The Point (15 page)
What you boys up to?
Oh, just drivin’ round.
Just drivin’ round?
Yeah. Bit light yet.
Julian giggled. His face helped the monkey effect, being brown and a bit squashed up and inclined to crinkle up and show his teeth in meaningless grimaces.
Say, Ham. Wanna come poofter bashing with us? Down the toilets in the park?
Na. Not tonight. Got a few things on.
Bet this’s more fun.
Maybe.
The traffic moved, Steve accelerated three metres, then braked violently so they all flopped forward.
See ya.
Later, bud.
Awesome.
Steve gunned the engine and the car roared off, but very slowly, in its place in the line of cars. Hamish and Oscar sat at a cafe table and ordered coffees. They rolled cigarettes, skinny ones out of packets of natural tobacco, plus some of Hamish’s special herbal blend, as he liked to call it.
Not a great idea, said Oscar.
Nooo. But try telling them that.
Yeah. Oscar sighed. It’s too crude. You wish they could get their brains round something more than the disgusting gratification of their primitive urges to violence. They haven’t the foggiest notion of the idea of the universe, or their puny role in it. That’s where some inkling of philosophy, some notion …
Hamish said: Chad’s been putting in some time on the web.
Well, maybe there’s hope.
And Julian’s a bit of a nerd. He seems to have the odd clue.
Still, a baseball bat and a queer, time they grew out of that as the ne plus ultra of fun.
Raoul Garvan came and sat at the table with them.
Did I see you conversing with a heap of coprolite, he asked.
If you mean that shitty pile in the VW, yes you did.
They reckon they’re off poofter bashing in the toilets in the park.
They may learn to chill out, one day, said Raoul.
It’s certainly not cool, bashing poofters in toilets, said Oscar.
Not nice for the poofters, either.
Young Chad can’t help it, said Hamish. He comes from a shocking family background.
He’s your brother, for fuck’s sake.
Chad and Hamish looked about as much alike as the Marx brothers, Chad a pretty Harpo with fair soft curls and Hamish a calmer Groucho with a number one haircut in a dark brush over his skull. Raoul’s hair was dark too, but long and floppy, he and Hamish were the ones who looked liked brothers, being slender and angular in their movements.
That’s how I know, said Hamish.
And it means bugger-all. You live in a large mansion in Red Hill and want for nothing. The butler wiping your bum.
It’s the mental cruelty. You know that’s the worst kind. Low self-esteem. Parents making money, paying no attention to their children. Chad’s a fucking mess. He needs help.
What about you?
Probably I do too. But at least I’m trying to get my fucking head together. Working through my problems. I’m becoming a vegetarian – and if you want mental cruelty, you should see the angst that’s causing.
A big growing boy like you needs red meat, you’ll
get sick, you’ll get feeble in the wits, you’ll fail your exams, don’t
think we can support you all your life, a big hulking boy like you
needs to take a bit of responsibility for himself.
Sounds familiar, said Raoul.
But I’m sticking to it. I reckon it’s having a purifying effect.
Getting rid of the toxins, said Raoul.
If you look at the people were vegetarian, said Oscar, you’ll see that they could think.
Who?
Well, um, Gandhi. George Bernard Shaw. Bertrand Russell, I think. Aristotle?
Hamish dug in his pocket and took out some pills that he passed around. They sat smoking and drinking coffee. It’s quite excellent, this coffee, said Oscar. I’m trying to cut down to three cups a day but it’s so excellent.
There were a lot of people walking past. It’s quite a
passeggiata
, said Oscar.
A tall thin boy waved at them, Hi, Damian, they said, but he didn’t stop.
Hamish leaned his head into the group. You know Damian’s been off heroin, he’s got himself on a methadone program, you know, the legal thing, you have to go to the hospital or somewhere and they give it to you in a little paper cup and watch you swallow it. No takeaways, you can’t even go on holiday. He was telling me that some of the people don’t swallow their dose, they hold it in their mouths and go outside and spit it out and people buy it from them, for injecting.
Eech, said Raoul. Injecting other people’s spit.
Dirty needles is one thing, but injecting spit, wonder what it does to you.
A neat subversion, said Oscar. My body and my blood I give to you … I’m thinking of writing a play, about drugs and sharing, this special form of communion that somehow has gone bad, not for us, I don’t mean, we can handle it, but for a lot of people. What sort of fucked up world is it when sharing is a dirty word?
They went home to Oscar’s place. His mother wouldn’t be back till late; she’d put her head in and see them at work over the computer, say a few words and go to bed.
Oscar was writing a piece about nitrousing out for the chat room they’d set up. But first they sniffed some of the gas out of soda siphon bulbs.
That’s wicked, breathed Raoul.
You can see the whole edifice of the argument, said Hamish, storey on storey, with the fastidious attention to detail of a Sullivan skyscraper, all cornices and pediments and strictly within the heritage of the Greeks and all the freedom that implies and yet with a modernity all its own.
It’s the detail, said Raoul. Being able to hold multiple factors in your mind at once, not to mention the visualisation of the abstract. You can even see the force of gravity.
They were at work when Laurel came home.
The interplay of
thought in the particular mental environment that such an altered
state of consciousness can construct
…
Night, Mum, said Oscar.
Goodnight, Mrs Luft, said Hamish and Raoul.
Such polite boys, thought Laurel. Why should that seem somehow sinister? Don’t stay up too late, guys, she said, you don’t want to be working too hard.
Though she wasn’t certain it was work they were doing.
The three of them were sitting on the same cafe terrace in Manuka several evenings later when a girl wrapped in a thick long grey cardigan sat at their table. She spoke to them in a soft voice, almost inaudible. They looked at her, not saying anything. She spoke again, pulling up the sleeves of her cardigan. What she was saying looked urgent. The young men glanced at one another, then said something, with a jerk of the head in the direction of the underground carpark. The girl gave a small smile, and went off.
That was how Gwyneth found someone to sell her some of the tablets she needed. She used the money she stole from the restaurant. There was a computer to do up the bills, but there was also money in a drawer. Gwyneth had found it, late one night; she crept in, just to look, the restaurant was empty except for man and a woman doing some strange dance outside on the terrace. She didn’t take all the money, just as much as she thought she’d need and a bit extra.
Flora said, Do you like picnics?
Jerome said yes, though in truth he hardly knew. He never went on them. But a Flora picnic, like any Flora food event, would be a wonderful thing, not to be missed. And anyway it would be with Flora, so it had to be a pleasure.
We’ll go into the country, she said. I’ll bring food.
They went to Paddy’s River, to a sunny hollow on the bank of the creek. They had to go early, said Flora, because in winter the sun suddenly sank behind the mountains and it was straightaway gloomy and cold.
She brought a cane basket. In it were two large white linen napkins, two long-stemmed wine glasses, two faïence plates, two horn-handled knives, three pears, a piece of Parmesan cheese in a blue china jar with a cork lid, a chunk of sourdough bread, a small flask of olive oil, and a ten-year-old bottle of pinot noir from Martinborough in New Zealand. She’d brought a thin old kelim rug to sit on, with cushions to match, in faded pinks and khaki greens.
You pulled off a piece of bread, dipped it in oil, chipped off some Parmesan, sliced a pear, and ate these things and drank the wine. It was an amazing picnic indeed, but not the amazing opulence and variety and feasting Jerome had expected. Luxurious, of course, but also strict and plain. Jerome had noticed before how little Flora ate. A piece of cheese, a morsel of bread, a couple of slices of pear, her share of the wine. Jerome ate more, on this occasion, but not a great deal. There was something in the austerity of the food, and at the same time the glamour of it, that demanded attention be paid. You couldn’t gobble up a picnic like this, lie back and sigh and snooze in the sun; it required a measured response. Everything had to be tasted and savoured, along with the utensils, the satiny polish of the linen napkins, the crystal ping of the glasses, the faïence plates with their rather worn paintings of pheasants and garlands of flowers.
You should do picnics, he said. Flora’s Takeaways. This is exquisite.
It’s not everybody who could appreciate it, she said.
And of course she was right. Jerome was not sure he was all that good himself. He’d have liked more to eat. One of Kate’s
religieuses
, perhaps, only not miniature, with their two fat rounds of choux pastry filled with cream custard and coated with coffee icing. He wondered if the nuns were as plump as the cakes named after them.
But the whole thing was charming, with the river running over and around its stones and that marvellous quiet noise that only nature can manage. The sun-warmed hollow, the cushions to recline on, another glass of the pinot noir. And talking.
Jerome loved the murmuring of their voices. The way talking to Flora was like his own thinking, natural, revealing, a game and full of learning too because it made him think about the ideas he talked about. At the same time as it was edgy and self-critical.
Do you ever worry about your clients, he asked.
Worry?
Well … their crassness.
Blokes in suits with plenty of money and smug about what it can buy them? Women ditto? Oh yes. I’ve thought about them, and … well, you’ll probably think this is a bit grand of me, but, you know, art has its price, and I need people who can afford to pay it. I’m not exactly saying that the end justifies the means, not if it’s immoral, or wicked, or cruel. But it’s like Michelangelo, he was paid by that pope …
Julius.
Julius who probably wasn’t a good man or at all nice, popes weren’t in those days, and certainly into self-aggrandisement in a big way. But he was where the money came from, and artists need money. And what about the Medicis? I bet they had a lot in common, except maybe scale, with my customers. And possibly more actual literal murders.
Short sight, said Jerome. The Medicis. That’s what made them patrons of the arts. They were gouty too. They didn’t have the eyesight or the physique for hunting and battle. Didn’t like being on horses so acquired paintings to look at instead.
Flora laughed. Well, the Medicis. Being venal and vain, the getters and keepers of this world. And if I see myself as an artist, an artist–craftsperson, well, I need their money or I can’t keep on doing what I do. I’d love to have the place full of beautiful sensitive poets, but their art mostly doesn’t allow them to afford my art.
Very elegant reasoning.
You think it’s some sort of justification? A rationalisation? Filthy compromise? My customers aren’t so evil, you know. They’re rich. You’re rich …
Yes, but …
… being rich doesn’t make you an insensitive lout. Of course it might, or it might not save you from being one. But those people, Hugh, Terry, Marilyn, who come back week after week, they know what I do, they pay attention, maybe not as much as I’d like but that’s the cry of every artist.
Clay Brent?
I hate to say it, since his taste in most things is so loathsome it’d be better to be hated by him, but I think he probably knows what I’m up to.
Like Nazis liking Mozart.
Nazi might be a bit strong. Mozart’s okay. Bach might be better.
Jerome laughed. Flora’s voice was perfectly straight, but he knew this was a joke. Partly a joke.
Clay Brent, Brent Clay. He’s such a creep, he said. Archetypal slime. Practically primeval.
Maybe I should stop taking his money.
I suppose it’s as good as anyone else’s.
I’m not sure. I think it’s pretty dirty money.
I’m sure by the time it gets into your hands it’s nicely laundered.
I think dirty money is probably like Lady Macbeth’s hands. No way in the world can it ever be clean again.
Jerome made himself shudder, as though the slime was creeping over him. Flora burrowed her body closer. He said: What’s his sexual preference, do you know? I’ve never seen him with a woman, I mean not one who might be a lover, and somehow he doesn’t seem, well, I was going to say nice enough, or even charming enough, to be gay.
Children, said Flora.
How do you know, breathed Jerome.