Clowns At Midnight (25 page)

I was
choosing
this place, this moment,
choosing
to stay at Starbreak Fell. We had so much power, any one of us. The power to choose was always so powerful: to step away, to stay, to accept the reasons for staying—all choices, even when yoked to compromise and procrastination. Choosing until next time. Such power.

Then it came, came from the silence, made of the silence, perhaps from inside me as anywhere else. It was profound, vital and indescribably sinister. No, not sinister, complete, that was the word. It had a darkness to it, yes, but in the way that all complete things must have a dark edge or be lacking.

It was what you felt when you pulled over by the side of a country road on a deep summer’s day and stood listening, feeling winter and death drawn thin and sharp in all the burgeoning light and life, when you waited in a museum or art gallery when everyone had moved off a ways. It was what I felt now as I sat in this warm sun-littered spot and waited.

Apposite night. Incipient darkness. What Shakespeare had talked about: making midnight day and noontide night. This was the vivid other. Eloquent with what else it gave—deep down in the self. Read as fear and loss but more. Completeness. I was on Prospero’s island surrounded by Calibans, tired sad monsters laden with bells, tormented by Mirandas, at least one, teased by countless Ariels and, yes, by the edge of greatest knowing.

All that was there with the fear,
in
the fear. Such appropriate fear.

All the result of chemicals, I knew. All wrought by neurotransmitters sorting, shifting, bringing forth their payloads: feelings and perceptions, making whatever
was
for the self camera to record.

I stood and pushed through the ferns, continued down towards the house, certain that whatever happened now would be according to
my
choices. I would be as reactive and mercurial, as elusive, ruthless and absolute as the chemicals that determined fright and rapture—what was Carlo’s word:
athesauriston
?

There were no ambushes. No clowns stood off in the gloom. And just to be sure I was in the world, I didn’t slip under the electrified cattle fence. I jumped the thin white strand, then turned and touched it deliberately. The jolt was like a brutal corking of the arm, a sharp blow with a stick, but it felt good, felt real. Right then, just then, it put me four-square in the world
I
was choosing.

I had jaffles for lunch: my parents’ name for toasted sandwiches from a sandwich maker, an old Aussie childhood favourite. Moving about the kitchen, I realised what my next step with Gemma would be. I needed to see Raina, Raina who was always over in Lismore, always off visiting friends whenever I visited by day. While Carlo recited his spiels, embroidered all sorts of things so richly into our lives, what was Raina doing, Raina with her picnics and her fear of the tower, her unfailing support and her marvellous cooking? She was staying apart, being on hand only to reassure Carlo and set the cat among the local pigeons by mentioning someone named Zoe. But what else?

A women’s mystery, Carlo had said, wanting me to know that. Dionysos was brought to Athens by women, why not brought here too? That meant Raina’s fear of the tower, her being unwell when we found the petroglyph, might all be a ruse. Though perhaps the Night Sun glyph
had
surprised her as well; I had to allow the possibility. What else could it mean—not in itself, but for them? That was the real issue here.

But how to speak with Raina without Carlo being present? I recalled how cleverly I’d been manoeuvred out of being alone with her when we’d first found the carving. All I could think of was a letter left in the mailbox. I grabbed a page from the printer and wrote a quick note.

Dear Raina,

I’d like to talk with you privately about Gemma. I need a woman’s advice. It’s important. Please phone.

David

It was innocent enough. No mention of the tower or Dionysos. If she showed it to Carlo, or if he were present when she phoned, I’d have the perfect excuse to request a private meeting. No postmark, but that made it look hand-delivered in the usual rural way. It was the best tactic I could think of.

I worked through the afternoon, first on the
Mind Fields
piece, then on some new lyrics,
Breakheart Moon
and
Reaper’s Treat
, finally on the novel. The morning’s mood provided new energy for all of them.

At 6:20, I made myself a snack, then answered emails and watched television. When I set off to see Gemma at 8:52, I pulled over near the Risis’ front gate and left the envelope in the mailbox. Then I continued on into Kyogle.

There were lights on this time, or rather soft candle flames flickering behind insect screens in the open windows. Mood lighting.

When I knocked, Gemma answered almost immediately.

‘Hi. Perfect timing. I just got home. Come in.’

‘Thanks, Gemma. It’s good to see you.’

She took the bottle of wine I handed her and closed the door behind me.

It was happening. I was seeing her flat at last. The large living room had bookcases along two walls, stuffed with books and magazines, with lots of interesting objects on the shelves and atop cupboards. A comfortable, well-used lounge suite covered in cushions stood before a richly coloured rug, quite worn in places but obviously much-loved. There was a kitchen to one side, with a wooden kitchen table and chairs by one window, then a door to what was probably the main bedroom. A short hall led off to the bathroom and a laundry.

Next to a candle in a small ceramic holder on the kitchen table was a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘Let’s sit over here,’ Gemma said, indicating the table rather than the sofa and armchairs. ‘You can do the honours.’

We sat across from each other, just as we would in a restaurant. It did seem like that, with the soft lighting and the wine, and I realised that it was the best way to proceed. I removed the cork and poured us each a glass of chardonnay.

‘Thanks for this, Gemma,’ I said, handing her a glass. We raised them in a silent toast, each took a sip, then set them down to the side, away from our hands. It seemed we both wanted our senses undulled.

I regarded the large comfortable room, liking the Matisse print above the pleasantly cluttered bookshelves, and the two Rick Amor prints on the wall opposite, even approving of the fridge magnets and the dishes in the rack by the sink. They were all parts of a busy person’s world. ‘Did you have to put much away?’

‘Not at all. No masks. No clowns. Mr Baggins is in the bedroom; he’s a teddy bear. There are some figurines over there, but I doubt they’ll harm you much. I hope not anyway.’

‘Thanks.’

We small-talked then, Gemma about work and Melanie’s accident the night before, me about my novel and how the song lyrics were coming along. It was good to do, so normal, so easy considering. I didn’t want to mention Madame Sew or discuss private horrors. This was what I needed. The rest was for later, for another time. Curtains stirred in the gentle breeze. Crickets chirruped. Now and then there came the sound of traffic on Summerland Way. After ten, fifteen minutes at it, the conversation inevitably led back to our meeting in the car on Thursday evening. But before I could broach the subject, Gemma anticipated me.

‘Please don’t ask about Zoe,’ she said. ‘Not tonight. Please. Keep it easy for now.’

‘All right. But since I want to protect this, you probably should do most of the talking.’

‘So my laugh hasn’t put you off?’

‘Protective coloration. I’m sure you could lose it if you wanted to. You want to be seen as, well, less than optimum, I suspect.’

‘Protecting against what?’

I had to shrug. How could I be sure? ‘Accepting less. What we were talking about the other evening. Or your own appetites. I don’t know you well enough. You should tell me.’

‘I’m more interested in what you make of it on short acquaintance.’

‘That’s a bit one-sided.’

She looked at me over her glass as she sipped her wine. ‘You’re here now. I’m taking chances too. In fact there’s something we have to do later.’

‘Oh?’ She was teasing again, deliberately loading the atmosphere. ‘May I ask what?’

‘Certainly. You can kiss me. One kiss.’

‘One.’ It was both trivial and yet incredibly, unexpectedly erotic. She was going to let me kiss her.

‘Sounds prissy, I know, but it’ll tell a lot.’

‘Passionate? Gentle?’

She smiled and put down her glass. ‘Wet? French? You’ll decide. But just one.’

‘You’ll respond to it?’

‘Of course. It wouldn’t be happening unless I could respond. Makes it interesting, doesn’t it?’

‘It would have been kinder just to let it happen, then deliver the verdict. This way it may not be too natural.’

The smile slipped away. ‘David, this matters, okay? You say it matters too. Knowing that will make all the difference.’

‘Accountability.’

‘Close enough. If you had one kiss to give—to be your ambassador—how would it be?’

It sounded so melodramatic, so juvenile, and yet there was a powerful charge between us because it was coming, something to be given and taken. I made sure I didn’t touch my glass now. I needed my wits.

‘Why have I deserved it?’

‘Who said you had? It may be a gift. But I could ask the same thing. Why have I deserved your interest?’

‘I like you.’

‘
I
like you. Liking’s easy. It’s a yes-no. But see it from my viewpoint. It’s what we started talking about the other night. If this is a rebound, holiday romance thing for you, then I could be anyone. The world is full of suitable candidates. I need to matter more than that, and finding out takes time or a gamble. I may be more serious about the kiss than you are.’

Possibly one of the smartest things I’d ever done was not trying to answer that. I kept my hand away from my glass and let her continue.

‘I like your silence, David. You see, Carlo was right. You do show promise.’

‘Carlo?’

‘At that party you first came to. When you guessed our names.’

‘Right. Tell me about the kiss.’

‘Some of it, okay? How about this? We go from the general to the particular when we meet someone. You’re a stranger here. For you, I’m new. I’m both a woman and Woman, everything you want me to be. You get to know me, you see my limitations, my habits and idiosyncrasies –’

‘Meet Mr Baggins.’

‘Exactly. Then I become the latest version, the latest instalment of woman, the configuration of womanness you’re currently working at. I do the same with men I meet. We make do; we always make do with as much of what we need as we can find, with as much as the person we meet is capable of. But things get shut out pretty quickly, that lovely universal quality of first recognition. It gets shoved aside.’

‘How can it last? It’s projection, idealisation.’

‘Exactly. It exists only in the recognition, in the stranger. Most people can’t sustain it. Why should they? It’s the stupid adolescent yearning that powered courtly love and dooms so many people to searching somewhere else for what they already have. Did Julia become desirable again once you lost her?’

The question threw me. ‘Julia?’ I couldn’t mention Zoe but she could ask
this
!

‘Yes,’ Gemma said. ‘You were close. You were comfortable before the thing with Mike.’

‘Mark.’

‘With Mark. Were you passionate? Intense?’

‘Gemma, I –’

‘Were you?’

‘We were close. We were fond.’

‘Comfortable. Women grieve before a relationship is over, men do it afterwards. You were ready to move on too, but the loss of connection is so devastating. We see our death in it.’

‘Listen, Gemma –’

‘David, answer the question. Did she become alluring again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Exciting?’

‘Gemma –’

‘Exciting?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you go back to her?’

‘No. Not now. No.’

‘Why? Is it pride? Is it because she betrayed you? Forfeited your love? Because she doesn’t want you back? What?’

Because there’s you
. But I dared not say it. It was another thing I couldn’t afford to say. Words didn’t cover it.

‘So I’m here because I matter enough,’ I said.

‘Obviously.’

‘You’re hard with this.’

‘It matters.’

‘It’s all going your way. On your terms.’

‘Seller’s market. You’re too wounded. I have to be careful for both of us.’

‘That’s presumptuous.’ But I loved the intimacy of her words:
for both of us
.

‘How I see it right now,’ she said.

‘But you like me.’

‘That’s easy. It’s easy to make do. I want more.’

‘This kiss is going to be something.’

She smiled. ‘A real killer. Or not.’

‘Or not. How’s our timing?’

‘It can be soon.’

‘But I decide when?’

‘Has to be that way. Tonight I’m the queen bee. Lots of suitors.’ She saw my expression and smiled. ‘Figuratively speaking.’

Teasing again. We sat across from one another, not touching but going to.

‘You’re so sure of yourself,’ I said. ‘But you’re not calm with this either.’

‘No. But you want the restlessness. You aren’t easy, but you don’t want to be easy. It’s demanding; it’s exhausting, but you want to be at that edge. The same with me. Most people never choose it, never even know it’s there to choose. They never see it, and if they do they instinctively try to get rid of it, bland it over. You do the opposite. You keep yourself there.’

‘It’s my condition, Gemma.’

‘No, it’s more.’ She was so certain. ‘It’s a position. Your condition may have put you in it initially, but you want what it brings. It’s about intense recognition. Better seeing. It’s what I was trying to say in the car the other night.’

‘You’re more intense than I am.’

‘Not at all. You just have a medical condition to justify whatever you like. You can tuck yours away behind catch-all, convenient labels. What are the words again?’