by Murray Bail
Philosophy was a by-product of the Northern Hemisphere. Nothing much has happened down here. Why so? Dark forests, the cold, the old walls, the shadows of superstitions worrying the darkened lives, windows closed, all were pushed about by words which joined up into propositions to let in light, a little, a dark light. ‘Too much light is fatal for philosophical thought.’ But some light is necessary. To leave the dark room led by the faltering light of philosophy. It was the way out ‘to somewhere else’.
After that, Renmark introduced the main western philosophers by describing their lives. Without fail their stories were strangely interesting. He revealed how they managed to earn a living, and drew attention to the rare instances of a philosopher being married. It was up to the philosopher to become a singular person, he said more than once. Initially, some had been soldiers, or physicians, or tutors; there was the gardener in the monastery; others would remain disgruntled university workers or public servants; more than one went mad; suicides. With each lecture he summarised an individual’s achievements, declaring this man, always a man, seemed to have found the answer, or perhaps half-pointed towards a possible answer. Running his tongue over his front teeth, nodding at the lectern, Renmark then proceeded to dismantle him, or rather his philosophy by introducing his successor. Each philosopher stirred another.
The Germans, he added mysteriously, were not always guilty.
Among the faces before him, Renmark had noticed Wesley Antill in the front row. While the others remained more or less motionless this one’s head kept going up and down, from the lecturer to his notebook. He wrote more sentences at a faster rate than anybody else. To have at least one person hanging on your every word like a stenographer gave pleasure to Renmark, and he slowed his delivery, at one point pausing to blow his nose, and to look thoughtfully up at the ceiling, only to watch as Antill scribbled still more in the same time.
He never missed a lecture, and always had the same seat – front row, centre aisle. Renmark noticed he was the first to get to his feet and leave when it was finished, no interest in coming up to him, as others did, with questions or to ear-bash him with their own obtuse arguments. At his age the regularity of Antill’s habits was unusual; it was conservative. Out of respect, he had taken to wearing one of Mrs Kentridge’s expensive knitted ties, which didn’t always match his bottle-green V-neck.
Stoicism, Cynics, the Thomists (the reasons behind these names). The foundations laid by the Ancients, their dialogues, the one who took poison, Logic, the endless difficulties of Ethics, to St Augustine, for theology has to enter, and so forth, towards the Moderns; Renmark found himself more and more speaking directly to the one in the front, his most attentive listener, as if the rest of the seats were empty. If Antill noticed, he gave no sign. He listened with expressionless concentration, oblivious to any whisperings and movements around him.
On this morning, Renmark had left the Continentals and was progressing smoothly up the Thames towards the deepest English thinkers.
As always, Renmark had for breakfast yoghurt and a green apple. He proceeded to explain language and falsehoods. There were theories of knowledge. How the empirical tradition formed. A Scottish philosopher was for a time tutor to a lunatic. Gathering up everything he knew, Renmark arranged it in reasonable order and gave it back to them – these students, now. The instability of sensations was an area he had become especially interested in. Speaking without notes, he was enjoying himself. What did it all mean?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Antill pause and lower his pen. Still talking, Renmark looked at him openly. It was then Antill did the most startling thing of all. He began shaking his head at what was being said.
The following week Renmark took the rare step of leaving a note. He suggested Antill visit him in his office. Antill was seen to read it, but left before the lecture began. It didn’t occur to Renmark that his most promising student was not really a student at all.
Those deep thinkers wearing the obligatory whiskers and who clearly practised the austere life had a lasting effect on Antill. Before he encountered their example he had been one person; after, he was an entirely different person. ‘I was only half-alive – or, not fully awake,’ he explained to Rosie, sounding more like Clive Renmark. ‘It was a before/after situation.’
He would often wonder where this sudden all-powerful interest came from.
The true philosophers were possessed of an ambition to erect an intricate word-model of the world, an explanation, parallel to the real world. Antill looked up to them and then became more composed. Between each lecture he had studied further, reading everything available, and so began weeding out the philosophers he found incomprehensible, and others who were all too comprehensible. Models that simply didn’t stack up. The dead words – accumulated, overlapped. Of no use, the way old battleships were left to rust. Later, he would describe it as wearing someone else’s heavy coat. It was a matter of casting off. The few philosophers he allowed (Germans), he set about examining and dismantling – their letters, notebooks – the details of their lives – conversations, scraps – until without actually discarding he placed them in the back of his mind somewhere, for possible reference, along with the memory of Renmark, the open-necked moist-lipped messenger.
Two times they saw each other again, both on Darlinghurst Road.
Near the fountain one afternoon Antill was standing on one foot as an older woman smart in a black dress, low neckline, argued with him. She could have been his mother, except her unhappiness was specific. A bachelor, Renmark probably lived nearby. Months later, down the seedier end, Antill saw Renmark talking to a bottle-blonde, small, but with a large handbag. They were negotiating; and the lanky lecturer of philosophy followed her up some stairs. Although they never spoke, Antill felt a flood of affection for the determined shape of Clive Renmark going forward, always forward.
12
AFTER PARKING near the tank-stand the missing brother stepped out in front of the three women and proceeded to walk bowlegged to the veranda, a jockey too tall for the job, followed by his dogs.
Sophie and Erica saw just the back of him.
After being friendly to amble away twenty seconds later oblivious of them may have been the country manner; Erica imagined he was keen to take off his tie and get out of his suit.
‘Please tell me,’ Sophie stopped in her tracks. ‘Did I say something wrong, or what?’
In her present state it was all too easy for her confidence to be thrown, the slightest thing could do it, which she normally would overcome by directing all her specialised energies onto another person, an onslaught of probings, suggestions, statements, questions posed but not expecting an answer.
Turning to Lindsey, she found her no longer there. Lindsey was at the tank bent over a metal watering can, and with simple calm movements she gave water to the roses, demonstrating there was nothing exceptional about her brother’s behaviour.
In the afternoon they each went in their separate directions. Erica placed a notebook and pen by the pillow, just in case, and lay on the bed. She waited.
From the distant rooms came faint creakings and a general muffledness which added to the strangeness of the house.
It was almost unbelievable that in this place one brother had been left alone for years and years – as long as it took – to construct a philosophy…and the younger brother went out and about in all weathers to manage the more than 10,000 merinos in dozens of different khaki paddocks, seeing to their salt and water, the miles of fencing et cetera, the dipping and crutching, organising the teams of perspiring shearers with their lists of demands, and so on. A rare sort of man not to have resentment. A respectful man. Erica closed her eyes. Aside from a certain anxiety, another reason for not rushing to examine Wesley Antill’s written work was concern for Sophie. Her friend was reasonably calm, but Erica had noticed a tightening in voice and manner. Her movements had become rapid. With nothing to do and no one here so far properly to engage, Sophie was just
as likely to announce she was returning to Sydney, ‘straight after breakfast’. Spontaneity is Truth was one of Sophie’s beliefs. For Erica it was of interest, possibly attractive, but of course had no philosophical merit, even if that wasn’t the point.
Later in the afternoon, Erica went outside and strolled alongside the large house, keeping to the shaded sides. The full force of the wider silence combined naturally with the heat, and she felt it surrounding, swarming and entering her. Twice more she did the circuit. She asked herself if she was humble. She wanted to be humble.
Passing a window she heard a voice. It was Sophie talking intimately into the mobile. All she asked was that he listen to her for ten seconds, no more. ‘Listen!’ It didn’t matter that his wife was in the next room. ‘Stop it! Listen to me!’
She wanted an answer: was he missing her – at all? ‘I need to know, I want you to tell me.’
But she wouldn’t let him answer, even if he could, for she continued appealing, explaining, jumping in. Finally, ‘I don’t know why I bothered.’ And hung up.
After waiting a little, Erica went back inside and wandered into the kitchen where Sophie was still talking, now to her father. She had swollen red eyes, but was smiling and gesticulating with one hand, explaining to him where she was. He’d be laughing his head off to hear his fancy daughter was such a distance from the streets of Sydney. She waved to Erica. Talking to her father, she concentrated. Very firmly she asked about his health and gave instructions not to drink so many espresso coffees. Making an elongated kissing sound, she said goodbye.
‘I’ve had a terrible day,’ she turned to Erica.
They sat down at the enormous scrubbed table.
Speaking of her father, Sophie smiled. ‘He always says, “How’s my little girl?” I find I’m talking to him more than I used to. He’s an unusual man. He likes women,’ she said to no one in particular.
Yes, Erica nodded to herself.
‘He likes you,’ Sophie joined in the nodding. ‘I can tell. And he doesn’t exactly have a history of rushing for the brainy ones.’
Evidently she was thinking about her pushy stepmother who spent a fortune on hair stylists and eyebrow pencils and rejuvenating creams, French lingerie, a roomful of designer shoes, personal trainers, luncheons and a yapping poodle. Her father’s casual slap-and-tickle tolerance of his younger (by seventeen years) wife irritated Sophie.
‘I am sorry, but I don’t get what he sees in that woman. Do you know he met her when she was modelling one of his yellow hard hats? Can you believe it?’
As Erica laughed she momentarily saw herself as a desiccated woman. And she was not meant to be, surely. Just as her small apartment with narrow kitchen was exceptionally tidy, her mind was neat and tidy. Her clothes too suggested a life simplified. Still, she was attractive to others, she had noticed. It was her alertness, in general. To those nearby, Sophie being one, she was a reliable presence. She had an attentive manner. At the same time she held herself slightly out of reach; Sophie didn’t seem to notice.
Meanwhile, how in her own work to make something meaningful of the conflicting mass of impressions, propositions. Et cetera, et cetera. Daily. It was difficult – her chosen profession.
Sophie’s father was a big man, a solid man. Every room became small.
Sophie had gone quiet, but now began talking about her earlier call.
Erica interrupted. ‘He’s not worth it. Don’t even bother.’
To her own surprise she continued a series of dismissive motions with her hand. ‘From what you’ve said to me, nothing about him rings true. And, correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t this a married man?’
None of these objections were of interest to Sophie.
‘I could tell he was pleased to hear me, but he couldn’t speak freely.’
Lindsey came in. Glancing at their expressions, she put on the kettle.
‘I managed to talk to him,’ Sophie reported. ‘He knows now I am still alive. And then I spoke to my father, who you’ll meet one day, I hope. That’s if you don’t mind being chased around the table by an older man of obscure origins. Erica, am I not right?’
Without waiting for an answer she talked rapidly. ‘My father suffers from what is called in my circle…Never mind what it is called. He uses his eyes as very effective weapons. A watchful, patient man, at the same time energetic.’
‘Sounds all right to me.’ Lindsey sat down opposite. ‘These are my mother’s cups. And I’ve yet to break one.’
As Lindsey poured the tea she removed all expression from her face. ‘I didn’t see much of my mother. She had a comfortable set-up in Sydney. That’s where she wanted to be. We would visit. It was nice. She had friends there. I was thinking only the other day I don’t know the colour of her eyes. Terrible, isn’t it?’
‘When you break a cup, you’ll suddenly remember your mother’s face.’ Erica then glanced at Sophie, who hadn’t said a word.
‘Did I make too many small demands on him?’ Sophie broke in. ‘Did I correct him? I am sometimes guilty of that, I know. I lie awake thinking. The other thing is, I find myself listening in too much detail to everything a person says. It’s a case of the professional life intruding into the personal – night follows day. I can’t help it. Just as you,’ she said to Erica without looking, ‘can be too rigorously theoretical, which allows you not to participate in the life that’s standing at your elbow.’
Holding a cup, Lindsey took an interest in all this, or rather, in a woman nearby displaying loss of equilibrium. The usual reason – it had happened to her, two-and-a-half years back. And now she couldn’t help visualising him, almost an enjoyment. Erica, still seated, didn’t mind Sophie’s comment on her life, or lack of. It had been said before. She was never comfortable with these conversations enjoyed by women – there was an endless ease to them.
How to avoid the looseness and ease of ‘I’. Beware of hysteria.
Lindsey stood up. ‘Since the heat has been knocking us for six, I thought for tonight we’d have cold meat.’
It had become darker, the birds were noisy, and now the lights were on. Wrapped around Sophie’s neck was a crinkled silk scarf, which gave something of a head-wound atmosphere. Adding to the layer of determined bravery she wore a new perfume (can you wear perfume – philosophically?).
Erica admired Sophie’s mood. She touched the scarf. ‘I would call that rhubarb.’
Before she could quickly add, ‘It’s my favourite colour,’ small sounds such as words and Lindsey setting the table were deafened by a dark mass rushing across the sky towards them, gathering above the roof, where it paused, then cracked open, a thunderous splitting apart, echoing, and again closer, making them jump. The plates and windows rattled and some of the startled horses lined up on the wall fell. Simultaneously, lightning exposed them to windows, the way celebrities under siege in hotels are flash-photographed from the garden beds. By then it was raining. It was coming down. Tons of nails or wheat or gravel hitting the tin roof, pipes and gutters overflowing, while the thunder continued but moving away.
The women were laughing wildly, as if they were drenched. And it was Lindsey who threw her head back and closed her eyes, raised both arms and waggled her hips, making herself part of an action of nature. Although she was shouting, they had trouble hearing.
‘Is this a rain dance, or a fertility dance? I can never be sure.’
‘You can always get rain,’ Sophie pointed out.
Unwinding the scarf she joined in, twirling it over her head, throwing her arms about. It was something older than music.
Erica smiled encouragement, and felt at one with these women, but couldn’t step forward.
‘We always could do with a drop of rain, but this is ridiculous.’
Slightly flushed, Lindsey returned to the table. They still had to raise their voices.
Here Sophie noticed the cutlery set only for three.
‘My brother sends his apologies,’ Lindsey said loud enough. ‘Becau
se of the weather he’s had to go out. I’m told he has some sort of girlfriend in town, but I don’t think it’s that. There can be flash flooding. He wouldn’t want to lose any lambs.’
By touching her nose Sophie somehow managed to see herself, without a mirror.
‘I imagine your brother has a lot going on in his head. Everything is happening at once. We can say hello tomorrow, so long as we’re not getting in the way.’
‘If you can get a dozen words out of him you’ll be lucky.’
‘Because he spends too much time alone – outside?’ Erica asked.
Out here – more than in the city – she could see how everything already existed without description. As well, she was never comfortable with the way words were attached to a given subject – such as a tree, or the heat, let alone feelings. Though Erica knew Sophie would object.
‘Silence runs in the family,’ was Lindsey’s explanation.
‘Listen to her! You’re not like that at all! If anyone’s the shy, hiding-behind-the-bush type it’s my friend here – ’ giving Erica a little shove.
‘Wesley wasn’t much of a talker either,’ said Lindsey.
The chair waiting for Roger Antill was beginning to irritate Erica. It drew attention to him – a matter of filling in the space, anticipating his voice and manner.
‘I don’t know why I’m so tired in the country.’
By not turning up, he showed his indifference to them.
Lindsey lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea and we can sit in the lounge.’
‘This missing brother,’ Sophie said to Erica. ‘Have we frightened the horses or what?’
13
WHEN VENTURING into the interior, travellers are warned to take cans of drinking water and tinned food. Should the vehicle break down, wait for help. Do not leave the vehicle. In stony country, rocks can be used to form a message visible from the air: HELP or HERE! Every summer, horror stories come in of tourists from Scandinavia, Britain, Japan who became lost or bogged in sand, or suffered some sort of mechanical breakage, or ran out of fuel, and in the high temperatures they eventually died of thirst. A recent case was a couple from Korea, just married. Their bodies were found a long distance from each other. Some years ago a family of five from the Midlands perished one by one after becoming bogged in the Simpson Desert, South Australia. They’d arrived in the country less than two months previously. A young German in shorts, T-shirt and sunglasses rode off on a motorbike into the red sandhills, the heat and emptiness; waved goodbye, off into the sunset; he was never seen again. Talk about terra incognita!
