain he would barely be containing his mirth. He wondered how much Mr Williams had drunk. Beside him he heard a sniffle.
‘It’s true,’ Ravi agreed. ‘No one really cared about him because he was gross and stuff, but he didn’t let that deter him. He was always there, rain, hail or shine, no matter how much people preferred the guinea pigs or the rabbits. Even the mice. People preferred the mice to him.’
‘I loved him,’ Rudy spoke up, and DB saw the tears in his eyes. ‘I loved Malcolm.’
‘As did we all,’ Mr Williams agreed. ‘As did we all. On that note, I would like you all to raise your glass to Malcolm. A rat above all other rats.’
‘To Malcolm,’ Ravi repeated, raising his glass.
Then they all went outside and released the helium balloons into the air one by one. DB watched as the last one floated away. Congratulations!!! Malcolm. May death be kinder to you than life.
Later, once they’d had some cake and everyone had gone home, Rudy climbed into his father’s arms. He had, throughout the whole afternoon, seemed completely unperturbed that no other guests arrived. Sylvie had messaged to say she would spend the night at her parents’ as the party had kicked on into the evening and there was much cleaning still to be done.
‘Did you and Mummy fight again?’ Rudy asked, pawing sleepily at his eyes.
DB swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Of course not. Mummy is coming back tomorrow.’
Rudy watched him a moment, then looked away, distracted. ‘Everything dies,’ he said stoically.
For a mo
ment DB felt gutted at the strange and lonely party he had thrown his son, but then he saw that Rudy was smiling as he drifted into sleep. And he realised in a sad and peculiar way that this was probably exactly the party Rudy had always wanted, and that perhaps this was worth something in the end.
19
Patrick
North Facing Window: Michael ‘D’accordion’ Smith
July 2016
By Rik Lee
If you have two ears and have walked the outdoor malls of the north, chances are you’re familiar with Michael ‘D’accordion’ Smith. ‘I grew up near the SA border but have spent the last five years busking around the world. London, Berlin, a stint in Rome that didn’t end too well. Mostly Europe, though, because they’re more open to busking. The Balkans in particular were incredible – I learnt a lot there, both musically and spiritually.’
Now settled in Greensborough, D’accordion plies his trade right across the region. ‘Anywhere my bike will take me – that’s my rule. It’s a pretty incredible way to make a living and counterintuitively, easier than if I were to park myself in the middle of the CBD. There’s more community in the suburbs. I guess that’s it. People aren’t as stressed.’
One of the biggest misconceptions D’accordion finds is that people assume he’s a penniless artist. ‘I do well enough. Plus, my girlfriend, she’s a painter but she’s also nearly finished studying early years education. It’s not like we sleep under a bridge or anything.’ D’accordion and his girlfriend are saving money to build a tiny house. ‘Nothing special. Just a tiny place to call home.’
His favourite thing about the north is how many people seem to have spare change on them. ‘It’s the continental Europeans – people who carry all their cash on them – who are a busker’s best friend because SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING
Patrick hunched forward, squinting at his own indecipherable handwriting. The word looked like ‘swamp fiend’ but that couldn’t be right. Something? Smarmy? Who was to say . . . He consulted his notes, trying to remember what he had been planning to write next but this train of thought was shuttered up in the depot now. He stood, stretching, then filled the electric kettle. He waited as it stirred to life, leaning his frame against the kitchen bench. It won’t boil if you watch it, he thought to himself, casting his eyes across the rest of the small living area. It wasn’t much to see, the sideboard crowding the space, proud and mighty like a fallen monarch. It masked the emptiness though, which had reminded him so much of the bare Anatolian guesthouse room, its wall-to-wall solitude disrupted only by the little bed he had dragged to the centre. How it allowed him to see all around, a tiny turret in the middle of the cramped bare room, where the quiet noises of the landlady’s daily chores scraped in through the window and swept under the threshold and time passed as he tried to make sense of the senseless. How this hadn’t worked, so he had eventually pulled himself from the room and wandered, disoriented, down the quiet streets peopled only by the wild-coated cats and dogs who knew nothing of the off-season, and it was in this manner that he had stumbled upon the barber, surprising them both when Patrick sunk into the worn red leather chair. He’d looked between the stylised images affixed to the wall, then pointed to one of a clean-shaven young man, his head clippered into a military-style buzz cut. The barber nodded, turning down the volume of the little television mounted on his wall, then set about pulling from his drawers the tools of his trade.
First, he laid out before him the electric razor and its assortment of heads, blowing into the blades to clean them. Then he gestured to the heads one by one, miming to Patrick their lengths as they tapered from his own longer locks to the soldiery shave of the poster. He waited, his rough dark hands stroking the ends of his Atatürk moustache as Patrick scrutinised the heads, giving an obliging nod when he selected the shortest. Then he set to work, removing Patrick’s hair in great curving sweeps, the hair falling about the old towel around his shoulders. When this was finished, he removed the head and ran the naked blades along Patrick’s hairline, delicately tracing the same arterial freeways of his increasingly frequent headaches. He worked slowly, carving new borders across Patrick’s nape, along his temples, folding the tops of his ears to run the clippers down and back to where he’d started. When this was complete, he reached for a pair of long metal scissors, winding a cotton ball around the end, then dipped it into a clear solution. He set the cotton ball on fire then swiftly dabbed it against the outer rims of Patrick’s ears one after the other, the hairs sizzling, then dropped the ball into the sink where it fizzled out. The barber disappeared for a moment, returning with two small metal cups. He poured hot water from one into the other, working it into a foamy lather with a wooden handled brush, then painted Patrick’s throat and cheeks in soft arcs.
Patrick watched as the barber opened a drawer and pulled out a small straight razor, and suddenly his heartbeat quickened. The barber knocked the razor against his palm and the blade came away, then he replaced it with a fresh blade housed in a little paper sheath. He laid out a square of card on the bench to catch the foam as he shaved, then turned back to Patrick.
Patrick watched his reflection in the mirror, the razor moving towards him, and it started again, racing up and down the fresh lines of his haircut, pounding, scratching, throbbing with urgent pain. He couldn’t breathe. His breath refused to draw. Then the razor was at his throat, the barber pulling it down his flesh in one long drag, and it was all too much. As the barber pulled away, Patrick slid from the chair and backed out of the little shop. Pulling a handful of lira from his pocket, he stammered an apology as he let it tumble to the chair, then he was gone, off, out into the street to blindly stagger back towards the empty guesthouse. Stop, please, I only want to help. And people had stared at him, the smattering of locals going about their daily business, startled by this wide-eyed man with a face full of foam and his hands clutching at his shorn temples, and it was then that he had met the Australians and the terrible situation was made that tiny bit worse. And now, sitting here in his boxy Melbourne apartment, now he could feel it again, the same tensing of muscles around his nape, as the limberness fled his body. Taut, coiled, ready to react, ready to spiral and stumble and nauseate him once more.
There was a knock at the door, first timid then flattening into a confident rat-a-tat. Patrick pressed his palms over his face, the cool of his fingers a brief relief, then rose from the table. He opened the door cautiously. Seymour was standing there, his hands plunged into his pockets. He read Patrick’s surprise.
‘The rideshare,’ he explained. ‘It used your address.’
Patrick opened the door and Seymour stepped inside. He led him down the dark hallway and into the cramped living area. As they pressed past the sideboard, Patrick saw Seymour trail his fingers lightly along its wood. In the kitchen the electric kettle was rumbling. It let out a loud click as it switched itself off, making them both start.
‘This place is terrible,’ Seymour observed, leaning against the counter, arms crossed in front of his body.
‘The rental ad said cosy,’ Patrick murmured.
This made Seymour snort.
‘Our place is cosy. This place is like a crypt.’
They both waited until the word had run its course, ricocheting about the room and dusting them both with sadness. Seymour turned and reached up to the cupboards, pulling out two mugs. Patrick watched him navigate the little kitchen, finding easily the items required to assemble their tea.
‘Top drawer for spoons, farthest right cupboard for mugs, farthest left for tea, just like at home,’ Seymour explained, placing the full mug in front of Patrick. ‘There’s no milk, though.’
‘I don’t drink it anymore,’ Patrick said, and Seymour flinched.
They sat opposite each other, sipping their tea. After a while, Seymour collected their mugs and rinsed them at the sink. He sat back at the little kitchen table-cum-desk and placed one hand on
top of the other.
‘Are you coming home?’
Patrick couldn’t tell if this was an invitation or a clarification. He moved his hands awkwardly in some unspoken sign of the unresolved. Seymour exhaled sharply.
‘What is going on? We take a break, fine. You need to go do your thing, fine. But you were always coming back. You were always meant to come back. Wasn’t that the agreement?’
Patrick stared at his hands. ‘I am back.’
Seymour looked critically around the room. ‘Are you? Is this you being back? Living in a poky little apartment with hardly any furniture except Grandmother Lee’s great bloody sideboard like you’re some kind of Romanov? I don’t recognise any of this stuff. I don’t recognise you. You’re thin and your clothes are strange. You look like a sad thin man with strange clothes and a patchy beard. What happened to you?’
Patrick shrugged, avoiding Seymour’s look. Seymour let out a yowl, throwing his hands into the air with frustration.
‘What is going on with you? What is going on with us? Why won’t you say anything? I know things went weird over there. I have the internet –’
‘Can we please talk about something else?’ Patrick interrupted, not looking up.
Seymour sized him up. ‘Fine. Let’s talk about something else. The weather perhaps? It’s shit, isn’t it? Politics too. We’ve already talked about real estate so perhaps we’ve run out of topics.’
Patrick brushed this aside. ‘How’s the gallery?’
Seymour stared at him, then allowed himself to soften.
‘Same old. Sales are up and down, and I live in fear of my young staff usurping me. They have so much energy. They’ll be up all night working on their own stuff then turn up at the crack of dawn because they’re too wired to sleep and be at it for hours while I’m on my third coffee after a big night in, bingeing on Netflix.’
‘They will inherit the future,’ Patrick said.
‘They can pry it from my cold dead hands,’ Seymour scoffed. ‘The Vince Pemblebrook show is happening. Took months of negotiating with the little turd. You know he turned up with a list of demands as long as a Kerouac scroll and sat there waiting while I read through it. All the staff are contributing pieces, so you can imagine how focused they are at the moment.’
The Book of Ordinary People Page 22
