Beyond Carousel (15 page)

‘What happened?' I asked.

Ed carefully returned his bottle to its coaster.

‘A lot of stuff went down in France during the sixties. The government was conservative. Had been for a long time. But the people were headed in another direction. They wanted to be progressive; to feel represented. So they protested,' he replied. ‘It started with the students. Protests. Rallies. Debates. And a lot of great artwork,' said Ed.

He paused for a moment. ‘Nobody protests like the French.'

‘Suddenly an award like the Prix de Rome seemed kind of bourgeois. It was restrictive and part of the establishment. Art was supposed to be challenging, not conformist. Gradually the people lost interest. The government abolished it in sixty-eight. But really, it was the people who decided.'

I took a breath and stared into space. I was wrapped
up in the story and the beer and had all but forgotten why he was telling me this.

‘For the art world, sixty-eight was a line in the sand. The sixties in general I guess,' said Ed. ‘But lately things have crept back into dangerous territory. Artists are being forced to chase fame harder than ever before. Fine art is all about winning awards and being represented by galleries. Cinema is full of sequels, prequels and remakes. Music has lost its gatekeepers, but also a lot of its soul.

‘You see, Nox, residencies don't exist so that painters can practise painting kings. They exist so that artists can be challenged. So they can be transported a million miles from their reality. Away from the stuff that clouds things over and makes all art feel the same. Not just the famous artists, either. All kinds,' said Ed.

‘But a while ago they stopped being able to do that,' said Ed. ‘The world needed a new kind of residency.'

He stopped and let these words hang in the air.

I looked at him.

‘You can't be serious?'

‘Afraid so,' he replied, eyes all sparkly.

‘So when is this
new kind of residency
supposed to finish?' I asked.

‘September second,' he replied.

‘This year?' I asked.

‘This year,' he replied.

‘Why?' I asked.

‘Two years to the day it started. The minimum length
of the Prix de Rome,' said Ed.

I felt dizzy and pressed down on my temples.

‘That's what I think. Not what I know,' said Ed.

‘Say you're right. What do we do on September second?' I asked.

‘Go back to your Residency. Take your art with you. It was customary for artists to present their work at the completion of their stay,' he replied.

‘To who? And then what?' I asked.

‘I don't know, Nox. But if I took a punt, I think that might be our ticket back home,' he replied.

‘Does everybody know about this?' I asked.

Ed shook his head gravely.

‘I tell who I can. But people have spread out. Bunkered down,' he replied. ‘I can't get to all of them.'

‘What month is it now?' I asked.

‘It's the first of July,' he replied.

‘Two months,' I whispered.

‘Two months,' echoed Ed.

We sat in silence. The bar was all but dark now. Bottles glinted with moonlight bouncing in off the street. A dog yelped somewhere distant and suddenly my mind jolted.

‘I have to find the Finns,' I said.

‘Taylor and Lizzy Finn?' asked Ed.

My head shot up. ‘You know them?'

‘Sure I do,' replied Ed.

‘Do you know where they are?' I asked.

‘A photographer told me about some twins that were staying in the city. It sounded like the Finns,' he replied.

‘When was this?' I asked.

‘A while ago now,' he replied.

I stood up and swayed backwards. There was a long line of empty bottles on the bar.

‘Steady there, Nox,' said Ed.

‘I need to get moving,' I replied, looking around for my bag.

‘It's dark out now. No place to be walking. Let's break some bread and we'll make our way to the city in the morning,' he suggested.

Ed didn't wait for me to reply. Instead he disappeared outside and returned with an esky and a small portable barbeque. I watched as he moved about the bar. He was a diminutive looking guy, but he had a serious aura. It made everything he said seem somehow grandiose and resonant. Talking to Ed was like hearing fables unfold. Things that sounded simple and obvious, but then when you thought about them they made sense of the world in a way that didn't seem possible.

No wonder people here called him the Curator.

I sat by as he fried eggs and salami by the light of an old gas lantern. We ate at a proper table and talked of football and politics like they were things that were still in our lives. Ed opened some wine and downed a couple of glasses while I sipped on mine carefully. The guy just didn't get drunk.

My head started to droop badly after dinner. Ed cleared the plates and tossed me a mat and blanket from his ute. I stretched them out on the floor, and spiralled rapidly into blankness as Ed took up his stool back at the bar.

The morning was bright and spiking cold. I woke and tried to shake off a hangover while I helped Ed load up his ute. He had said good morning, but otherwise been silent. There were clearly things on his mind that he had taken leave from the night before. When everything was packed into the ute Ed took a jerry can from the tray and started refuelling.

‘I can take you to the city, but then I have to head south,' he said. ‘There are Artists down that way that I need to get in touch with.'

‘Actually, if you could just drop me back at the casino, that would be great,' I replied.

Ed glanced at me carefully.

‘I have a friend there that I need to see before I go anywhere else,' I added.

Ed nodded and we set off through the remainder of Vic Park and down into Burswood. Being in a proper car again was nauseating. We were moving way too fast for my brain to process things. Ed seemed to notice my
discomfort. He put on some old Springsteen and slowed down a little. When I glanced across he had his arm on the window and the breeze on his face as if we were on our way to the beach.

In no time at all we were idling in the taxi rank of the casino. I pulled my bag out of the tray and returned to the window.

‘Thanks for the lift,' I said.

‘Anytime,' replied Ed.

‘Where will you go after the south?' I asked.

‘Think I'll track back north along the coast. People tend to stay close to the ocean,' he replied.

I nodded and lingered for a moment. There was something I had been putting off asking him and this was my last chance.

‘What do you say to the Patrons?' I asked.

‘Who?' asked Ed.

‘Patrons. The people that aren't Artists,' I replied. ‘Ah,' said Ed.

He took a breath and thought it over for a moment.

‘I don't know what to say to them, Nox,' he said.

We locked eyes for a moment.

‘Luckily I haven't met any yet,' he said.

He flashed a smile. The showman's sparkle in full flight.

‘Godspeed, Nox,' said Ed and pulled onto the dusty, abandoned highway. A spark of movement in a sprawling city still life.

‘You too,' I replied.

I stood there for a few seconds, then set off upstairs.

For once I felt vital. Not scared or sheltered or insecure. For once I had things I needed to do.

Rachel was mad about the golf cart. Fortunately the cold had almost taken her voice, so she couldn't really yell at me. For a while she tried, despite my explanations, but stopped when I told her I was leaving. I didn't know what to make of her reaction to my meeting with Ed. I explained his theory the best that I could but Rachel scoffed at the idea of leaving her penthouse to trudge back to Carousel. Mostly she just seemed pissed that the Curator was right outside and she didn't get to go down and knock his lights out or something.

It was sad, but not unexpected. I unpacked her shopping and left her be for a while. There were things I needed to sort out before I could take off anyway. Hopefully she would chill by the time I was ready to go.

Back in my suite I spread my things out across the carpet and started packing. Skeleton plans drifted in and out of my subconscious. I had hauled our bikes up from the highway and into the foyer a while back, but they would be rusty now and need greasing. I figured that I might be able to find something I could use in the kitchen. I had to pack light, but it was also winter, so I would need to stay warm at night. Perth could drop to zero on a clear night. What I really needed were some
thermals and waterproofing. There were stores for this in the city, but who knows what state they would be in.

Then there was the issue of food. I had been living pretty well in the casino, mainly thanks to Rachel's secret stash. Being on the road again would be a reality check. There were still some cans in the kitchen. Random stuff like beetroot slices and chestnuts. I could also take a stack of chocolate and nuts from the mini-bars. Water was the toughest thing. It would weigh me down like crazy, but it might take some time to find more in the city – especially if it had been populated for a while now.

My feelings towards the city were ambivalent. Tommy had made it sound unstable and dangerous. A rambling place full of Loots, falling buildings and broken gas lines. But Georgia's descriptions of the Collective were all warm and golden. She spoke of vegetable gardens, outdoor cinema and concerts by the fire. A futuristic Artist utopia. For some reason I had trouble buying this. Even more so when she sidestepped my questions about why she left. Ed hadn't been to the Collective for a while now but I didn't think he would have sent me there if he knew it was bad idea. Plus he knew people there – like the photographer that had mentioned Taylor and Lizzy.

Taylor and Lizzy were alive.

I had never truly thought otherwise. But Ed's confirmation sent a jolt deep down to the numbness that had started enveloping my core. I still had no idea what had happened during the fire. Where Lizzy and Chess
had got to. And why Taylor had never returned once she found them. I felt angry and needed answers to these things, but was also afraid of what they might reveal. In Carousel I had created deep-seated anxieties that channelled right into this stuff. A life in the penthouses alongside Rachel offered a buffer to these insecurities. But meeting Ed had confirmed that this could never be permanent. Irrespective of whether his theory on the Prix de Rome was true, there was no sheltering from this new world. It was changing too fast. Pivoting dramatically and spitting off into new directions. The survivors had to manoeuvre and adapt. And I was one of them.

Yet something about Ed's theory rang true. A city full of Artists held captive to create works in the ultimate Residency. Perth seemed the perfect place for this. Already one of the most isolated cities on the planet. Severed from the world by ocean upon ocean, desert upon desert. This took the isolation to a disturbing new level. And, if Taylor and Lizzy's album was any indication, the idea had worked. It was fantastical and ridiculous, but also the perfect explanation to the chaos that surrounded us. The problem was that Artists had finished ahead of time. They were out in the world now. A world that didn't yet know what it was.

I headed to bed early that night but couldn't sleep. My gear lay packed and ready on the floor beside me and an ominous southerly was blowing in against the balcony. I had spent a while in the bathroom earlier. Washing and shaving and trying to assess how I looked. My hair was long and messy. It had faded in colour during the summer, while my skin had done the opposite. I was still lean, but had put on some muscle in the chest and arms during my stay. Dressed another way I could have been mistaken for a surfer.

I sat up and hit the light on the barman's watch. It had been dark for a while now, but was only just after eight. The broken chatter of TV drifted across from Rachel's room. Probably
Supernatural
or
True Blood
. Rachel was big into fantasy.

I felt a growing guilt about leaving her alone at the casino. It was unfounded and irrational, but I couldn't shake it. Rachel didn't need me, or anyone else. But she had saved my arse in the gaming room, and let me
mooch away her diesel in the penthouses, when she didn't have to do either. Now I was taking off to find the Finns and get the hell out of this bizarro reality before it was too late. I felt like I had to try and sell her on Ed's theory at least one more time.

The hallway was dark and draughty. I slipped out into it and traced my way to Rachel's door. Rachel ran the TV loud. I got every line of dialogue as I stood outside and knocked. After my third attempt the door shifted inward.

I stepped inside to find Rachel shuffling back to the couch, eyes still fixed on the TV. I followed her over and took a seat on another sofa. She was engulfed in a sea of snack food, throat lozenges and tissues. A strip heater beamed up at her from the floor, bathing the couch in heat and tanning-salon-orange. She was watching
Supernatural
. It seemed pretty dramatic so I didn't attempt a conversation, instead watching quietly until the credits rolled and she got up to pour herself a drink in the kitchen.

‘I'm heading to the city in the morning,' I said. ‘I was wondering … The Finns and I could stop back here on our way through to Carousel.'

‘Why?' asked Rachel.

‘You could come with us to Carousel. I know it all sounds like bullshit, but it would only take a day or two to check it out,' I replied.

Rachel swallowed some pills and started fishing through her drawers.

‘You can cut my hair before you go,' she said.

‘Sorry?' I replied.

‘My hair, Nox. It needs cutting,' she replied.

She found some scissors and made her way to the bathroom.