Louis Beside Himself

by Anna Fienberg

  ‘Errk.’ Hassan wiped his hand on his shorts.

  ‘That won’t do any good,’ said Singo, shaking his head. ‘Germs are microscopic— ’

  ‘Which means unable to be seen with the human eye,’ I put in.

  ‘So you have to wash it with soap,’ Singo finished. ‘Preferably antiseptic soap.’

  Hassan sighed. He looked CRESTFALLEN.

  ‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘we can shoot those hoolas now!’

  ‘Hoops,’ said Singo, grinning.

  ‘I know that, I just said hoolas to make you laugh,’ I said quickly.

  But no one got up. Maybe they were remembering my craze on hoola hoops last year when Rosie bought one for exercising – she’d put on ‘Saturday Night Fever’ really loud and faced the speakers out towards the garden. We’d taken turns, dancing and hoolering to the music. It was the best fun until my friends turned up unexpectedly and found me inside the hoop, gyrating my hips the way Rosie did.

  ‘You know what, we could ask Elena over tonight as well!’ I said to Hassan, to take his mind off that EXCRUCIATING memory.

  Hassan went tomato-red at the idea.

  We sat looking at him for a while, unable to wrench our eyes away. It really was extraordinary the way Hassan’s whole face changed at the contemplation of Elena. Sweat formed a dewy moustache on his upper lip as the red of his cheeks faded to white, leaving his face pinched and drained as if he was being DEVOURED by a TERMINAL illness.

  Singo’s leg jigged under the table. ‘But aren’t we gunna play Smack Down later? Elena won’t want to do a wrestling game.’

  I sighed. Since I’d got the new Play Station, World Wrestling Entertainment was the only game my friends wanted to play. I didn’t mind it – now and then – but what I really enjoyed was my pirate game. Those guys call each other SCABROUS and BLACKGUARD and MANGY DOG. Elena might prefer pirates to wrestling. She might admire those good-looking, moustachioed types with their well developed vocabularies.

  ‘Why not invite her for dinner, Hassan?’ I said. ‘You won’t have to be alone with her, or think up topics of conversation or anything. We’ll be here!’

  Hassan’s face relaxed. A bit of colour seeped back in, like sunrise. ‘Okay.’ He grinned. ‘You ring her. It is your house. And ask her to bring the bugie for dessert.’ He leapt up off the seat and raced out into the garden, up and down the lawn and to the letterbox and back.

  Elena’s mother makes these fabulous cakes called bugie, which means lies. They look fat and solid but are actually full of air and sugar.

  Hassan loves going to Elena’s place because of the Italian food – at least that’s what he says. But his face shines when she turns her head to talk just to him. She has this way of focussing her attention so that you feel you are the only person in the room. Whenever I’m with her I usually forget to whip out my notebook, even though she has a whole second language as well as a fast pair of legs. She won every running race with those legs of hers, all through primary school. Singo’s pretty fast too and he almost beat her once when she had the flu.

  But Elena couldn’t come over, anyway.

  Are you sighing now like Rosie and thinking I’ve told you all about Elena for nothing? Well, it would never be for nothing, because the existence of a whole other living, breathing person – especially Elena – would never be nothing.

  So, as I was saying, Elena wasn’t able to accept our kind invitation because her nonno and nonna were there for dinner. She sounded disappointed, but just before she put down the phone she said maybe she would come over the next day, and bring some bugie.

  Hassan’s face paled with DISILLUSIONMENT when I told him the sad news. We sat at the table in a gluggy sort of silence. I cleared my throat as if I was about to say something, but nothing came. Was the afternoon going to sag to the ground like a dead camel?

  Hassan stared MOROSELY at the garden, sighing now and then. Singo’s leg was still jiggling.

  ‘Did you know that emus and kangaroos can’t walk backwards?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Singo looked up, but you could tell he wasn’t really listening.

  ‘Well, what about . . . did you know a gecko is the only lizard with a voice?’

  Singo glanced at Hassan and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Or, let’s see, how about . . . I found out this thing . . . do you know what cher-o-phobia is? No? Well I’ll tell you. Fear of dying laughing.’

  ‘No fear of that right now,’ said Singo, his mouth turning down.

  Suddenly the effort was too much. ‘Well then, what do you want to do?’ I snapped. ‘Got any good jokes? Fascinating facts to contribute?’

  ‘Calm down, why don’t you,’ said Singo, shaking his head. ‘What are you getting all riled up about?’

  I looked down at my feet. An ant was carrying a breadcrumb twice its size. It stopped for a moment on its journey, waving its feelers around as if it had suddenly forgotten where it was going, and why. I knew how it felt.

  I had a dream once that Hassan and Singo and I were doing a puzzle together. We were having a fantastic time but when we were nearly finished, looking for the big centrepiece (which I thought would be a giant cruise ship with a floating library) I suddenly discovered we weren’t doing the same puzzle at all. They were looking for a giant basketball or something. It was a creepy feeling.

  I got up and began to pace. Walking sometimes helps me to think. What I was thinking about was: If you don’t really enjoy the hobbies of your best friends, how much time should you spend trying to look as if you do?

  Singo was frowning at me. I guess I’d been a bit ABRUPT. I was about to say, ‘Never mind, let’s go and play World Wrestling Entertainment with Chris Jericho and The Undertaker’ when we heard the front door slam.

  ‘Hi, guys!’ Dad still had his briefcase in his hand and his tie done up. ‘How is everyone? How come you’re just sitting around?’ Hassan tried to work up a grin. ‘What about an arm-wrestle? You been working on your forearm strength, Hassan?’

  Hassan smiled fully now, so that his eyes disappeared. ‘Yes, Monty, and I’ve been doing those curl exercises, want to see?’

  ‘Sure!’ cried Dad, dropping his briefcase where he stood.

  Hassan flexed and curled.

  ‘Excellent.’ Dad grinned at us all. Then he smacked his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. ‘Now, what delicious smells do I detect coming from the kitchen?’ He narrowed his eyes at Hassan and stroked his chin like a detective PONDERING a clue.

  ‘There’s vegie turnovers and lamb and rice, all from Mady’s restaurant,’ I said. ‘Do you want to eat soon?’

  ‘I’m ravished,’ said Dad. ‘What about you guys?’

  ‘Aren’t you mixing up ravished with famished?’ I said.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Dad, a bit irritably I thought, and headed for the kitchen. Hassan supervised the serving up of the dishes. Just as we were thinking about second helpings, Rosie and Miles trooped in.

  ‘Smells great!’ cried Miles, throwing himself down on a chair and sniffing wildly.

  Why use great, when there are so many other adjectives that are more expressive? I was about to offer this opinion, together with some other possibilities, when the phone rang.

  ‘Montgomery residence,’ I said. At first I couldn’t understand a word, because the voice on the line was so loud and tense and GARBLED.

  ‘. . . been missing for five hours now, and it’s dark! When I got home I thought, Oh, she must have gone for a walk, but how long can a walk take? There’s her bad hip, and anyway, Agnes often doesn’t know where she is anymore – she must be lost, could be lying in the dark somewhere, or stumbling into the traffic— ’

  Miles took the phone. ‘Mum? Mum, it’s me, I’ll come home— ’

  ‘Oh thanks, darling, I don’t like to be always asking you, it’s just I’m so— ’

  Now Dad was waving at the phone, pointing to his chest. His eyebrows were leaping up and down madly like hairy caterpillars trying to e
scape a fire. My father has very hairy eyebrows, did I tell you that? I hope I don’t end up with his eyebrows.

  ‘Hello, hello, Doreen? Monty here . . . Y es, yes it’s very worrying, I understand . . . The police? Good idea, but you never know how busy they’ll be, how long they’ll take to get moving.’ He paused for a moment, looking around the table. ‘Look, Doreen, why don’t I take Miles home and then you and I can go driving about the neighbourhood to look for her? Yes, I know you have a car but I really don’t think you should be the one driving, you’re far too upset. And Miles can be at home in case Agnes . . .No, I insist. It’ll all be fine, see you soon.’ And he put down the phone.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Rosie immediately, leaping up.

  ‘No, sweetheart,’ said Dad. ‘Who will look after Louis?’

  ‘I’m thirteen for crying out loud!’ Unfortunately I’d used a cliché, but it was unavoidable in my distress.

  ‘And we’ll be here!’ said Hassan, showing off his clenched biceps.

  I rolled my eyes at Dad. ‘Go, depart, leave,’ I said.

  Dad was staring at me. Well, his eyes happened to be fixed on my face, but he had that faraway look people get when there’s actually something entirely different going on in their heads and you just happen to be plonked in their general direction. Like a bench in a park.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said uncertainly. ‘And you’ve got your friends with you.’

  Hassan and Singo nodded energetically. I felt a bit affronted. It wasn’t as if Singo and Hassan were older, or I needed them to look after me! And I’d had more self-defence practice than either of them put together. It’s just that I’m not interested in that kind of thing.

  But Dad was already pushing back his chair. ‘Don’t go out of the house while I’m gone,’ he said, even wagging his finger at us.

  You’d have thought he was going to Lithuania for ten years.

  We all agreed to sit still in exactly the same position for the next hour, but he wasn’t listening. He was rushing around changing his shirt – twice – and finding his wallet and keys. Rosie and Miles stood at the door, waiting. He gave us a final wave, looked at us searchingly like a lugubrious giraffe in a hurry, and loped away up the hall.

  6

  THE BURGLAR

  The slam of the door echoed in the silence. We looked at the scatter of plates and smeared spinach on the table. Then we looked at each other. Hassan grinned. I cheered, leaping up on my chair to do a flying moonsault onto the kitchen floor. Singo strutted around us, playing air guitar to Hassan’s heavy metal Jericho lyrics, ‘Break the Walls Down’. Hassan’s heavy metal Jericho lyrics, ‘Break the Walls Down’.

  We were superb. We were kings of the kitchen. We were ecstatic to be alone in the house.

  ‘Let’s play WWE!’ cried Singo.

  ‘Bags being Jericho!’ Hassan shouted, mid-song.

  ‘I’ll be Taker,’ said Singo quickly. And they raced to my room, jostling for first position in front of the Play Station.

  I sighed and settled myself on the bed, waiting for my turn. We sat in the shadows, the TV shining like a planet in the dark universe of the room. I fidgeted, pretending to concentrate on the screen, but really I was thinking that if I twisted the bedside light towards me, got my pad and pen and old Roget’s Thesaurus – a fantastic book of words and phrases that I highly recommend if you’ve ever been at a loss for the right word at the right time – I could start on that food review. Just for practice. Mady’s Marvellous Magic, I might call it, or Amazing Appetisers from Afghanistan.

  No one noticed the sudden halo of light, or the sound of my flicking pages. And what exquisite words there were for taste sensations . . . Sauce could be PIQUANT, PUNGENT, PEPPERY, and I was only up to P! When Hassan asked me if I wanted my turn, I generously told him no, he could have mine. It was actually very COMPANIONABLE sitting there in our shared universe, my salivary glands tingling happily, with the whoops of my friends floating towards me in the dark as they delivered perfect dropkicks or flying lionsaults from the ropes.

  I’d got a good couple of pages written and was just starting on varieties of savoury rice when Hassan said, ‘We might go out for a bit, Lou.’

  ‘Up to that school on the corner, you know,’ said Singo.

  ‘There are very good steps and gutters for grinding,’ said Hassan.

  Grinding. Teeth. Lamb bones . . . ‘What?’

  ‘Grinding, with the skateboard,’ added Hassan.

  I looked at my watch. ‘But it’s ten o’clock! At night! Look out the window – it’s as dark as black-bean sauce.’

  ‘No, a big light shines at night in the playground,’ said Hassan.

  ‘A floodlight,’ Singo told him helpfully.

  A wave of uneasiness rippled in my stomach. ‘But we promised, and it’s late. Dad might be back any minute. You know what’ll happen if he comes home to an empty house.’

  I’d have to listen to his ‘Louis Ethan Montgomery, why did you let your friends out in the dark treacherous night where they could get kidnapped? I’m ashamed of you!’ He always used my full name when he was telling me off, evoking the disapproval of all my ancestors.

  ‘We’ll only go for a little while, maybe half-an-hour,’ breezed Singo. ‘And your dad said he’d ring before he came home, remember.’ Singo got up restlessly. ‘I’m gunna take my ball – there’s a good hoop up there, too – got to practise shooting from the three-point line. You could come with us, Lou. We’ll leave a note for your dad. It’ll be fine.’

  A note? Was he kidding? To leave Monty here sweating in terror at our absence, with only words for comfort? Monty? He’d think it was a ransom note, written under duress. He would go wild.

  I pleaded and CAJOLED them a little longer, with absolutely no effect, so I gave up and watched them march out of the house armed with their various sporting equipment.

  I sat in silence for a minute. There was just the whirrplmmf of the fridge and the blinking green light of the Play Station. And Roget. My spirits lifted a bit. Now I could turn Roget up as high as I wanted. I mean, I could say all the words out loud, and no one would ask me if I was all right and did I have a temperature?

  I got up and stretched, looking out the window. The moon was full, glowing above the telegraph wires. It looked like Singo’s big white basketball, dribbling its silver over the lawn. It was beautiful and all, but I pulled down the blind because I wanted to pretend I was in the close smoky kitchen of Mady’s restaurant, mixing ingredients, sniffing aromas.

  I nestled back on the bed and picked up my notebook. The circle of lamplight fell on my lap; around me everything was dark. It was quiet and magical and just right. I could smell onions sizzling in a pan, turning TRANSLUCENT, with black lentils glistening on top.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, hearing the scratch of my pen on paper. I felt safe in the circle of light, sort of blessed with words and pictures. Sometimes, when I was alone, I’d put on special clothes to write. Like once I wore Dad’s navy sports coat and red tie. It was an act of respect, the way people take their hat off when they’re at church, or wear a scarf to go into a temple.

  I re-read what I’d written. Some bits weren’t quite right. I’d have to check some stuff. Like, what was the main food crop in Afghanistan? I wanted to write about the smell of lemons wafting in from groves by the sea, but I had serious doubts. I scratched my ear. Somehow, I’d got away from the food review and moved on to the fertile coasts of Afghanistan. Were there any fertile coasts? I remembered Hassan talking about deserts and really high mountains, but not a lot about the sea. I had a nasty feeling there mightn’t be any sea at all to mention.

  I grabbed the laptop from my bedside table. Underneath was my favourite red beret, which is a special kind of hat. My grandfather bought it when he went to Spain to see the bullfights. You might think berets come from France, but other people in Europe have them too – like Picasso, who wore one all the time. Whenever I wear it I’m comforted and
sort of protected around my head, where my brain often feels naked and shivering, racked with doubts. I put it on now, tweaking it over to one side so that it perched at a jaunty angle, as it’s meant to be worn, and looked up Afghanistan.

  Afghanistan is a landlocked country.

  Oh.

  It is very poor, depending mainly on wheat farming and the herding of goats and sheep.

  Now I’m smelling spiced lamb. There are cooking fires in a forest, high in the hills, a night breeze bringing voices (not lemons and sea spray) and the bleat of goats from the plains below. Old and young people sit cross-legged around the fire, light jumping across their thin faces, a young boy leaping up, a grandma hauling him back from the flames, scolding. Now she’s laughing, her old face cracking open like a walnut, her eyes sparkling with firelight. I wondered if my mother would have looked like her when she got old, so wise and kind, hauling her children out of fires at just the right moment, wrapping them up in her shawls when the winter wind blew . . .

  What was that?

  There was a sound – the crack of dry leaves underfoot. It wasn’t inside my head. It came from outside my window. And what about that? A swish of leaves, another crackle. ‘Just a possum,’ I whispered.

  I wrote possum, to make it real. Did they have possums in Afghanistan? I tried to think about the soft grey possum we’d found one night in the laundry, perched in terror on the top wire of the clothes horse. Rosie had screamed and said it was a rat.

  I tried to think about possums warming themselves near cooking fires in ancient forests, because I read just yesterday that it’s impossible to carry two thoughts in your head at once, so you might as well think about something soft and cute, instead of terrifying. I could see the possums all warm and comfortable, and then they became large white friendly goats, which you’re more likely to see in Afghanistan, and I got to thinking how hard it would be to have a pet goat and know that one day you were going to eat it. I mean if you didn’t, your sister probably would.

  I was still thinking about goats when I got up to cross the hall to the bathroom. Then I heard it again. The definite crack of twig or leaf. Now I really needed to pee. I didn’t switch the light on in the bathroom, I don’t know why. Sometimes the dark rules and it seems wrong to disobey.