Yamashita's Gold

by Phillip Gwynne

  No such luck.

  ‘Dominic, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Bander, who, according to her daughter Zoe, was one of my guts haters.

  She looked pretty much the same as last time I’d see her: streaky bottle-blonde hair, huge rectangular-framed sunglasses, and a cat’s-bum of a mouth.

  ‘That’s me,’ I said.

  ‘And this would be …?’

  ‘My grandfather, Gus,’ I said.

  She stared at Gus for a while before she said, ‘So what brings you to Reverie?’

  ‘Diving,’ said Gus. ‘Clever boy did his PADI here last week and was just backing it up with a couple more open-water dives.’

  ‘Long way to come to get wet,’ said Mrs Bander.

  And that, it seemed, was the end of the conversation, because she moved away from us then.

  ‘I’m getting back into the car,’ I said.

  As we rolled off the ferry and headed towards the village I noticed a Subaru WRX with tinted windows keeping some distance behind us.

  Maybe it was all innocent – there weren’t many places to go on an island, many roads to follow – but after our meeting with Mrs Cat’s-Bum Bander there was definitely something ominous about it.

  ‘Gus, I don’t want you to freak out, but I think there might be somebody following us.’

  Gus’s eyes immediately shifted to the rear-vision mirror.

  ‘That’s no bloody good,’ he said, moving on at the same sedate pace.

  We continued on towards town.

  Once in town, Gus took a left and then a right and then a left again.

  The WRX was still there.

  Obviously, we couldn’t go to our motel, or they would find out where were staying. And there was no way we could outgun a WRX. So I had this mental image of us just driving all night long, the WRX snapping at our heels.

  Up ahead was the Reverie Motel. Gus pulled into the driveway.

  ‘But we’re not staying –’ I started.

  He parked the car. ‘Grab your bag.’

  We both got out, walked over to the office and went inside.

  There were already a couple of people ahead of us, which was perfect. Because after waiting a few minutes, I followed Gus outside.

  ‘Okay, let’s go find our room,’ he said.

  We walked along the length of the building, and then took a gravel path to our left.

  If the occupants in the WRX had been watching us, which I assumed they had, then we were now out of view.

  ‘Now we just need to find a back exit,’ said Gus.

  ‘But what about the ute?’ I said.

  ‘No rush,’ said Gus. ‘I’ll come and get it when there’s less heat.’

  Less heat? Not only was my gramps walking the walk, he was talking the talk, too. The back exit involved scrambling over a fence, something Gus did with surprising ease for a monopedal septuagenarian.

  ‘Now all we have to do is find our motel,’ said Gus.

  Okay, so this is where being several hundred years old was actually a disadvantage.

  I took out my iPhone and checked the signal – no problem, lots of lovely 3G – and went to Google Maps.

  I waited until it had GPS-ed where we were, then put in our destination.

  ‘Okay, I’m all over it,’ I said. ‘We go to the end of this street, and then take a right and then the second on the left and it’s about fifty metres down.’

  ‘White man’s magic,’ said Gus, shaking his head.

  ‘Your phone can do it, too,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you later.’

  When we walked into the driveway of the HarbourView Motel, Gus’s only comment was ‘Hmmm.’

  It was one of those hmmms that was layered, that was complex; Mr McFarlane might even be tempted to say that it was ‘narrative-like’.

  ‘So this is where we’re staying,’ he said, somewhat redundantly after the eloquence of his hmmm.

  I’d chosen the night’s accommodation, found it on Wotif. As in Wotif it actually looked anything like the photos on the internet?

  ‘I’ll book us in,’ I said, and Gus was happy to stay outside.

  I walked past the pool, though ‘pool’ was probably too grand a word for what looked more like a dog’s drinking bowl.

  A small dog. Or one that wasn’t thirsty. Anyway, you get the picture.

  The office certainly bore little resemblance to those in the sort of establishments I stayed in with my parents.

  It was dingy and shabby and didn’t smell that tremendous. On the wall was a list of rules. It was a very long list: no guests after ten, no gutting fish in the bathroom sink, no glassware in the pool area.

  You would be lucky to fit a glass in the pool area!

  A man was sitting at the desk, peering at a computer screen.

  He was pretty old, maybe Gus’s age, and like Gus was wearing a singlet that showed off sinewy arms. But his arms, unlike Gus’s, had faded, old-style tattoos.

  He didn’t look up when I entered, so I cleared my throat.

  He clocked me now, giving me a forced smile.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said.

  Okay, he looked nothing like the creepy guy in that old black-and-white movie Psycho, but he had the same creepy stab-you-in-the-shower vibe.

  ‘I booked two rooms on Wotif,’ I said. ‘In the name of Silvagni.’

  He peered at the screen, pecked at the keyboard for a bit, then looked back at me, not bothering to disguise the fact that he wasn’t at all impressed with what he was seeing.

  ‘I’ll need to sight an adult,’ he said. ‘Driver’s licence, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get my grandfather,’ I said.

  When I came back in with Gus, a remarkable transformation came over the man’s face. ‘Frankie!’

  Frankie? Obviously he was mistaken.

  But Gus said, ‘Bob, long time no see.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Bob. ‘Last time I saw you, you were –’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ said Gus, talking over Bob. ‘And perhaps this is not the time and place for reminiscing.’

  He was standing behind me and I couldn’t see what he’d done, but I was pretty sure he’d indicated to me, as in not in front of the kid.

  ‘Righto, we can have a chat over a beer later,’ said Bob, with what looked suspiciously like an old-fashioned wink.

  After Gus had registered and Bob had told us a few more rules, we went to check out our adjoining rooms.

  ‘Hmmmm, I’ve slept in worse,’ said Gus.

  ‘I haven’t,’ I said.

  ‘Meet you in half an hour and we’ll go get something to eat,’ said Gus.

  I did a further inspection of the room. The carpet looked like it belonged in one of those walk-into-a-bar jokes.

  As in A carpet walks into a bar.

  Why do you look so frayed?

  Not funny, but you get the picture.

  The sheet on the bed had so many stains it resembled something from Google Maps. The TV wasn’t plasma, or LCD; it was so old it probably ran on coal, or steam. I checked out the bathroom. The showerhead was drooping like a flower in the sun. And when I snuck a look at the toilet bowl, there was a turd in there.

  No, it can’t be, I told myself.

  I snuck another look. It hadn’t moved.

  I dialled reception on the phone.

  No answer.

  I dialled again.

  This time Bob answered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s something in the toilet,’ I said.

  ‘Water, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, water. But something else, a turd.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do? Call in the fire brigade? An ambulance? It’s got a flush button, hasn’t it? Push the blasted thing!’ He hung up.

  I considered my options.

  Channel my mother and escalate, demand to see the manager? My horrible suspicion was that Bob was the manager.

  Threaten to trash him and his turd-ridden
motel on TripAdvisor?

  But my other horrible suspicion was that Bob couldn’t care less about TripAdvisor.

  Book into another motel, one that had turd-free toilets but wasn’t as close to the harbour?

  No, not with the WRX lurking out there.

  Or, and this is exactly what I did, push the blasted flush button.

  Ω Ω Ω

  Gus and I met to discuss the evening meal. I told him about my little surprise.

  He laughed. ‘I guess you’re more used to chocolates on the pillow.’

  ‘It’s probably not a good idea to go outside to eat,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s probably not,’ said Gus, and I waited for him to ask some really obvious questions like ‘What the hell is going on?’

  But he said, ‘We could order in pizza?’

  ‘We could,’ I said, but the thought of eating a Meatlovers in this place made me feel really queasy.

  ‘There’s that Japanese we passed,’ I said. ‘It’s pretty close.’

  Gus seemed very happy with my compromise, so that’s where we ended up.

  When the waitress came over Gus said something to her in what sounded like Japanese.

  ‘Sorry, I’m from Korea,’ she said.

  ‘You speak Japanese?’ I asked him after she’d taken our order.

  He shrugged. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Where were you all that time?’ I said. ‘When you were supposed to be dead?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Jail?’ I said.

  ‘Not jail,’ said Gus.

  Well, if he was telling the truth, and I was pretty sure he was, that was the end of Miranda’s Gus-as-crim theory.

  ‘But you were overseas?’

  ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘Hell, why do you have to be so mysterious about it? You might not be around for too much longer,’ I said, half-smiling.

  An oldie but a goldie.

  ‘Hey, I’m bench pressing seventy.’

  ‘I thought it was seventy-five.’

  ‘What’s five kilos between a kid and his granddad?’

  ‘So why did you come back, anyway?’ I said.

  ‘Your dad came and got me,’ said Gus, and there was no joking in his tone now. ‘He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That I would get to see my grandkids growing up.’

  When our miso soup came Gus cupped the bowl in his hand and brought it up to his face.

  ‘You’re allowed to do that when you’re having Japanese, right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Gus. ‘It’s actually bad manners not to slurp.’

  Great.

  I brought my bowl to my face. I slurped.

  Gus slurped.

  I slurped some more.

  It was a total slurpfest.

  When we’d finished, Gus said, ‘Do you know what a Herculean task is?’

  ‘Now you’re sounding like Dr Chakrabarty.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘This wacky Classics teacher at my school,’ I said. ‘Okay, let me think. A Herculean task is one that takes a hell of a lot of grunt.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Gus. ‘Okay, what about a Sisyphean task?’

  Dr Chakrabarty hadn’t told me about this, but Mr McFarlane had. ‘It’s one that goes on and on, but you don’t really get anywhere. Like digging a hole, filling it up again, digging a hole, and so on.’

  ‘Two out of two,’ said Gus.

  The waitress came with the sushi and I watched as Gus expertly mixed the wasabi into the soy sauce with the tip of his chopstick.

  I picked up a sushi roll with my chopsticks, dipped it into the mixture and popped it into my mouth.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I said, as the wasabi blasted my nostrils.

  Gus did the same.

  ‘Not too bad at all,’ he said. ‘According to the Classics there is one more type of task – do you know what it is?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and I actually felt a bit cheated – why hadn’t Dr C or Mr Mac told me about this other one?

  ‘Do you know who Prometheus was?’ said Gus.

  ‘The film?’ I said. ‘I downloaded it, but I haven’t seen it yet.’

  ‘Before the film,’ said Gus, ‘Prometheus was a Titan, from Greek mythology. He stole fire for man and as punishment was chained to a rock where his liver was eaten by an eagle every night.’

  I looked at the sushi that was in transit between the plate and my mouth; fortunately nothing in it resembled liver.

  Gus continued. ‘During the day the liver grew back again.’

  ‘He sounds way cool,’ I said. ‘But what’s he got to do with tasks?’

  ‘Well, the third type of task is a Promethean one. One that is courageous, creative, original.’

  Was Gus hinting at what I already sort of knew: that I should be out there finding Yamashita’s Gold?

  ‘So what are you saying?’ I said, chewing on the last of the sushi.

  Gus shifted in his seat.

  ‘Do you know why I lost my leg?’ he said. ‘It was because I didn’t do that; I didn’t take what was Sisyphean, what was Herculean, and make it Promethean.’

  It seemed like my grandfather was telling me everything and nothing.

  ‘So you’re saying I should let a freaking eagle eat my liver?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Now that was over, and we’d ordered even more sushi, he said, ‘Can you show me how to use the map thing on my phone?’

  Again Gus’s monopedalism or his septuagen–arianism didn’t seem much of an impediment, and he was soon GPS-ing like a pro.

  As he went to put his phone away, something occurred to me. ‘Can I just borrow this for a minute?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a wave of his chopstick.

  I brought up Google on both phones and entered exactly the same string e lee marx into both.

  I hit enter at the same time.

  And got very different results.

  E Lee Marx in Australia? was the first hit on Gus’s phone, while mine was the same old stale story I always got.

  I was shocked – somebody had de-googled my Google!

  But who?

  And why?

  Ω Ω Ω

  After I’d said goodnight to Gus, I went back to my room.

  If Gus can sleep anywhere, so can I, I thought.

  But I thought wrong.

  Brought up on Egyptian cotton, on 720-thread-counts, I was never going to drop off on a bed that sagged like a hammock, on a sheet that had the five major continents mapped on it plus another two that nobody knew about.

  I tried watching television, but in every program it was snowing. Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Snowing. Lawrence of Arabia. Snowing.

  And I kept thinking of that turd. Maybe it would return; maybe like wild salmon it would work its way back upstream until it came to the place of its birth.

  I felt so grossed out, I had to get out of there.

  Can I risk a walk, I asked myself.

  No stars, no moon; it was very dark outside. Yes, I can risk it, I decided. Cloak of darkness, and all that. I made my way towards the waterfront.

  It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, people say. And yes needles can be very small, and yes haystacks can be very big, but at least you know what it is you’re looking for. Me, I wasn’t sure.

  There was only person on the wharf: a fisherman sitting on a tackle box, illuminated by a street lamp.

  I stayed in the shadows.

  Within a minute, he packed up his gear and took off.

  Suddenly a van pulled up with a screech of tyres, Reverie Security Service written on the side. A door swung open and a man got out and walked to the edge of the wharf, peering out to sea. After a little while he got back into the van and it took off again.

  It was just me now. Me and my racing heart. Water sloshed around under the wharf. Pylons creaked. There was a faint whiff of fish in the air. I w
ouldn’t say it was a spooky place, but it wasn’t unspooky either. I was just about to head back again, back to my sheets and my potential salmon, when I noticed something out at sea.

  A light; it seemed to flicker on and off, on and off. But after a few minutes of my watching it, it stayed on, getting brighter.

  I assumed it was a boat and it was headed for the wharf. I decided to get further out of view, and retreat behind a rickety pile of wooden pallets. Eventually the boat slid up to the wharf, its only light one on top of the cabin. I’m no expert on seafaring vessels, but it looked like a fishing boat, a trawler, something like that.

  Nobody got off it, though.

  And the wharf, not unspooky before, had now become really spooky.

  There was the sound of a car engine and the Reverie Security van pulled up again, even screechier than last time. The same man got out, but with him was another man. Though he walked with a very pronounced limp, he seemed to have no trouble lugging a large waterproof diving bag to the boat.

  The man with the bag got onboard and the boat quickly moved off again, heading back out to sea.

  I waited for a while before I set off back to the motel with its non-Egyptian-cotton sheets.

  As I passed the office, I heard voice from inside. The door was open, and I could see Gus inside with Bob the owner.

  ‘Those sure were the days,’ I heard the owner say.

  But Gus didn’t seem so enthusiastic. ‘It was nice to catch up, but it’s time for me to hit the sack.’

  ‘We’ve got half a bottle left!’ said Bob.

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Gus.

  I hurried away before he could see me.

  Tuesday

  The Process

  Since The Debt, I’d had nightmares so nightmarish, they’d practically shredded my subconscious. I’d dreamt of amputated limbs, twitching stumps. I’d dreamt of testicles turned to cinders. But those were nothing compared to this.

  Chains held me to a rock, while an eagle, enormous wings outstretched, its talons gripping my abdomen, its beak dripping gore, feasted on my liver.

  Why had Gus ever told me about this stupid myth?

  I woke to somebody bashing my door in.

  That’s what it sounded like, anyway, but when I said, ‘Who is it?’, it was Gus who answered.

  ‘It’s me, Dom.’

  When I got out of bed I couldn’t help running a hand over my torso – my liver was where it belonged. I hurried over and opened the door and it practically fell off its hinges.