Cairo (27 page)

At some point a grinning hippy handed me a joint as I waited in line to use the outside toilet. I was not a fan of marijuana, but I sucked on the joint gratefully. When the outhouse was free, I sat on the cold toilet lid for as long as I dared without incurring the wrath of those still queuing in the garden. From a hook dangled a string of Tibetan prayer flags on which were printed, supposedly, invocations to the goddess Tara in the Dzongkha language but might have been recipes for yak-butter tea or directions to Lhasa by road for all anyone knew. Every time I managed to forget what had happened earlier, the memory of it cuffed me like a furious lion freed from its shackles. I put my head in my hands. I might have wept; anything was possible. Anything.

Some time later I found myself in the kitchen, talking to a girl with black eyes. We had exchanged greetings before at parties,
and Naomi had always seemed to me one of those people rather enamoured of their burgeoning intellect. She wore a tight red sweater and smelled of fruity perfume and — rather more exotically — of five-spice powder. She was, I guessed, the type of person I would have studied alongside at university, had I bothered to enrol. This thought reminded me of the drive back from the animal hospital with Max and Gertrude after Buster had been shot, and the groups of students we had seen. Although only eight months earlier, it felt a lifetime ago, on the distant shore of my Rubicon.
Alea iacta est
, as Caesar himself is reported to have said as he crossed that river. The die is cast.

I was stoned, senses sharp and prickling, mouth uncomfortably dry. Every so often the physical world looked to be on the verge of melting or assuming a more gelatinous state; the chipped cupboards, the glinting sink, the fridge, all trembling at their edges. The black-and-white linoleum floor tilted and pitched.

In an effort to maintain a veneer of sanity, I forced myself to concentrate on Naomi. She was majoring in cultural studies at Melbourne University. I was acutely aware of the heat of her hip against my own. I feigned interest in her subjects, nodding and sipping my ghastly wine as she expounded on Roland Barthes and semiotics but, really, all I wanted was to retreat somewhere secluded with her. I had never found her that attractive before, but I longed for the type of solace that only another human can provide. If I could only lose myself for a short while.

‘It's very interesting,' she was saying. ‘You do a close semiotic analysis of, say,
Sale of the Century
, and you'll find that the project is nothing more than … Oh no. Is that that arsehole Max Cheever?'

I followed her gaze. Sure enough, Max had lurched into the adjacent lounge room and was instructing the redhead in the intricacies of the foxtrot. They were both drunk, and the room was far too crowded to attempt such a step. When they almost
knocked over a man, frowns of disapproval rippled from face to face. Someone called out, ‘Watch it, man!'

‘Do you know him?' Naomi asked me.

I was reluctant to admit my acquaintance with Max lest it jeopardise my chances of spending the night with Naomi, but figured it impossible to get away with a lie on the matter. Fortunately, she required no confirmation from me to elaborate on her antipathy.

‘He slept with a good friend of mine, Danielle, over summer. She was so keen on him and he promised her all sorts of things. Led her on. Turns out he's married to some mousey blonde. Ugh. Can you believe that? Bloody creep. I'd love to give him a piece of my mind. Dani was devastated. Lucky she's not here tonight …'

I remembered the letter addressed to Max that I had found in my apartment when I first moved into Cairo.
Dearest Max, Thank you so much for last night
. So that was who the mysterious ‘D' was.

‘He got into a fight with Michael Hutchence at a party in Brunswick last year,' Naomi continued. ‘When he was here to make that movie
Dogs in Space
? Hutchence got a bit sleazy with the wife and Max tried to punch him. I don't know. That's only what I heard. And anyway, someone said he hits his wife.'

I lost sight of Max and the redhead. It was late. Every table or window ledge was covered with ashtrays and empty bottles. A thick slab of smoke hovered above the heads of the remaining dancers in the lounge room. Hand in hand, Naomi and I wound our way through the crowd and cosied up at the top of the stairs. She was so warm, so soft. Her lips were sweet and fizzy, like cider.

‘Tom! There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you.'

Naomi and I turned to the voice. It was Max, standing a few steps below us and waving a bottle of beer around. His stance was precarious. The redhead was nowhere to be seen.

‘You know this guy?' Naomi asked me.

Max looked affronted. ‘Of course he knows me. This man here is pretty much my best friend. Come on, Tom. Let's go. I'm tired.'

Naomi pulled back from me, as if scorched. ‘You lied.'

‘Naomi, I —'

‘Natalie! My name is
Natalie
. Ugh, you're all the same.' She stood up, steadied herself against the wall and stomped down the stairs, pushing past Max, and disappeared.

Max wiped hair from his eyes. ‘Well, she's a' — he stopped talking to belch — ‘cute little firecracker, isn't she?'

It was only when we attempted to cross the road that I realised how drunk Max was. He could hardly walk. When at last I guided him to the car and shoved him in the back seat, my endeavour was rewarded with boozy cheers from revellers watching from the balcony.

Although the effects of the joint had worn off, I was still drunk and in no condition to drive. I did not, however, relish the prospect of getting Max home on foot across the park and figured I'd take my chances. Besides, it was almost five a.m. and there were few cars on the roads.

Unwilling or unable to sit up properly, Max collapsed along the length of the back seat, where he lay muttering and moaning to himself. I set off as carefully as I could, talking myself through each manoeuvre, as if in so doing I might assume the precision of an automaton. ‘OK. Indicate right. Turning here into Johnston Street. Easy does it. Car coming, that's it. Slow and steady …'

Waiting at a red light at the corner of Nicholson Street, Max loomed up from the back seat like Michael Myers in
Halloween
. I jumped in my seat. The car jerked and stalled.

‘Jesus, Max! You scared the hell out of me.'

His breath was hot on my neck as he leaned between the front seats. ‘Natalie, eh? She was a very pretty thing.'

Unimpressed, I restarted the Mercedes but waited until we had
turned safely into Nicholson Street before responding. ‘She said she knew you.'

‘Did she?'

‘Yes. You had a fling with a friend of hers called Danielle?'

He was unfazed by my knowledge of his affair. ‘Danielle! Oh yes. Now she was a real beauty. Absolutely in
credible
thighs.'

This was more than I could bear. ‘Max, why on earth would you chase other women when you're already married to Sally? She's …' I chose my words deliberately, barely able to stifle my outrage. ‘I mean, she's so great.'

Max harrumphed. ‘Oh, Tom. You're a sweet boy, but you're so …'

‘What? So
what
?'

‘You know. So bloody old-fashioned. So, I don't know,
boring
.'

I bristled. This was among the worst possible insults in Max's lexicon, one he invested with a moral dimension; rather than being a mere social inconvenience, banality was a spiritual failing. In his world it was preferable to be nasty, unlikeable, ugly, crazy — almost anything but dull.

‘You can't let yourself get all tied up with such nineteenth-century claptrap,' he went on. ‘It doesn't do anyone any good. And I bloody adore Sally. I miss her when she takes a bath. I miss her body, the smell of her, when she's not there. I would do anything for her and she would do anything for me. Anything at all.' Max stopped talking and sat back, doubtless feasting on memories of Danielle's thighs.

When I pulled up in Hanover Street, however, I realised he had passed out. I was tempted to leave him to sleep in the car, but relented.

There followed a long and frustrating rigmarole of coaxing him from the Mercedes and half dragging, half carrying him through the gate and up the outside stairs. Cursing drunkenly to myself, it
occurred to me that lugging him was perhaps akin to transporting a corpse and, at such a hateful thought, I dropped him to the concrete, where he landed with a fishy slap.

‘Ouch,' he grumbled. ‘Cold. So cold.'

Dawn was breaking, and the clouds above us were swollen with pearly light. Birds chirped and flitted from branch to branch in the trees; it was hard not to interpret their chatter as anything but mocking. Despite the cold, I was damp with perspiration. I wondered whether I should leave him there.

Then Sally was with us, barefoot, clutching a white fur coat about herself. She was wan, dishevelled, shockingly beautiful. I was troubled by her unexpected appearance. She, however, seemed wholly unsurprised to see us in such a state.

‘Darling,' she murmured, crouching beside Max. ‘Darling, come on.'

Max groaned.

Again Sally attempted to get him upright. She rubbed his shoulders, ran her fingers through his black hair.

Max got to his hands and knees. ‘I've done a terrible thing,' he muttered.

I stepped forwards, panicked. That precise moment, on a public walkway outside a neighbour's apartment, was neither the time nor the place for a confession. ‘Max,' I hissed.

Max gazed blearily at Sally, then at me. His lips were flecked with spittle. ‘I've done a
lot
of terrible things.
Beaucoup de choses
 …'

‘I know,' Sally said. ‘We all have, my love. But it doesn't matter to me.'

He grabbed her by the arm. ‘It was amazing, Sally.' He looked at me as if seeking confirmation. ‘Wasn't it, Tom?'

I was too petrified to speak. Eve's piercing voice drifted from the apartment across the garden, saying something about a protester, her voice muffled by glass.

Max smiled to himself and stumbled to his feet. Sally and I each took hold of an arm and managed to propel him into their apartment, along the hall and into the bedroom. He toppled facedown onto the bed and into a deep and oafish slumber. He was still wearing his rumpled gaberdine raincoat.

‘You need to keep an eye on him,' I told her as she walked me back towards the door. We stopped in the hallway.

‘Thank you,' she said.

‘It's nothing.'

She kissed me on the mouth. ‘No,' she said, ‘it's a lot and you know it.'

I wondered what she suspected. I felt that meaningful words needed to be said but, alone in her presence, I was overcome by shyness. She considered me with an expression resembling love, but not quite. Pity, perhaps. A long pause. Those divine fingers tucking loose hair behind her ear, a stabbing glimpse of her sloping breast in the fall of her coat, a waft of her sleep.

‘It's OK,' she said with a shake of her head, as if eager to dispel any sentiment threatening to cloud the situation. ‘We're almost there. It will be over soon.'

It was a small consolation. ‘And then what?'

She took something from her pocket and handed me a plastic bottle of Serepax. ‘Here. Why don't you take one or two of these? You look like you need some sleep.'

I took hold of her wrist. ‘Please answer me. What will happen afterwards? To us?'

She brushed me off. ‘Please don't.'

‘Do you know what happened last night?'

There was a shout from the rear of the apartment, followed by a thump. I backed away from Sally as Max appeared, more disorderly than ever.

‘Ah,' he said, spying me and staggering down the short hall.

*

‘Leave us,' he whispered to Sally before turning to me.

‘Max, I think —' Sally began.

He loomed over her. He raised a hand as if to strike her — indeed, she flinched ever so slightly — but he smoothed his hair instead. ‘Sally, please. I said:
leave
us alone for a second. I need to speak to Tom. It's private.'

Sally turned on her heel and stalked back towards the bedroom.

‘You shouldn't talk to her like that,' I said in a quavering voice.

Max gave me a withering look. ‘What did you say?'

I opened my mouth to speak but faltered before uttering another word.

‘Don't you worry unduly about my wife,' he warned, peering after her up the dim hallway. Then, satisfied we were alone, he fumbled in his coat pocket. ‘Here, put this back under the floorboards, will you. I forgot about it.'

I looked at what he held out in his hand. It was the pistol. Horrified, I shrank back.

Perhaps mistaking my disgust for mere reluctance to accept something that didn't belong to me, he pressed the pistol on me again. ‘No, no. It's yours. It's your aunt's.'

‘Max. I don't want that thing in my apartment.'

He grabbed and screwed up my shirtfront with unexpected violence. ‘Listen,' he said in a voice low and fierce. ‘What happened has happened. I did it for all of us, you included. And you're involved, whether you like it or not. You were there, my boy.'

The pistol was jammed into my ribs. I was too frightened to speak. When at last I could, I whispered, ‘Are you going to shoot me now?'

He scrutinised my face as if he'd forgotten who I was. Then he released his grip on my clothes. ‘Don't be ridiculous. I unloaded it before we left Queel's place, remember?'

I recalled nothing of the sort but shrugged nevertheless with
agreement or, at the very least, compliance.

‘It goes in a shoebox under a floorboard in the entrance hall. Beneath the rug. Wedge the board up with a butter knife and toss it in. Perfectly secure. Your aunt kept it for her own safety. Had it for years.'