Collected Stories

by Peter Carey

  He leant back and waited for this to sink in.

  “Oh,” Gerrard smiled, “I’m staying if that’s what you mean.”

  The smile irritated Wallis beyond belief. “Look.” He put his champagne glass down on the table and riveted Gerrard with his dark eyes. “Look, Mr Architect, you better listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. I have had conversations, almost identical conversations, with people like you before. You will be no different from the bastards who run the detention centre. No one who has helped Oongala will be safe. They won’t indulge in fine discussion about the history of architecture. If you stay, you’re as good as dead.”

  “How do I know that what you say is true?”

  Quietly, smugly, Wallis took out his wallet. From it he removed an airline ticket. He threw it across to Gerrard, who opened it and read it.

  “Tomorrow,” Wallis said.

  “But you haven’t finished.”

  “I’ve finished everything I’m going to do.”

  “Then you really think it’s true?”

  “I know it.” He retrieved the ticket and returned it to the wallet.

  Gerrard returned to his cold half-eaten omelette with a new enthusiasm. His mind was kindled again with the fierce hard poetry of his obsession: a structure whose very existence would create the society for which it was designed.

  Wallis saw him smiling to himself and felt an almost uncontrollable desire to punch him in the face.

  9.

  Three months later the letter to his son lay forgotten in the top drawer of his desk, documentation of a temporary aberration, a momentary loss of faith.

  In the spare white-walled house not an item was out of place, not a match, a piece of fluff, a suggestion of lint, an unwashed plate or a carelessly dropped magazine disturbed its pristine tidiness. The records were stacked neatly, the edge of each sleeve flush with the shelf, arranged in faultless alphabetical order.

  The dirty clothes in the laundry basket were folded as fastidiously as the dresses in a bride’s suitcase.

  Gerrard, sitting at the desk, continued work on the fourth draft of an ever lengthening article which he planned for world release. It had many titles. The current one was “A Machine Built for Freedom”. The title, of course, referred to the Kristu-Du. The treatise itself was gradually becoming less coherent and more obscure, as it attributed almost mystical power to the great domed building. What had begun as a simple analogy with a machine had long since ceased to be that. The building was a machine, an immense benevolent force capable of overthrowing tyrannies and welding tribes into nations.

  Now he was speeding through a long and difficult section on the architecture of termites in relationship to their social structure. The handwriting became faster and faster as the pen jabbed at the paper and stretched small words into almost straight lines. There was little time, a week at most, and the more he wrote the more he thought of that he should include. For now, today, it seemed that his faith had been well placed: the scenario was going through its first movement. As the site had at last been tidied, as most of the workers had left, the rumours had begun about a gathering of the tribes, and now today it had been publicly proclaimed. Gerrard read the morning newspaper with the tense elation of a man who is three good shots away from winning a golf tournament. He knew he was not there yet. Not yet. Not yet.

  But the gamble would pay off, it must pay off. It had not been an easy time and his faith in the scenario had been by no means constant, but a cautious inquiry here, a journey there, a piece of gossip from the minister, little odds and ends had confirmed the probability of the events the departed Wallis had predicted.

  If three months ago he had been despised at the site, he had become openly hated. If he had once been distant, he had since become rude. If once he had been insensitive, he had become ruthless. He was anaesthetized, a man running over hot coals towards salvation. The second shooting barely touched him, the reported beatings had become technical difficulties to overcome. A list had been compiled by the staff and the workers containing serious allegations about him. Even as he wrote his treatise this list was being released to the world press. Had he known, he would have considered it part of the gamble. As he introduced Pericles into the termite society, he was afire with faith.

  This time next week the Kristu-Du would have produced a new society. He prayed feverishly that it wouldn’t rain.

  10.

  It was happening.

  It was said that Oongala skulked in his palace afraid. It was said openly in the streets.

  Already the tribes had been gathered for four days. They camped around the Kristu-Du in their hundred thousands and inside it as well. Oongala’s army brought them water in trucks, and delivered food daily. Goats were slaughtered and fires lit.

  The minister was no longer to be found in his office and Gerrard found only a chicken clicking down the tiled corridors of the state offices.

  Tanks were in evidence in the town and helicopters hovered anxiously.

  Gerrard remained in his house, waiting for the call that would tell him Oongala was on his way to the site. One visit to the site had convinced the architect that he had nothing to fear about the accuracy of Wallis’s scenario. The mood amongst the tribes was distinctly hostile. Soldiers of the army were spat on and dared not retaliate. Gerrard himself, an unknown white man, was bustled and shouted at. The hatred thrilled him. Each curse brought him closer to the realization of his dream. He saw Itos talking to Berehvas, Joflas to Lebuya, and in the midst of such violent concorde he felt an excitement of almost sexual dimensions.

  Finally, on the fifth day, Oongala emerged from the palace, an uncertain parody of a triumphant smile on his huge cruel face. Gerrard, receiving his long-awaited phone call, followed the entourage in his Land Rover.

  It was not a sensible thing to do, to associate himself publicly with the ruling party, but he followed it like a child following a circus parade.

  The tribes waited sullenly, united beside and beneath the awesome dome.

  In the four days Gerrard had been away from the site many words had been spoken. As tribe spoke with tribe, brother with brother, as they fired each other with their common anger, their breath rose high inside the great copper dome. So many people, each one breathing, speaking, some shouting, singing, and from each the breath rose and was held and contained by the copper cupola.

  By the third day the roof of the dome was no longer visible to those who sat 1,000 feet below on the tiered steps. A fine mist, like a fog, hung there, a curious contradiction to the cold cloudless day outside.

  By the fourth day the mist had turned to a definite cloud. And Gerrard, had he seen this, would have immediately understood the enormity of the mistake he had made. For the copper dome was acting as an enormous condenser and the breath of the people swirled in strange clouds inside the dome, regarded with fear and apprehension by the tribes.

  Oongala entered the valley at precisely four o’clock on the fifth day, just as the weak sun disappeared behind the mountains and a sharp chill descended on the valley.

  He drove through the crowd to the door, waving and smiling. Their mood was uncertain, and if there was a little cheering there was also much silence. Oongala entered the Kristu-Du in full military uniform, one large man going to meet death with more courage than many would have thought him capable of.

  Gerrard Haflinger strode jauntily towards the building in a crisp white suit, not yet aware that he had built a machine that would keep these primitive people in Oongala’s murderous grip for another forty-three years.

  For at this instant the great clouds inside the cupola could hold the water no more and rain fell inside the Kristu-Du, drenching the drought-stricken people in a heavy continuous drizzle.

  Gerrard Haflinger had designed a prison, but he did not know this yet and for the eighty seconds that it took him to force his way through the hysterical crowd he still remained, more or less, sane.

/>   Crabs

  Crabs is very neat in everything he does. His movements are almost fussy, but he has so much fight in his delicate frame that they’re not fussy at all. Lately he has been eating. When Frank eats one steak, Crabs eats two. When Frank has a pint of milk, Crabs drinks two. He spends a lot of time lying on his bed, groaning, because of the food. But he’s building up. At night he runs five miles to Clayton. He always means to run back, but he always ends up on the train, hot and sweating and sticking to the seat. His aim is to increase his weight and get a job driving for Allied Panel and Towing. Already he has his licence but he’s too small, not tough enough to beat off the competition at a crash scene.

  Frank drives night shift. He tells Crabs to get into something else, not the tow truck game, but Crabs has his heart set on the tow trucks. In his mind he sees himself driving at 80 m.p.h. with the light flashing, arriving at the scene first, getting the job, being interviewed by the guy from 3UZ’s Night Watch.

  At the moment Crabs weighs eight stone and four pounds, but he’s increasing his weight all the time.

  He is known as Crabs because of the time last year when he claimed to have the Crabs and everyone knew he was bullshitting. And then Frank told Trev that Crabs was still a virgin and so they called him Crabs. He doesn’t mind it so much now. He’s not a virgin now and he’s more comfortable with the name. It gives him a small distinction, character is how he looks at it.

  Crabs appears to be very small behind the wheel of this 1956 Dodge. He sits on two cushions so he can see properly. Carmen sits close beside him, a little shorter, because of the cushions, and around them is the vast empty space of the car — leopard skin stretching everywhere, taut and beautiful.

  The night is sweet, filled with the red tail lights of other cars, sweeping headlights, flickering neon signs. Crabs drives fast, keeping the needle on the 70 mark, sweating with fear and excitement as he chops in and out of the traffic. He keeps his small dark eyes on the rear-vision mirror, half hoping for the flashing blue lights that will announce the arrival of the cops. Maybe he’ll accelerate, maybe he’ll pull over. He doesn’t know, but he dreams of that sweet moment when he will plant his foot and all the power of this hotted-up Dodge will roar to life and he will leave the cops behind. The papers will say: “An early model American car drew away from police at 100 m.p.h.”

  Beside him Carmen is quiet. She keeps using the cigarette lighter because she likes to use it. She thinks he doesn’t see her, the way she throws away her cigarettes after a few drags, so she can use the cigarette lighter again. The cigarette lighter and the leopard skin upholstery make her feel great.

  The leopard skin upholstery is why they’re going to a drive-in tonight. Because Carmen whispered in his ear that she’d like to do it on the leopard skin upholstery. She was shy. It pleased him, those small hot words blowing on his ear. She blushed when he looked at her. He liked that.

  He didn’t tell Frank about the leopard skin. He didn’t think it was good for Frank to know how Carmen felt about it. Anyway Frank hates the leopard skin. He normally keeps it covered with a couple of old grey blankets. He didn’t tell Frank about the drive-in either because of the Karboys.

  The Karboys have come about slowly and become more famous as the times have got worse. With every strike they seem to grow in strength. And now that imports are restricted and most of the car factories are closed down they’ve got worse. A year ago you only had to worry if your car broke down on the highway or in a tough suburb. They’d come and strip down your car and leave you with nothing but the picked bones. Now it’s different. If you buy a used car part (and you try and get a new carbie, say, for a 1956 Dodge) it’s sure to come from some Karboy gang or other and who’s to say they didn’t kill the poor bastard who owned the Dodge it came off. Every time Frank buys a part he crosses himself. It’s a big joke with Frank, crossing himself. Crabs too. They both have this big thing going about crossing themselves. It’s a joke they have. Carmen doesn’t get it, but she never was a Catholic anyway.

  The official word is not to resist the Karboys, to give them all your car if you have to, but you don’t see a man giving his car away that easily. So a lot of drivers are carrying guns, mostly sawn-off .22s. And if you’ve got any sense you keep your doors locked and windows up and you keep your car in good nick, so you don’t get stranded anywhere. The insurance companies have altered the wars and civil disturbances clauses to cover themselves, so you take good care of your car because you’ll never get another one if you lose it.

  And you don’t go to drive-ins. Drive-ins are bad news. You get the odd killing. The cops are there but they don’t help much. Last week a cop shot another cop who was knocking off a bumper bar. He thought the cop was a Karboy but he was only supplementing his income.

  So Crabs hasn’t told Frank what he’s doing tonight. And he’s got some of Frank’s defensive gear out of the truck. This is a sharpened bike chain and a heavy-duty spanner. He’s got them under the front seat and he’s half hoping for a little trouble. He’s scared, but he’s hoping. Carmen hasn’t said anything about the Karboys and Crabs wonders if she even knows about them. There’s so much she doesn’t know about. She spends all day reading papers but she never takes anything in. He wonders what she thinks about when she reads.

  There are more cars at the drive-in than he expected and he drives around until he finds the cop car. He plans on parking nearby, just to be on the safe side. But Carmen is very edgy about the police, because she is only just sixteen and her mother is still looking for her, and she makes Crabs park somewhere else. In the harsh lights her small face seems very pale and frightened. So Crabs finds a lonely spot up in the back corner and combs his thick black hair with a tortoiseshell comb while he waits for the lights to go out. Carmen arranges the blankets over the windows. Frank has got this all worked out, from the times when he went to drive-ins. There are little hooks around the tops of all the windows so they can be curtained with towels or blankets. Frank is ingenious. In the old days he used to remove all the inside door handles too, just in case his girl friends wanted to run away.

  They put down the lay-back seats and Carmen unpins her long red hair. She only pinned it up because Crabs said how he liked her unpinning it. He sits like a small Italian buddha in the back seat and watches her, watches her hair fall.

  She says, you’re neat, you know that, very neat.

  When she says that he doesn’t know how to take it. She means that he is almost dainty. She says, you’re sort of … She is going to say “graceful” but she doesn’t.

  Crabs says, shut up, and begins to struggle with the buckle of his motor-cycle boots. Crabs never had a motor bike, but he bought the boots off Frank, who was driving one night when there was a bike in a prang. He got them from the ambulance driver for a packet of fags. Crabs bought them for three packets of Marlboro. There was a bit of blood, but he covered it up with raven oil.

  Crabs really likes heavy things. Also he dislikes laces. All his shoes have zips, buckles, or slip on. When he was at the tech they used to tie him to the chain-wire fence by his shoelaces, every lunchtime. They tied him to the fence right in front of the Principal’s window and the only way he could ever get out was to break the laces, because he couldn’t bend down — if he bent down they kicked him in the arse. Crabs’s father was always coming up to see the Principal and complaining about the shoelaces but it never did any good. Once Crabs came to school with zip-up boots and they stole them from him so he had to wear the laces, for his own protection.

  The first film is crackling through the loud speaker and Carmen sits up near the front window with only her black pants on, her hair down, covered with a heavy sweet perfume she always wears. Crabs shyly eyes her breasts which are small and tight. He would like her to have big boobs, like the girls in Playboy. That is the only way he would like to improve her, for her to have big boobs, but he never says anything about this, even to himself. He says, help me with my boot. He is embarrassed to ask he
r. He knew this would happen and it was worrying him. He says, just pull. Normally Frank pulls off his boots for him. The boots are one size too small but they don’t hurt too much.

  Crabs lies back with his shirt off, his black jeans down, and one sock off while Carmen pulls at the second boot. Crabs is coming on fuzzy as he watches Carmen stretched back, her face screwed up with concentration and effort. He watches the small soft muscle on the inside of her thigh and the small soft hollow it has, just where it disappears into her pants.

  She says, hey, careful. The boot is still half on the foot.

  He is on top of her and she, giggling and groaning, manoeuvres sweetly below him, reciting nursery rhymes with her arse. He thinks, for the hundredth time, of the change that comes over her when she screws. Until now she is nothing much, talking dumb or sleeping or listening to the serials on the radio. It is only now she wakes up. And you could never guess, no matter how much you knew, that this girl would turn on like this. She sits around all day eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches or reading the Women’s Weekly or reading the Tatts results or the grocery advertisements. Crabs feels he is drowning in a sea of honey. He says, “humpty-dumpty”. Carmen, swerving, swaying, singing beneath him says, “Wha?”

  Crabs says, bang, bang-bang-bang.

  Carmen, her mascara-smudged eyes blinking beneath his mascara-smudged lips, giggles, groans, arches like a cat.

  Crabs says, bang, bang, bang-bang.

  Carmen arches. Crabs thinks she will break in half. Him too. She falls. He rolls and keeps rolling down to the left hand side of the car. He says shit, oh shit!

  The car is on one side, listing sharply. Carmen lies on her back, smiling at the ceiling. She says, mmm.

  Crabs says, Jesus Christ, someone’s knocked off the wheels, Jesus CHRIST.

  Carmen turns on her side and says, the Karboys. So she knew about them all the time. She sounds pleased.