Welling handed a bottle of water to a passer-by and told her to have a nice day, before turning back to me.
‘I used to be a broker,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t quite as crazy as it is in the movies – no private jets or massive orgies. But there was a lot of money. A lot of casinos. A lot of women. I was ruthless, and it paid off. I made my first million dollars by the time I was twenty-five. I partied hard. I usually didn’t remember much between Friday night and Monday morning. I thought I had it all. When you have money, everyone wants to be near you. But none of it’s real. None of it matters. I realised that one day when my boss had a heart attack right in the middle of a meeting. We were sitting in the conference room, a bunch of dudes in suits, talking numbers, and the boss slumped over in his chair. We thought he’d fallen asleep. Nobody was brave enough to try and rouse him. We kept on with the meeting. It wasn’t until the very end that we all stood up, and he stayed there, his head on the conference table. Someone eventually reached over to him, and realised what had happened. We called an ambulance, but it was too late. He’d been dead for over an hour, and we didn’t care enough to notice.’
‘How were you to know?’ I asked. ‘Surely you just thought it’d be too embarrassing if you woke him up.’
Welling offered another bottle to an elderly man walking a small fluffy dog. The man shook his head and looked disapproving.
‘Have a nice day, sir,’ Welling called after him. ‘What does that say, though? That we were so busy worrying about being embarrassed that we let a man die? I realised, then, in the conference room, that money doesn’t mean anything. My boss had more money than anyone else I knew, but it didn’t make a difference in the end. It didn’t stop him from having a heart attack – hell, all the booze and cocaine almost certainly contributed to his heart attack. Nobody really cared. I mean, people started fighting about who was going to take over, even before the ambulance arrived. But nobody cared that he had died. Nobody missed him. His life had been totally empty. And I didn’t want to be like that. I wanted my life to mean something. So I followed the paramedics out the front door of the building, and I never went back.’
‘You just quit? But how did you know nobody cared? Didn’t he have a family?’
Welling acted like he hadn’t heard me. ‘Walking away was the easiest and best thing I’ve ever done. I was free, for the first time in my life. I gave a bunch of money away and travelled to India and Finland and Turkey and Ghana. I realised how many different kinds of people there are in the world, each one unique. But eventually my money ran out. I came back here, ready to sign up with another firm and start all over again. The thought of it made me feel physically ill. I didn’t want to be a part of the corporate machine. But what choice did I have?’
I knew that feeling. Trapped inside your own life, as if there was no way out.
‘I was heading to a job interview, and I was shaking all over. My mouth was so dry, I didn’t think I’d be able to speak. I started to sweat, and my heart was going a mile a minute. I couldn’t breathe and I honestly thought I was going to die. I stumbled in the street, and someone caught me. Handed me one of these.’
Welling held up a bottle of water.
‘It was like a bolt of lightning. I knew. All my fear and panic evaporated. It was Stan, that day, with the water. He told me that money was my prison, a prison I’d chosen for myself. But I could make a different choice, if I was strong enough. He invited me to the Red House, and I’ve never looked back.’
I bit my lip, scepticism battling with envy. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to know. I didn’t feel as though I knew anything. But I wanted to. I wanted the peace and serenity that Welling and the others had. Maybe I could get it. Maybe if I pretended to be sure, eventually pretending would melt into being. Maybe.
‘So you don’t miss anything about your old life?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t give up standing here, being me, for all the money, and blow, and blow jobs in the world.’
I smiled weakly.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured me with a grin. ‘You’ll have the avocation. I know you will. You need to give yourself permission. Leave your toxicant life behind. Don’t worry about what has happened in the past, or what might happen in the future. Everything is only now.’
I felt myself sink back into darkness. Whatever an avocation was, I’d never have it.
‘Ruby.’ Welling’s voice was serious, his brows drawn together in concern. ‘I was a terrible person, before. I was greedy and selfish. I treated people as though they were nothing. Especially women. When I think of how I treated the girls I dated back then …’ He shook his head. ‘But I left that behind. I’m not that person anymore. So whatever it is that you’re afraid of – you don’t have to be that person either. It’s your choice.’
‘I’m afraid.’ My voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘I’m afraid that I won’t be able to be who I want to be.’
Welling put his arm around me and gave me a friendly squeeze. ‘That’s where the technic comes in,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do it alone. There are steps. Pathways. And all the other members are there with you, supporting you, cheering you on. It’s not just the diet, you know. Feeling healthy is a big part of it, but once you move beyond that to the next stage, everything changes. Your IQ skyrockets and you can perform mental feats that surpass even what supercomputers can do. You are free of disease – diseases of the body and of the mind. No more anxiety or depression or addiction. Your memory, eyesight and hearing are flawless. Your mood is always joyful. It’s … well, it’s sublime.’
Even though it sounded ludicrous, a part of me wanted to believe him. ‘Are you saying you’re all those things?’
Welling’s expression was tinged with longing. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But I will be. I’m getting closer every day.’
I wanted that peace, that clarity.
‘Here,’ I said, reaching out for the bottle of water. ‘Let me help. I want to.’
5
‘So it’s a cult,’ said Minah, stirring another spoonful of sugar into her coffee.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s not a cult. Don’t be so dramatic.’
I knew I shouldn’t have told her. But I hadn’t been to school for days, and I wanted to tell her about Fox. I wanted to tell everyone about Fox. He filled my every waking thought, and it was impossible to exist in the world without a little bit of him spilling out of me. I couldn’t talk to Mum or Aunty Cath about him, so Minah it was. I’d asked her to meet me in the café I’d first taken Fox to. I’d started to order my usual flat white, but then stopped myself. I didn’t need all that sugar and dairy and caffeine clouding my thoughts. I ordered a mineral water instead.
‘So what is it then?’
‘It’s a different way of living. It’s nurturing the body. Did you know that we are capable of so much more? But people clog up their bodies with cholesterol and artificial preservatives, so everything swells up and slows down. Stan calls normal people toxicants.’
Minah raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like a cult to me.’
I sighed. ‘What do you even mean by cult? Is every gathering of like-minded people a cult? Is your art class a cult?’
‘No,’ said Minah. ‘A cult is something that indoctrinates you into a restrictive ideology by suppressing your sense of freedom and cutting you off from your friends and family.’
I opened my mouth to disagree with her, but then realised I didn’t know anything about Maggie’s family, or Lib’s, or Welling’s. I knew Fox’s father was back at the Institute, but did that even count? I decided to change tactics.
‘People used to think Christianity was a dangerous cult.’
Minah looked at me as if I was insane. ‘Christianity is a dangerous cult,’ she said. ‘It’s the most dangerous cult. Have you met my parents?’
I rolled my eyes, exasperated. Minah obviously wasn’t going to change her mind. She was stuck in her own rigid way of thinking. I’d se
en this happen before. She was stubborn, and never admitted she might be wrong. She saw compromise as a weakness, not a strength. I sipped my mineral water, feeling as clear and sharp as the bubbles that were surging through it.
‘Is there yoga?’ asked Minah. ‘Cults always start with yoga.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s no yoga. And yoga isn’t a cult, anyway.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Minah, ‘but there’s something about all that deep breathing and stretching that makes people’s minds more susceptible to bullshit. It’s a gateway drug. There was a group called the Great White Brotherhood that was all about yoga, and you know that anything called the Great White Brotherhood is going to be a bad scene. And Aum Shinrikyo? The cult responsible for the Tokyo Subway gassing in the nineties? That started as an elite university yoga club. And have you ever talked to someone who does that weird hot yoga? They are drinking some kind of Kool-Aid for sure.’
‘I know you’re trying to look out for me,’ I said. ‘But believe me when I tell you that I’m okay. I’m in control. In fact, I feel more in control than I have in ages. I’m eating healthier and I feel lighter and clearer. I think I’m becoming a better communicator. A better person.’
Minah shook her head in disbelief. ‘Who even are you? What do they put in those water bottles?’
I laughed. ‘Just water,’ I said, then wondered if that was true.
Minah’s resolute scowl faltered a little. ‘There’ll be weird sex stuff,’ she said darkly. ‘There’s always weird sex stuff.’
She was joking now, and I knew I’d won her over a little.
‘I promise I won’t do any weird sex stuff,’ I said with mock seriousness.
‘And it’s never good weird sex stuff,’ Minah went on, ignoring me. ‘It’s always creepy old dudes trying to control women’s bodies. Or worse.’ She made a face. ‘Like stuff with kids.’
‘You know me,’ I said. ‘You know I’d never get involved in anything that messed up. You have to trust me.’
Minah ripped open a sugar packet and poured white granules onto the linoleum table, drawing it into swirls with a finger. ‘Look, Ruby, I know we don’t talk about it much. About what happened and everything. I figured you didn’t want to, that you need space. But I am seriously worried about you. Since you started seeing this Fox guy, you’ve totally changed. You’re glowing. You’re all shiny-eyed and hopeful and—’
‘Isn’t that a good thing? Aren’t you glad I’m happy?’
Minah tore open another packet of sugar, frowning. ‘Ruby, Anton died. And joining some cult or whatever you want to call it’ – she held up a hand to cut off my protest – ‘it’s not going to bring him back.’
The black tide rose around me at the mention of Anton. But I didn’t let myself sink into it. I didn’t want to drown anymore.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I think it’s time I moved on.’
Minah poured out a third packet of sugar and carefully pressed her fingernail into each of the swirls she’d made, forming spikes and thorns. I raised my glass of mineral water to my lips but didn’t allow any into my mouth. The bubbles popped against my lips, hard and bright.
Eventually Minah nodded. ‘Just be careful, okay? It may seem benign now, all peace and love and harmony. But that’s how brainwashing begins. It starts with meditation and yoga, but before you know it, you’re drinking cordial laced with arsenic in order to ascend to the fifth dimension.’
‘I promise I’ll be careful,’ I said. ‘And … you could always come with me. Come to the Red House and meet everyone.’
Minah made a face. ‘No way am I coming to your cult headquarters,’ she said with a grimace. ‘Even if there is no weird sex stuff, I don’t want any of these mystic crystal revelations you’ve been ODing on. I have art to make.’
I laughed. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘But I want to meet him.’
Fox? She wanted to meet Fox? Would they understand each other? Fox was so open and happy, and Minah was dark and closed. But Fox could charm anyone, I was sure of it.
‘Bring him to the Wasteland,’ said Minah. ‘We’ll be there all afternoon.’
I tried to imagine Fox sitting on a milk crate surrounded by rubbish, listening to Minah talk about her latest art project. It was like trying to imagine a wild bird at a heavy metal concert. But I was certain that once Minah got to know Fox, she’d come to love him as much as I did.
I found Fox in our usual spot in the park by the pond, and settled myself beside him on the grass. It was one of those crisp early spring days where everything seemed full of possibility. The bare branches of the trees around the pond had broken out into a delicate green fuzz, and some were swelling with pink blossom. The crocuses and daffodils had unfurled into splashes of yellow and purple. Birds twittered everywhere, as though the whole world was waking up.
Fox was watching a duck lead a cohort of fuzzy ducklings across the muddy bank and into the pond. One tiny duckling kept falling over, and the mother duck kept having to stop the parade and nudge it back onto its feet again.
‘If people did not love one another,’ said Fox, his voice low and dreamy, ‘I really don’t see what use there would be in having any spring.’
Was Fox saying he loved me? I reached out and took his hand. ‘That’s beautiful.’
‘It’s from Les Miserables,’ he told me. He pronounced it without the French accent: Less Mizzer-ubbles.
‘The film?’
‘The book. There’s a film?’
I nodded. ‘Of the musical, though. Not the book.’
‘There’s a musical?’
I laughed. ‘How can you not know there’s a musical of Les Mis?’
Fox shrugged, and a wistful expression passed over his face. ‘There are lots of things I don’t know.’
‘But you’ve read the book,’ I said. ‘They say the book is always better than the film.’
‘Do they?’
A thought occurred to me. ‘Fox, have you … have you ever seen a film?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Sometimes I can see a television through the window of a shop, when I’m handing out the water bottles. Daddy says television poisons the mind.’ His expression grew distant, and a faint smile stole over his face. ‘But when I read Les Miserables, I imagine the story playing out in my head. That’s like a film, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of,’ I agreed.
‘It must be sad, when the pictures in the film don’t match the pictures in your head.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Some people get very upset.’
Fox nodded. ‘Then I’m glad I haven’t seen the film, because there’s no way it could be as good as the book. The book is the most wonderful thing. I’ve read it hundreds of times.’
I didn’t think he was exaggerating. ‘Did your dad teach you to read?’
‘It was Lib,’ Fox replied. ‘She read me stories when I was very small, and once I could read she brought me books of my own. Paddington Bear. The BFG. Love That Dog. I couldn’t get enough. But Daddy took them all away when I became a Monkey.’
I frowned. ‘A monkey? You mean, you were naughty and he took your books away as a punishment?’
Fox looked away, his forehead creasing in a frown. ‘Books are wonderful, but … There are so many different worlds. If you read too many books, you get confused about which is the real world. You have … doubts. It’s dangerous.’
‘Did your dad tell you that?’ I asked. ‘That books are dangerous?’
Fox didn’t reply. His face was etched with sadness, and I wondered what he was grieving for. His lost books, and the worlds they contained? Or was it something else?
‘But you have Les Miserables, right?’ I asked. ‘Your dad didn’t take that one away?’
‘Val gave it to me years ago,’ said Fox. ‘He knew I missed my books. It was very difficult to understand at first – so many words I didn’t know. But I kept trying, and after a while I realised how beautiful it is. Don’t tell anyone I have it. I wouldn�
�t want to get Val in trouble.’
I pictured Val’s vast frame, his pale scarred face. Maggie had said that he was dangerous, an ex-criminal. But that didn’t sound like the kind of man who would secretly find a book for a sad little boy.
‘Once I read Les Miserables upside down,’ Fox said. ‘To see if it would be different.’
‘Was it?’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It felt … more delicate. As if every word were placed so carefully, and a strong gust of wind could blow them all off the page.’
The mother duck successfully got her ducklings into the pond, and began a triumphant victory lap. I let the sun soak into my face. It warmed me all the way through, even the dark, secret places that I’d thought would never be warm again. Fox’s hand was solid and real in mine. It was as though I had finally woken up, after sleepwalking for months.
‘Which books have you read?’
Fox was always full of questions. He was intensely curious about the world and everything in it. He wanted to know every last detail about my life. He asked about school, about my teachers and the subjects and the desks we sat at and what school bells sounded like. He asked about my childhood birthday parties, made me describe each one and got frustrated when I couldn’t remember what kind of cake I’d had, or what gifts I’d received. He asked me about camping holidays, about beaches and the feeling of sand between my toes. Every question filled a little gap in my knowledge about him. I realised he’d never been in a school. Never been to a birthday party. Never been to the beach. He talked often about how great his childhood had been, how wonderful his father was. But his hunger for knowledge of everyday life told a different story.
I told Fox about my favourite childhood books. About trips to the library, and reading stories to Anton.
‘Don’t you think it’s weird?’ I asked him. ‘That your dad took your books away?’
Fox’s shoulders hunched in a shrug. ‘I think lots of things are weird,’ he said. ‘I think it’s weird that our bodies are born knowing how to breathe, and they don’t forget to keep our hearts beating. I think it’s weird that you come here every day instead of going to school. But not all weird things are bad.’
The Boundless Sublime Page 5
