Forbidden Fruit (21 page)

He blushed. ‘I don’t really know,’ he began. ‘There is always something that catches my eye, to begin with, something that I know I want to convey. Meroe, for instance, she has a core of perfect stillness and silence. It’s hard to see because she is always moving and talking and doing things. So when she sat down to think about a spell and Belladonna climbed onto the chair, she looked like the Isle of Man queen, and I caught it. The stillness.’

‘I thought the same. What about Mrs Dawson, then?’

Immaculately attired in evening dress, a long swoop of cinnamon crepe caught at the shoulder by a huge Minoan brooch, a wrap of superfine dark brown wool, she was standing with her back to sunset. The golden light flowed all around her. She looked distant, somehow, as though she belonged to an older world.

‘I wanted the light,’ he explained. ‘I wanted the elegance of the dress and the drape of the shawl, and the blob of gold of the brooch, against the golden light. But I also wanted her feeling that she is in exile, far away from the world she used to rule. A little wistful, but very positive.’

‘So it is,’ Daniel agreed.

‘Then, with Ms Webb, I wanted the clatter of the loom and the craft, the skilled effort.’

He had it. Therese was weaving something green. He had taken the picture through the weft threads. Her head was bent, her hair escaping from its plait, her clever hands on the warp. You could indeed almost hear the clack of the loom. She was going to love her depiction, especially since Kepler had caught the expression of benevolent interest from Carolus, her King Charles spaniel, sitting on the workbench beside her.

Next came Neptune. What would Kepler do with himself and his lover?

It was adorable. Kepler in a flowing ankle-length dark blue Chinese scholar’s robe, Jon in correct gentleman’s evening costume, down to the white tie. Jon was seated with his hands on his knees, clasping a book. Kepler was standing beside him with one hand on Jon’s shoulder and the other holding his camera. It was a Victorian family portrait—with certain differences.

‘And with Trudi I wanted her gardener’s patience,’ said Kepler.

Through the blossom-laden branches of the linden tree, Trudi sat foursquare on a seat. Her elbows were on her knees. She sat like a man, legs apart, boots firmly planted. A seed catalogue was open on her lap and Lucifer sat on her shoulder, also staring into space. You could see new gardens growing, seeds sprouting, flowers unfolding, in front of Trudi’s eyes.

Jason, wearing shorts and a tank top, was beating a mixture with a hand whisk. The basin was cradled in the crook of his elbow. He was smiling. His whole body was involved in the action; hand, arm, shoulder, torso. His background was the unaltered 1920s kitchen of his apartment. There was a rabbit sitting at his feet, leaning against his ankles. Its eyes were half shut and it appeared to be very content. Jason was a picture of youthful energy and enthusiasm.

‘And Rowan …’ Kepler just made a gesture.

Fast asleep, Rowan and his books reposed under a tree. He was lying on his front, legs outstretched, and his head was on a textbook. He was undoubtedly carrying out that ritual which says that if you put the book under your pillow some of the knowledge will seep into your head while you sleep. I had tried it myself. It never works. He looked about twelve, infinitely vulnerable.

‘Where are we going to mount it? Can I buy a copy?’ I asked. Kepler blushed again. I forced money into his pocket. This was a work of art and I really needed a copy. Then we ate some of my little ricotta and spinach munchies, of which I always keep a supply in the freezer. We toasted Kepler and his skill.

They know that I have to get up early so the two of them packed up to leave fairly soon. Among the displaced papers which I was putting back on the coffee table, Kepler noticed the code which even the nerds had not been able to break.

‘You’re playing chess by phone,’ he commented. ‘That opening looks familiar.’

There was a dead silence and he looked up, wondering if he had said something wrong. He still has an endearing humility which we really don’t deserve. Kepler has better manners than most people I know.

‘Kep, it’s a chess game?’ demanded Daniel.

‘Yes. Of course. The character for the piece has been replaced by a number. c4 e5 is translated to e4 e5. Knight is N+6, K+5 Q+77 B+2 R+6 and so on. The pawn has no number, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I echoed, numbly.

‘Well, goodnight,’ said Jon, and the door closed behind them. Daniel dived on the code and began scribbling.

For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by

Alfred Noyes
‘The Elfin Artist’     

Despite the amount of sleep I had already managed, I went to bed at the right time, leaving Daniel muttering and moving pieces on my chessboard. And I slept all night. When I woke at four on Thursday I was refreshed. Well, as refreshed as I usually was at that hour.

Daniel slept on. I did the ordinary thing—I like ordinary things. My toast was topped with apple jelly, which I had made myself because no one seems to make it these days. Daniel had left me a note that he would be back for lunch. He was going to talk to the O’Ryans and buy a new phone and other useful things. Then, he asked, perhaps I would come with him to see Manny’s parents.

I thought that would be interesting. I myself had to see Meroe, and ask her about Mr Pahlevi and whether I ought to ask Sister Mary to recommend a hit man.

Jason was in the bakery when I came down. I asked him if he had seen his portrait. He grinned.

‘He’s real good, isn’t he, that Kepler? They were real good photos. Wish he’d take one of Sarah.’

‘You could ask him,’ I said unenthusiastically. ‘You all right for the spelt bread?’

‘Why are we making it?’

‘It’s low gluten without being no gluten,’ I told him. ‘Thus it will actually rise. Spelt is the wheat they grew in ancient Egypt, where they invented baking. And beer, of course. It’s historical.’

‘Right,’ muttered Jason, unconvinced.

‘No argument, Midshipman,’ I barked, ‘make it so!’ and he saluted and complied.

We worked for a couple of hours, until the first sets of loaves were cooling and the second set were baking, and I had a cup of coffee and Jason had three onion rolls and a cheese sandwich with Gentleman’s Relish.

‘I’m going over to get some herbs from Meroe as soon as she opens,’ I said. ‘I thought we might make some herb bread. Haven’t made any for ages. Very nice with salads.’

‘It’s going to be hot,’ said Jason, opening the door to Calico Alley and letting the Mouse Police out. I heard Kiko or Ian put on Radio Nippon, which meant it must be six am. Jason was right. It was already scorching in the alley. Oh, goody. The air conditioning in the bakery was so effective that I hadn’t noticed the outside temperature.

‘Is it all right if I stay on today and do some experiments?’ asked Jason. ‘Only I need the big oven.’

‘You’re welcome to, and make sure you leave the cooler on,’ I told him. ‘What are you working on?’

‘I’d rather tell you later.’ He ducked his head. ‘I’ll feel like such a dork if it doesn’t work.’

Glacé cherries again, I diagnosed. ‘All right, Midshipman, just don’t burn the place down. How are those Christmas cakes coming along?’

‘Got ten to sell today, Cap’n,’ he told me. ‘Ingredients cost a packet, though. I can’t put them out for less than fifteen dollars.’

‘Fifteen it is,’ I told him. ‘If we have to reduce the price you’ll just have to cut down on the fruit. Let’s see how they go. Get Kylie to do a sign: “Super-excellent Christmas fruitcakes from a master baker.” ’

‘I’m not a master baker,’ he protested.

‘Wanna bet?’

He blushed.

‘Make sure Kylie wraps them in the moss and then the cyclamen paper,’ I instructed. ‘I’m off to see Meroe, can you cope?’

‘Yes, sir!’ he said.

‘You have the bridge, Mr Midshipman,’ I ordered, and went out into the lane.

The Sibyl’s Cave is a grotto absolutely crammed with everything you might need for any kind of spell except voodoo dolls. Meroe instructs her clients that they must make their own dolls and cope with their own karmic backlash. There are sheep’s bladebones and green ink for writing to Pan and seashells and azure stones and crystals of all sorts, occult jewellery and magazines, notes on astronomy and astrology and cards, jewels and runestones for telling every kind of fortune from tarot to the Babylonian Mother
Cult. Today I had serious business and a puzzle and Meroe was alone. Belladonna was lying on her decorative back in the window, occasionally batting at some charms for success in business.

‘Meroe, what is that doll in a bottle about?’ I asked as I came in.

She answered me in a monotone.

‘The Sibyl of Cumae was so reduced by time and fate that she fitted into a bottle, and they hung her up against the wall of the temple of Apollo. And when the boys teased her, saying, “Sibyl, Sibyl, what do you want?” she said, “I want only to die.” It’s a little joke between Professor Monk and me. Blessed meet, Corinna.’

A Wicca greeting. ‘Blessed meet, Meroe, Bella.’ It never did to ignore a witch’s familiar. ‘I came for some of your herbs for herb bread and to ask you what we should do about Mr Pahlevi.’

‘I’ll get the herbs.’ She vanished into the back of the shop. I waved a charm for success in love at Bella and she batted it back with a skilled paw. When Meroe returned with the white paper parcel she said, ‘Sit down,’ and I did so, removing a pile of Wiccan literature from the chair.

‘When I was travelling with the Rom I was considered to be a half-breed,’ she said abruptly. ‘They did not accept me. Not entirely. I had skills and they could use them. But there were some who did not approve. One was this Pahlevi and his brother Roman. Some of the very conservative Rom consider that a witch must be a virgin and Roman decided to ensure that I was no longer a virgin and thus would have no power.’

‘Goddess,’ I said.

Meroe’s voice was quiet and calm. ‘On the way to my caravan, intent on rape, he somehow stumbled over a bear and the bear killed him,’ she said. ‘Pahlevi said I had cursed his brother. I said I hadn’t because I had not been aware of his intentions—or I would have. The camp master decided that I should leave and Pahlevi
should leave, and I came to Australia and have avoided him until now. Now he has found me.’

‘And what should we do about him?’

‘Nothing,’ said Meroe. ‘I am sorry about his brother but it was not my doing.’

‘What will he do about you?’ I asked, taking up my packet of fresh herbs.

‘Nothing but blacken my name,’ she said flatly. ‘You need not be concerned, Corinna. Merry part,’ she said inflexibly, and I had no other choice but to murmur, ‘Merry part,’ and leave.

I told Jason about this and he was not impressed, either.

‘He won’t just slag her off,’ he said, mixing his muffins with a long spatula.

‘Indeed.’

‘Not if he thinks she killed his brother,’ he added.

‘Yes.’ I laid out my big flat square of dough and chopped the fresh herbs into it. Yum. Essence of green. Mint, parsley, basil, a little coriander.

‘I reckon we ought to tell Daniel. And Sister Mary,’ he told me.

‘I will,’ I agreed. I rolled up the dough, slicked the ends together with water, and left it to prove before I sliced and baked it.

‘All right, then,’ said Jason, mollified.

The herb rolls smelt so magnificent when they were taken from the oven that I secured three for myself, then added another one.

The morning warmed and warmed towards hot. Curses. And some tasteless trader lost to all decent feeling had installed a loudspeaker and was playing those worthless Christmas carols at full blast far too near my door.

‘If I hear “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” one more time, Jason,’ I threatened, ‘I shall scream.’

‘Go ahead, Cap’n,’ he told me. ‘No one’s gonna hear. I reckon
we might shut the alley door and then … maybe we set up some interference.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked suspiciously. He was smiling his sunny smile, which was ominous. Jason has a very black sense of humour.

‘Just a little music of our own,’ he said, smiling (sunnily).

‘You are thinking heavy metal?’ I asked.

‘Sort of,’ he replied.

‘And you aren’t thinking of a shotgun blast to the speakers?’

He looked horrified.

‘Me, Captain? Use violence?’

‘All right then,’ I agreed.

Jason pottered about with my CD player and some electrical apparatus. Meanwhile, loaves and muffins got baked, the shop was opened by Goss, and people came to buy bread. The tinny music jittered along, advertising the merits of a ride in a single horse-drawn vehicle for those who had probably never seen a horse except at the races.

I don’t know where he found the CD. I would have sworn it wasn’t mine. But what came bellowing out of Jason’s speakers, twice as loud, was music for committing homicide by. In other words, Wagner’s Ring cycle, all huge chords, massive fugues, and voices belting out notes beyond what any human voice ought to be expected to reach.

The Nibelungen, it appeared, were back.

Trial by Wagner in no way resembles Chinese water torture. The assault is immediate and ferocious. However, after a while the ears grow numb. And all in all I would rather have a lot of Scandinavian people threatening each other with mayhem and doom than that sugary jingle jingle jingle.

Strangely enough, the customers seemed to quite like it. Several people sang along, and Jaye and Vic my old friends did an
impromptu Ride of the Valkyries on the path outside the shop—there isn’t enough room in Earthly Delights for extravagant artistic expression. Goss and I applauded. Jaye is taller and broader and Vic is smaller and thinner, Jaye is a femme and Vic very boyish, but they threw themselves into their roles with such enthusiasm that they looked like twins. They swooped and gathered the souls of dead heroes into their arms. I could practically see the horned helmets and the glitter of breastplates. They came in panting but pleased. They are vegetarians, I remembered, and I took the chance to ask them about my fellow tenants as I served them with herb rolls and seed bread.