Leon was already bracing himself for a blow. He asked Susie, ‘Have you ever heard of someone named Daniel? Just in your comings and goings?’
‘No,’ Susie said, meaning ‘Yes.’ It was her manner to say ‘No’ in that emphatic way to questions she didn’t wish to answer. Nothing would budge her.
=
A call came from Evie the next day.
‘I want to apologise for my weirdness yesterday. Okay? I’m crap at everything at the moment. And you were so nice to come with me. I appreciate it, Leon.’
‘Not at all. Is there something wrong?’
‘Yes, a lot. Mick and I are not getting along, as they say.’
‘Oh, Evie! I’m so sorry! I had no idea.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Do you need more money for the shop? I’d be glad, you know, to help out, very happily.’
‘No, sweetie. Although if it comes to that, I very much doubt you’ll be getting your loan back from Mick in the near future.’
‘No, no! It wasn’t a loan. A gift. But what’s gone wrong?’
‘Ask Mick. Such a treat to find condoms in your partner’s kit when you’re supposedly trying to have a baby. Ha!’
‘An affair, is it?’
‘Some woman in his Pilates class.’
‘Perhaps not the end of everything, though?’
‘Probably, yes. Fuck fever, as they say. Like Mum and Daniel. Sorry.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Sorry. That was out of order.’
‘Evie, who is Daniel?’
‘…ah?…’ came down the line, then silence.
‘Evie?’
‘You don’t know about Daniel?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t say anything…I assumed…’
‘I didn’t know who you were referring to yesterday. I still don’t.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘Evie?’
‘I’ll come over tomorrow. Promise.’
She hung up.
Leon dialled her back, but the call went to messages.
=
Evie didn’t keep her promise to drop by. Leon went to dinner in Clifton Hill with no more knowledge of Daniel than he already had. There were two things he needed to protect—the hours he spent with images of Tess in the collection room, and the welcome prospect of dropping dead while he still believed his wife had remained loyal to his love for her.
He sat through dinner racked with anxiety, relying on the sympathy of the guests to save him from having to contribute anything to the conversation. Bobby’s mission was to restore Leon gradually to the world, and this dinner was a step along that path. Bobby always gave his goodwill full licence to ride roughshod over the best interests of those it was intended to benefit, and had to be endured. The conversation was all to do with politics, with Obama and Afghanistan, dangerous patterns in the climate, wind farms, nuclear energy. Leon remained silent. He had no opinions, this evening or ever. Tess’s opinions—there were thousands, they never ended—had filled him with awe. Where had they come from, these beliefs of hers? Where did people get them? She raged on behalf of the native black people of Australia, of women struggling against patriarchy, of murdered people in countries she only knew from watching the news. In these fits of conviction, she would probably have chosen death over shutting up.
It was midnight before Bobby presented him with Tess’s things in four plastic bags and two cardboard cartons—much more than Leon had anticipated. He could see a pullover he’d bought her in Rome at the top of one of the plastic bags, the handle of a jaffle iron in another. One of the cartons was filled to the brim with manila folders, the other with CDs. Bobby helped him carry it all out to the car, parked on the kerb by Edinburgh Gardens with a temporary visitors permit on the dashboard.
‘Good on you for coming tonight,’ Bobby said. ‘You won’t hold the bribe against me?’
‘The bribe? Oh. No, no. Not at all.’
‘Tammy’s idea. Dearly wants to see you back on deck. As do I.’
=
He carried everything up to the collection room in four loads, then settled with a bottle of Johnny Walker, a glass and his laptop. He emptied the big plastic Officeworks bag with Tess’s clothing in it first—pullovers, socks, a pair of sneakers and, more strangely, a bra and a black teddy.
He laid out the items of clothing lovingly on the floor then went to work on the rest. Bobby had been exhaustive in gathering up Tess’s belongings. From the first two cartons, Leon unpacked lipsticks, coins from various countries, biros, pencils, an obscene fridge magnet from Polyester in Brunswick Street, two condoms in blue wrappers, parcels of letters, parcels of greeting cards, ticket stubs from everywhere, a packet of mini Mars Bars, Eclipse mints, Juicy Fruit, two coffee mugs from Amsterdam picturing Van Gogh’s Sunflowers and Irises, a Russian doll with its four inner-dolls, a Bart Simpson mouse pad, assorted keys, a City of Yarra library card, an out-of-date Medicare card, half-a-dozen Werther’s toffees, four photocopied pages of tattoo designs from a place in Grey Street, St Kilda, a battered Gauloise packet with a fifty-franc note and a Metro ticket inside, a jar with a hand-written label in French, a tiny book of inspirational quotations by famous musicians titled On a Brighter Note, a one-cup coffee plunger and two-thirds of a packet of Robert Timms Kenya Blend secured with rubber bands, a child’s sketch, maybe Justin’s, of two dogs and a cat, a much-folded map of Victoria with the town of Yackandandah circled in black, a fifty-dollar voucher from Ink Bookstore in Ford Street, Beechworth, six miniature Easter eggs in coloured foil wrapping, a packet of Black and Gold paracetamol tabsules, a teaspoon, an almost empty packet of Benson & Hedges, a folded green and white tea towel, a single piece of a jigsaw puzzle showing blue sky and a fragment of white cloud, a small hourglass marked ‘15 min’, a memory stick.
Leon moved on to the CDs, more than a hundred of them, mostly commercial recordings that Tess must have taken into the studio from home. Each was labelled with her name.
The memory stick was set aside by Leon for later investigation. He had a queasy feeling about it.
He leafed through the letters, growing a little dizzy on the scotch. Fan letters, all of them. He only read enough of each to establish its innocence.
The cards, too, were fan mail. The taste of the senders was all over the place: twee, schmaltzy, clever, coy, witty. Three of the cards, one with a letter inside, were signed by Sofia Delli, Daanya’s girl who had killed herself over some affair of the heart.
Leon at last came across a card signed by a certain Daniel that bore no message other than an exclamation mark and the signature. He set this card aside, as well as those from poor Sofia.
The contents of the manila folders took an hour to peruse. Administrative stuff from management; minutes of meetings; some interesting correspondence from a federal government minister, apparently a big fan, full of flattery and special requests.
=
The clouds and rain of the past few days had blown away. Rays of sun from the east settled on the display of Tess’s bits and pieces. Leon poured the final centimetre of scotch into his glass, swirled and sipped. What Bobby had added to his store of Tess memorabilia would sustain him for years. He could imagine with pleasure the curatorial chores: cataloguing, interpretive captions. He could be as ridiculous as he liked! He fancied noting the weight and dimensions and provenance of the little Easter eggs, recording the dates on the coins, binding in handsome leather folders the notes from the minutes of meetings at which his wife had been mentioned; in short, acting out a destiny so pathetic in its devotion that tears of joy welled in his eyes. Who had the right to carp? All Edens were highly arranged places, after all. The dross cast aside and the remaining jewels burnished to blazes. Edens were places of intelligent denial.
But even as he was building this defence, his gaze kept shifting from the portraits of his wife smiling down on her left-behinds to the memory stick, which roused such uneasiness in him. Ultimately, he would get to his kne
es and slide the stick into his laptop. He knew he would. And he did.
chapter 6
@northnet
SUBJECT: AS follows
Date: Wed, 27 Jun 2007 10:36:34 +1000
From: ‘Tess Wachowicz’
To: ‘Daniel Mikolajczyk’
Beloved Monster—Where’s this cafe you pick up my emails? Somewhere in Yackandandah? I don’t recall it. You are you know the only adult in Australia without a mobile or a computer. Anyway, you now have your place in the country. I had to evict a couple who were dear friends to make way for you so you’d better appreciate it! I demand many paintings, many, many poems. If you can only work with trees and birds and hills around you as you say, then no more excuses. Joyful is yours. Craving you. Tess.
Date: Wed, 4 Jul 2007 13:21:20 +1000
Monster of Warsaw—I don’t understand the shed. Surely you can make just one of the rooms acceptable first and move in while you fix up the rest? Where do you shower, dirty pig? Are you addicted to squalor? Use the house for pity’s sake! Meanwhile adore you utterly including the legions of bacteria living on you—each individual germ—and begrudge the harvest they make of your sweat and filth. I’ve set up the account at Hallows—spend yourself silly. Do not please fuck Cardigan Woman—or do, since you’re bound to. Cannot begin to convey my loathing of you. Tess.
Date: Thurs, 5 Jul 2007 09:11:42 +1000
Surly Monster—I didn’t say at the time but dearest I’m quite at a loss when you rant on as you do about Jews. Honestly, it’s the twenty-first century! You sound like some third reich factory worker. It must be obvious from my expression that I am not in the least sympathetic. Your stupid surly politics aside, how disgustingly I besot myself on you! I can’t begin to explain, nor do I wish to, what you make me feel. Like I’ve died and gone to heaven, if that’s trite enough for you. Oh but much more, beloved, much much more! In reply to your peculiar question: no, you are nothing like Kazi in that domain—nothing nothing nothing. Oh the difference of Pole and Pole! Your Tess, forever your Tess.
Date: Mon, 21 Jul 2007 09:49:14 +1000
Beloved Monster—The porpoise! I shouldn’t laugh but it’s perfect—frolicking blissfully in his porpoise ocean, but can’t ever get onto the land where the real mammals live. Dear kind portly old porpoise. In a rush but ps. if I had the landline reconnected would you please use it if only for my calls. Are you painting? Best and special love. Tess.
Date: Thurs, 30 Aug 2007 17:02:17 +1000
Beloved Monster Poet—The first poem is over my head I must confess darling—it has nothing to do with your English which is very very good—much better than you appreciate. But the second poem is wonderful—about the American lady looking for the cathedral. We’ll have Sat. and Sun. this weekend—I can get up there about 11am. I’m bringing a heater and will not be denied this small comfort. I AM BRINGING A HEATER. Reply please and say CAPITAL TESSIE. Best and Special Love
Date: Mon, 10 Sep 2007 10:05:59 +1000
Daniel—Where were you—Where are you now? I’m at my wits’ end! I arrived at Joyful before 11 and found it locked up and no sign of you. Bernadette was in the paddock so I knew you weren’t riding. I sat on the verandah the entire day and Sat. night—on Sun. morning I left notes for you on the door of your stupid shed and on all three doors to the house—I went into Y. to look for you—drove to Beechworth, no success. I got back at 11 thinking you might have misunderstood and thought it was Sun. I was coming—and you’d obviously been back while I was away searching because I could see through the crack you’d taken your big coat from the chair—also saw my note on the floor. I stayed all day and Sun. night—slept under Bernadette’s blanket—didn’t leave until 6 this morning. It’s now 10—I’ve gone into the studio. Call! You’ll get Delia—she’ll put you through. Call!
Date: Mon, 10 Sep 2007 11:36:22 +1000
Daniel—As long as you’re well, I don’t care. Your story is an insult to the intelligence of anybody over the age of 5 but I don’t care. I’ll be there Sat. night—please be there, please please please. Tess.
Date: Thurs, 11 Oct 2007 16:39:39 +1000
Dear Daniel—If you’re going then go—I can’t bear this another day. I’m in my forties, Daniel—I’ve been through all this bullshit years ago and surely at sixty you’ve seen enough of it yourself. I’m not doing it. I love you. Tess
Date: Thurs, 8 Nov 2007 13:03:40 +1000
Beloved Monster—Your lovely letter. Your lovely so welcome letter. Darling, why oh why can’t you be like that more often? Why? Your Tess
Date: Fri, 16 Nov 2007 17:20:28 +1000
Sweet Porno Monster—No it makes me uncomfortable. I’m perfectly prepared to talk about sex with people—friends—but writing it is tacky. You must be thinking of a Story of O thing—that can only be done Once. Get Cardigan Woman to help you out. And I’ve read Anaïs Nin and don’t agree with you at all—it’s complete crap, dear heart. All my love ever, Tess
Date: Mon, 3 Dec 2007 11:09:27 +1000
Surly Monster—Must you be quite so vile about my friends?—you don’t know them except for things I’ve mentioned but you speak about them as if they’re your neighbours. It’s very offensive, Daniel. Also—can you restrain yourself from speculating about my husband’s needs and wants. He is dear Portly Porpoise and does no harm to anyone. Tess
Date: Wed, 12 Dec 2007 11:11:15 +1000
Pregnant! Are you serious?
T
Date: Thurs, 13 Dec 2007 11:42:31 +1000
BM—The clinic in Wangaratta, probably.
T
Date: Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:12:32 +1000
BM—Can’t she say it’s her husband’s? Presumably they still sleep together?
Love Tess
Date: Fri, 14 Dec 2007 18:04:01 +1000
BM—As a Catholic, no, I would not. But she’s a Baptist or whatever people are up there. Is that what you said—Baptist?—Methodist? Don’t be foolish about this, Daniel. It’s what she wants.
Love Tess
Date: Fri, 14 Dec 2005 19:45:40 +1000
BM—Have her make the appointment. I’ll come up and drive her myself, and bring her back.
T
Date: Fri, 21 Dec 2007 19:56:50 +1000
Bastard!—It’s such a strange thing, humiliation—don’t you agree, you who have instigated so much of it. We don’t know our own capacity—I thought my storage space was full to the brim—then along comes you. She wept all the way, you arsehole. I stayed with her. She was still sobbing when she went under. On the way back she covered me with vomit—So thank you, Daniel. Thank you for everything. Tess
Date: Wed, 16 Jan 2008 17:11:11 +1000
Beloved Monster—This is the reverse of the well-known scenario—isn’t it—where the mistress does the pestering, ‘Have you told her yet, have you told her yet?’ No, I haven’t said anything to my sweet Porpoise. But we’ll talk about it more—much more—on Sun. Monster, you are dear to me, but you have such an urge to over-simplify!
Best and special love, Permanently Tess
Date: Thurs, 21 Feb 2008 20:21:21 +1000
Beloved Monster—How lovely! See how human you can be? So thank you, Sweet Monster—I’ll treasure it.
Tess, with love
Date: Fri, 22 Feb 2008 20:21:21 +1000
I don’t need you to tell me I’m a bad mother, dear considerate Monster, or a ‘shit mother’ as you say. Justin has always been able to look out for himself and I adore him absolutely. Evie was always more of an issue probably because Kazi was such an arsehole after she was born and I had no proper chance to just love her. But it came after a bit, loving her. Will I tell you the story? It has a part in it that will appeal to you about a great insane artist. Do you want to hear?
It was a time when Evie and I were in Belgium with Kazi. He was setting up something or the other with Common Market people from France—to do with I don’t know what but certainly low and dishonest. We stayed in a pla
ce near Limborg in the countryside—huge, like a palace but not as big and only one wing of it functioning, although it looked fabulous from the outside. It was snowing when we arrived and kept on snowing for weeks—too cold to be outdoors but indoors was freezing too—three tiny electric radiators in all that space—Europeans can be so miserly with electricity. Each of the five rooms in our wing had fireplaces but they didn’t work. In any case the coals were kept in a sort of a barn thing at the back across acres of snow, and I had no idea how to start a coal fire. Evie was just 22 months—she was the most beautiful little baby on earth—I was letting her down badly though—very bad at breast feeding, insanely resentful of lost sleep, too young for motherhood, too vain, too selfish, and hating Kazi for dumping me in this freezing country. Evie such a sweet thing, so kind to believe in me as her mummy and I hated her with such a passion. I had this awful eczema too—never had it before or since—my back itchy and sore all the way down from my neck to my bum—and I was so full of anger—Kazi hardly ever there and when he was wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t go near the eczema. I somehow went into a dark place, deep-seated melancholy, worse than ever before. A morning came after we’d been there for more than a month when I felt sure I was going to start crying and never be able to stop—as if some part of me was goading the rest of me on, wanting me to crash completely, because there’s always some part of you that craves madness and chaos, sick to death as it is of the constant struggle to hold on, some part of you that gets tired of the sheer boredom of being sane—and so I made Evie as warm as I could—and we went outside in the snow and walked all around the leafless garden and the outside of the place and eventually I found a way into the main part of the house, quite accidentally, through a door that hadn’t been locked. It opened into an enormous kitchen—the mansion’s proper kitchen, not the little one in our part—and it was a place of beauty, even unlit. Four ancient ovens, a deep bench that ran around the walls. I looked around in amazement and laughed out loud and Evie laughed too—she must have forgotten the last time she’d seen me laugh. We spent an hour exploring on that first morning without even reaching the upper floors—each morning for weeks I came back to the kitchen and took up where I’d stopped the day before, room after room. We made the most wonderful find, Daniel—hundreds of bottling jars with airtight lids, every jar labelled with a neatly written date, starting in 1922 and finishing in 1933—all the jars empty. But they had not been used for preserving fruit, no, because I found in one of the cupboards where the jars were stored a thick notebook with each yellowed page headed, ‘Catalogue des Brouillards’—catalogue of fogs. In the notebook was an entry matching the dates on the bottles and describing the fog of that day, ‘the black one’, ‘smelling of coal and latrines’, ‘the warm one of summer’—so that it appeared that this person, whoever it was, had scrupulously bottled the fogs of Limborg. In another room I found a sheaf of drawings under the cushion of a window seat, beautiful ink sketches of breasts and lips, over and over. Evie was happy because I was happy, and I was so moved, Daniel, so moved that this child not yet two years old was so relieved to see me happy. She has remained like that all her life. Only ever happy if I’m happy. Sometimes I can’t bear it in her, but at my best, I love her.
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