The Lovers

by Catherine Rey

  The brooch? No, I don’t know how that horrible thing ended up in the grass. Who knows? Maybe it fell off the jacket, maybe Lucie threw it there…

  Lucie is complex and secretive. Something had gone wrong with Ernest, I could tell, and I was concerned. I wondered too if it had something to do with Raph. Who knows what he might have told her? Ernest’s brother is bitter and twisted, rotten to the core. He hates Ernest and badmouths him at every opportunity… All I can add was that the house was silent and Ernest was sound asleep in his bed, when I left with Rosy, Nicole and June.

  Paula Rieter

  Cours de l’Intendance

  Bordeaux

  France

  Good afternoon, Paula Rieter speaking. I would like to talk to Officer Lawson, please. It’s urgent…

  Hello, Officer Lawson, my name is Paula Rieter... Rieter, yes, R-I-E-T-E-R... Inspecteur Agnelli from Poitiers gave me your number... I have crucial information regarding Lucie Bruyère... I received, this morning, a parcel from Inspecteur Agnelli with some of the papers belonging to Lucie… Yes, you remember the papers you found at Mr Renfield’s and sent to Inspecteur Agnelli... Amongst the papers, I found a letter addressed to me, a letter Lucie never sent. It was unopened… What Lucie writes is distressing. Let me translate it to you. It speaks for itself.

  Longland,

  Le premier Mai,

  Fête du Travail, Fête du muguet,

  Dearest Paula,

  It’s the first of May. I wonder what the weather is like in Bordeaux. Are there people down your street selling lilies of the valley? My mother grew those delicate flowers in a wide garden-bed. Intoxicating. A procession of white bells hiding in their folds of green leaves. My mother died exactly one year ago. I miss her. I would have liked to be by her side when she died. When she was alive we couldn’t stop fighting. She was a dotty old woman. Now, I wish I could hear her voice.

  I thought I was strong and that I would overcome any adversity. But I was wrong. Two years ago, Ernest asked me to move in with him, and I said yes. That was a mistake. I turned my back on my friends, my family, my job and my country. My bearings vanished overnight and now, I’m lost. I have never been so miserable. I haven’t found the courage to tell you the truth. I don’t think I should send you this letter. I love you too much to worry you with what I’m going through. I didn’t know what I wanted when I left, for there was so much confusion in my life. I listened to you, to my mother, to my sisters, but all of you were pulling me in different directions and I didn’t know what I wanted at the time.

  Life with Ernest has not been easy and the signs were there early on. I realised there was a serious problem with him about four months into our relationship. One day in Sydney, as we were going out to a restaurant, a man walked past us and gave us a smile. Ernest got furious, so furious that he confronted the man, screaming absurd accusations at him. When I tried to pacify him, telling him the smile had been innocent, he directed his fury at me. I was scared and embarrassed and I clearly remember thinking: this man has another side to him. It has taken me nearly two years to come back to square one and admit that, yes, there is something wrong with Ernest. But now life has turned into hell. I wake in anguish each morning to a new conflict. Ernest is constantly on my back. The steak is too well done, the potatoes too mushy, the eggs never runny enough for his toast soldiers. A stain on the napkin. A streak on the tablecloth. No milk in the fridge. He blames me for the supermarket mixing up delivery times. The list is endless. Every night he rifles through the kitchen bin, looking for proof of my misdoings. I get scolded in the morning if I have wasted the smallest morsel of food. As hard as I try, Ernest is never happy. I constantly question my own actions. Have I said something wrong? Have I disappointed him? What began as anxiety has now become a constant fear of being caught out. Ernest’s anger could break out any time. If I say I miss my country, Ernest will retort in a mocking tone that no one forced me to come to Australia. If I say I miss my family, he will say that I hated my mother and that my sisters are not worth being missed. More and more, I retreat into silence.

  He insists that Australia has given me a golden opportunity to make a new start and I haven’t risen to the challenge. Australia is a lucky country, how could I pretend it is not? If I should dare cry in front of him, he looks at me with utter contempt. Or he will come up close to me, look into my eyes and say in a detached voice, I worry for you, Lucie Bruyère. Every time he comes in close, yes, every time, I hope he’ll show some kindness. But there’s never a word of comfort as he walks away. If I should dare slash my wrists in front of him, he would ask me to go and do it outside, so my blood doesn’t stain the carpet.

  He’s always considerate with visitors. That’s the paradox: I’m treated awfully when he’s all smiles with strangers, especially women. He makes phone calls in the morning, barters with art dealers, chit-chats with his admirers, fixes a date for an interview, greets his models at the door, just after an early lunch, then gets stuck into his work. He doesn’t reappear until nightfall. After a quick dinner, he collapses into bed. Meanwhile, I cry my days away.

  Am I weak? Am I broken? Am I worthless? Is there something wrong with me? I never imagined I would end up like this. I am neither alive nor dead. There is nothing to comfort me, no one to talk to. No neighbour, no friend. I shuffle about in an alien house in an alien land. The house is huge, you wouldn’t believe it, still, I have no room of my own. Ernest is tight to the point of cutting the heating down to just his studio and the kitchen, where I am forced to work. Last summer I tried the caretaker’s house, but when the winter came it was damp and cold and I was constantly sniffling.

  The trip to France has nearly bled me of all my savings. I use what’s left in my bank account to rent my piano. In three months, all my money will be gone. I considered taking a job in the nearby village, but Ernest refuses to let me drive his car and there is a good five kilometres of steep road to get there. The last twelve months have been so hard, I’ve become a wreck. I’ve lost weight. I try to avoid the ghost in the mirror. I’m a different person, you wouldn’t recognise me. Ernest is killing the best in me.

  When Ernest shows a bit of kindness, which seldom happens, I become overwhelmed, hoping the nightmare is about to end. He says he loves me. It lasts two, three days, but then they come again, the off-hand remarks, the dirty looks, the scoffing. I feel I’m living with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  Ernest’s anger goes in cycles. He regularly gets worked up to a state of fury for no apparent reason, then he locks himself in his tower for several days. When he reappears, he has a mad look about him and seems unaware of who I am.

  The expression on his face and the sound of his voice are petrifying. Yes, Paula, I’m scared of him. He’s like a beast lurking about the house, ready to pounce. Is he sick? Should he be on medication? Does he pretend to be mad? I’m not even sure he’s aware of what he’s doing. Why has he chosen me? I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something wrong with me. It must be written all over my face. I must be weak, as Ernest constantly repeats.

  Being around him disgusts me. Lying down by his side disgusts me. Sex with him disgusts me. Ernest stinks. His flabby body, the stench of his breath and the rank smell of his skin make me nauseous.

  I walk in the forest. I watch the birds. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful they are. You remember, I wanted to be a poet. I wanted to be published. I’m tired, Paula, I’m worn out. After two years of this life, I’ve had enough. I should run away, but somehow I feel paralysed, spellbound. Just putting this letter together has been a huge effort. I try to make sense of my life, but it’s a mishmash of fear, sadness, loneliness. Ernest has drained all joy, whatever youth I had left, and energy, from me. When I get told off, I cower like a beaten dog.

  Ernest drums into me that I haven’t achieved anything, that I’m a disgrace to look at. He might be right. He might be wrong. I don’t know. I have no spirit left to disagree. There’s no one around here to confide in, no support.
I’ve met Nicole, though, an intelligent French woman. We call each other every week. I haven’t told her the truth, but I’m sure she knows something is not right.

  My writing isn’t going well. All that once gave meaning to my life is lost. I’ve tried to put together my notes on Jean Lucien but I’m unable to concentrate. I stare at the pages, read them but can’t decipher their meaning. Would you believe it? I can’t understand a word of it. Music is my only friend. When I feel I’m going mad, I play. Thanks to Schubert, I haven’t lost my mind yet. I wonder where my dreams have gone.

  If I knew how to pray I would, but I don’t know whom to ask for help.

  Your friend always,

  Lucie

  The letter stops here… Sorry, I didn’t want to cry but I cannot help it… Lucie never told me what was going on, but I always knew she was not telling the truth. I should have listened to my gut feeling.

  Brock Olsen

  Police Station

  Watooga

  New South Wales

  You’ve got to let me go, man… I haven’t done anythin’ wrong. Jesus, I earned that cash fair and square. I work three days a week at Heavens Bar… Yep, in Thirroul. Call ’em! They’ll tell you…

  No way, you’ve got to be kidding! Am I dreamin’ or what? Me mum found it under the bed? She reckons I stole it. She came here yesterday to hand it in. What the… Me own mum? She ratted me to the cops. Man, that’s low. You’ve got to be a sicko to do that.

  Yeah, that’s right, I got a waiter’s gig at Renfield’s. He needed two of us. How did I know ’bout the party? Me girlfriend heard on the grapevine. Yeah, Lydia’s me girlfriend… Nah, she isn’t my sister. We said we were brother and sister to get the gig. Lydia thought we should take the job and get some cash to piss off to Byron Bay. Just the two of us. I was fine with that.

  Lydia called Renfield and asked him if he needed two youngsters to wait on his guests. She was real cool on the phone. ’Cos when you say “young”, you’re pretty sure Renfield’s gonna to take the bait. Everyone knows he likes ’em young. Yeah, Renfield, he’s a dirty pig. So we went to his place. Lydia looked super hot. She’d put on a stack of make-up and she wore a mini-skirt. Renfield had a good look at her and said, I’m really impressed by young people who want to work on weekends… He even asked Lydia if she wanted to model for his paintings. She said she’d never done it, but she’d love to have a crack. He was drooling over her tits. Sure enough we got the job. Easy peasy.

  On the day, I parked me banger near the house. Renfield came out of nowhere and yelled that we had to move. This was the carpark for guests. Fuckin’ snob!

  What was the party like? Oh man, lots of wackos and weirdos. Heaps of drugs, rich people’s gear. They were doin’ lines in the bathroom. Renfield got really plastered. He’s a nutcase… I saw him in one of the rooms with an old boiler… Nah, not the Frog. A flabby troll with a stupid paper hat stuck on her head… They were havin’ a good time. No bull.

  What was I doing there? Snooping around? Come on, get off me back. I just opened the door and there he was, leaning against the table, and she was on her knees. I saw the orange paper hat going up and down. I nearly burst out laughin’.

  What did she have on? A red dress, I think… Nah, I wouldn’t know her name… Oh, yeah, maybe, hang on a sec, one time she came to the kitchen for a glass of water. She said she had some art gallery in Sydney. Yeah, I remember now…

  Nah, don’t know if anyone else saw Renfield and her together… What else? Geez, you ask a lot of questions. I saw that guy too, Gary, he came through the back door when Lydia and I were half-asleep, our heads on the kitchen table, waiting for the party to end. He scared the shit out of us. His clothes were wet. He said he’d had too much to drink and fallen in the lake. I laughed. What an idiot! Yeah, we had a chat. He hung around for ages…

  What? I told you man, I’m no thief! You really don’t let go, do ya? I haven’t done nothin’… Me father? What about him? You wanna call him? Not me father, mate, he’s insane! He’ll fully kill me! He’ll bash me, beat me to death! Please, don’t call him. I’ll tell you what really went on… It was Lydia. None of this shit would have happened if it wasn’t for that moll. It was her idea.

  That party was full on. The whole time we were there, we were busy, with the Frog ordering us around. I reckon she thought we were a couple of retards. Mate, she was pissed off about something. Maybe she’d seen the old slag blowing her fella… But Lydia and I didn’t muck about. We did the foods, ran to the big room with more booze, dashed back to the kitchen, washed dirty glasses.

  The Frog? What was she doing? Putting stuff in the microwave, going outside for a smoke… We were doin’ another round with the booze when Lydia spotted him, that creepy Renfield brother. Lydia saw that dopehead sneak out of the library, all red and sweaty, with a suss look on his face. See mate, that’s the room where all the guests had left their bags and coats and stuff… Could have been three-thirty, everyone was off their heads, dancin’ up and down the stairs… The Renfield brother didn’t come back to the party and Lydia was sure he’d taken off with the loot. That’s when she said we should check out the library too. Could be more stuff to nick, she said. I told her I didn’t wanna to do it, but Lydia said, look at them, they’re shitfaced, who’s gonna notice? I told her to get lost. She wouldn’t let it go. Before I knew it, she stuck her tongue down me throat. Next thing she had me on the look-out while she fished around in the library. She came out happy as Larry, with seven hundred bucks stuffed down her bra.

  Huh? How long? Took her fifteen minutes, maybe. The dopehead had cleaned out the hand bags, but there was a sports bag under the couch. The moron didn’t see it, she yelled. Yippee! We’re rich! She gave me the cash. I ran to the car and hid it in the glovebox, then rushed back to the kitchen. We kept servin’ the booze. Sweet as. That’s it. Nothing more to say…

  What time did we leave? Well we pissed off with everyone else. When Lydia saw they were all goin’ she said we’d better join the pack. What time was that? Would have been four-thirty…

  What now? What’s gonna to happen to me? Charged with theft? You go to court for that? Hang on a sec, I told you, it’s fucking Lydia. She wanted to go to Byron Bay…

  Nah, we didn’t pinch nothin’ else. I swear. Credit cards? You crazy? No way, that’s criminal! I’ve never touched a credit card in me life.

  We nicked seven hundred bucks, that’s right, got busted, that’s right, but we didn’t steal credit cards. I knew we’d get in trouble… And me mother, she isn’t any better. Dobbed me in. That’s low.

  Act V

  Ernest Renfield

  Longland

  New South Wales

  I’ve been waiting for you… I’ve been waiting, and here you are… Finally! Come in, quick, come inside! I’m so glad to see you. Let me look at you, my friend. Might I call you my friend at present? Are you my friend? Could we call ourselves good friends? Yes? Yes, you said and I’m pleased… Do come in. By the way, I’m sorry if I got a bit worked up last time we saw each other. Really sorry… I’ve been angry too many times lately… When I saw you had issued a search warrant, I cut loose and I’m sure you can understand why…

  Do you know that you bear a very beautiful name? Lawson, the Son of the Law, a name so suited to who you are. I haven’t been so lucky. My parents called me Ernest! Me? Can you believe it? As if I ever wanted to be earnest!

  Why don’t we sit in my studio for a change? I’ve lit the wood-stove and heaved a good supply of logs upstairs. We won’t be cold! Let’s go the short way; via the backstairs… First to the kitchen, you know how to get there, that’s right, to the left… You’re almost at home here now… And down the corridor… Yes, this way… See, behind that door are the old backstairs. This is my shortcut. Don’t tell anyone… Watch out, it’s narrow and steep… Oh, my knees! Too much weight, I should go on a diet. I’m too lazy for that. Too lazy to cook greens, veggies, you know what I mean. I live off frozen stuff… Then go lef
t, now down the passage. Yes, to the very end… Another flight of stairs… Ouch! Nearly there. Careful with the last couple of steps… They are treacherous… Here we are… Please, take a seat… I’m sure you’ll have a drop of something. Yes? Did I hear a yes? Goodo! I knew you’d surrender to it in fine. What would you fancy? I have an excellent cognac. Want a drop? You won’t be disappointed… No, no, sit here, in the armchair, you’ll get a better view…

  My head is better, thank you. A superficial cut. No broken bones luckily. Like the forest? It’s amazing isn’t it? See how dense. A jungle, impenetrable, dark, cold, musty, damp, like a cathedral with a vaulted ceiling and high architraves. Did you know that Longland Road, which runs across the valley, is the only way to get in and out of here? Good cognac, isn’t it? Feeling giddy already? You’ll remember this day!

  Well, well, well… More questions… Did I hear two gunshots around five o’clock in the morning after the party? Two gunshots? Let me think… Let me think… Yes, I did actually… And today I’ll be honest with you, Officer Lawson, I didn’t go straight to bed after my last guests had left, as I stated a few weeks ago… The truth would have been somehow too embarrassing to divulge… But it would be stupid to feel ashamed in the company of a good friend, wouldn’t it? Do you know what the real proof of friendship is? Well, a true friend is someone to whom you can tell the truth. So, today I’m going to tell you honestly what happened on that Sunday night… Rather, that Monday morning…

  It was close enough to five. The sky had started to whiten. I was about to go to bed when Lucie showed up at the door. She looked… goodness me, how to describe her… she looked as though she’d been fighting for her life. Her hair was wet. Her dress, torn on one side, was covered in mud. Her face of a bluish white and her lips dark from the cold… What else? Oh yes, she was barefoot. In a word, she looked as though she’d been attacked by a gang of criminals. What are you doing downstairs, she hissed. You aren’t in bed yet? She certainly didn’t look very happy to see me, or maybe, she had something else in mind and I was in her way.