The rose hip tea tasted sweet and sharp, and, by now, comfortably warm. Christine saw her fingers red, felt them warm, as she withdrew the cup from her mouth.
Diana had her back to the window. Flowing past her and into the room, a steady orange sunlight was interrupted by the occasional white flash reflected from the traffic outside.
"You have a nice house. You are here alone?"
"Sometimes."
"I mean, there is someone who shares the rent."
"I know. I'm just being difficult."
"That mean streak of yours."
"I suppose." Christine tried not to react, but this piece of perception, if you could call it that, pleased her. "I used to share with a lover, but that's been over for months." She exaggerated. It had been only a matter of weeks since Carrie had left her, but Christine did not want to frighten Diana with the prospect of a freshly injured heart. "I'll stay here by myself for a little while. I might clear out the spare room and get someone in. I might find another lover." Diana smiled, rising easily from the deep chair. Christine followed her with her eyes. "But I'll probably move out - I can't afford it much longer." Diana took a few paces across the carpet, and Christine saw that the talk and the tea had done her good.
Without looking at the Man Ray shot that most people could not keep their eyes off, Diana crossed the room. Her short, black coat rested evenly across her shoulders, then fell in a line where her spine curved inward, leaving the pleated hem to rest on her blue-jeaned buttocks. A lovely, straight back Christine thought.
Diana examined the stack of records. Nearby on the shelf was the picture that had attracted her attention earlier, a photograph of a middle-aged woman with straw coloured hair; she had some cards splayed on the table before her, and she was looking out of the frame and into the world. Diana flipped through the records, and in the process turned the photograph aside: "And your no-longer-lover is not that man you were with last night?"
"No," Christine laughed. "God no. I don't have male lovers. Not since I discovered women." Diana continued filing through the records. For Christine, it was hard to know what this non-reaction meant. Some women were shocked when she told them about her sexuality, and some were shocked and then ashamed of their own reactions, then made excuses to get away. Some women thought they'd be raped. Others were simply interested, and some women, gay or straight, became very interested indeed. Christine was proud of her ability to spot a dyke. She looked at Diana and could not make up her mind. Then again, she thought, there are dykes and dykes.
Diana took out a record. "Do you mind?"
Christine recognised the Brahms piano trio. "Go for your life."
Diana looked over the amplifier, the little mixer. Christine's knees clicked as she rose to help.
"No need," and her muscles formed a defined column up her neck as she turned her head. "I am rather good with technical things. It is just Input and Output, is it not?" Christine watched as Diana turned on the amp and the mixer, chose the correct turntable and settings. Soon, the first sliding, gentle notes of the piano were answered in layers by cello and violin. Like coloured lights overlaid on water.
Still standing, Christine tried to get a focus on Diana's aura, but the music-colour distracted her. Diana moved closer, stepping into a square of strong light cast from the window, and Christine's eyes were slow to readjust. A truck went by, like a shutter.
"So what is this fellow's name?" Diana asked, returning to her chair.
Christine sat again as well, with the feeling that she had somehow been permitted to do so.
"Who?"
"The fellow you were with last night."
"That's Jonathan. He writes lyrics."
"And you write music."
"That's right. If we stick together we could be small."
"You are not ambitious?"
"He is, in a meandering kind of way. I guess I am too. Writing songs is fun, and I reckon we'll find a few bands around town who'll play them. Fame and fortune is a bonus, that's the way I see it. At the moment we're just concentrating on getting that first band. Shit!" She remembered. "Pia, she's a friend, she's expecting me to pick up some gear. Are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
"Jonathan and I have some recording to do. I just..."
"I am fine, fine. I'm sure."
"Good, 'cause I'd really better get going. I'll ring you a cab."
"I only live in Victoria Street. I can walk."
"Walk my arse! You'll wreck my good work. I'll ring a cab."
"Thank you. You have been very kind to me."
Now Christine realised that she had moved too fast. Diana could be gone for good. The business with Pia could wait; she had not intended to mention it. Having let it out, she had backed herself into a corner. "Listen," she thought fast, "the Young Turkeys are doing one of Jonathan's old songs Saturday at The Rose. I was thinking of going. He'll be there too. Would you like to come?"
Diana smiled: "I would love to."
After half an hour the cab tooted out front. They had hardly left their seats before the horn peeled out again, long and loud. On the footpath, Christine felt the hardness of Diana's grip as they shook hands goodbye. Christine looked into the black centre of her eyes, but did not get a second glance. Diana squeezed her hand sharply, and Christine's hand relaxed, retreated in response. Diana slid into the back, and was gone.
The memory, the nerve-echo of her grip, lingered on her skin - those hard, fine bones, hard as the door handle she now twisted open, and clicked shut. She walked across to the stereo, returning the Brahms to its sleeve. She straightened the stack of records, and restored the picture of her mother to its usual place on the shelf. Christine's reflection on the glass shielding hovered above her mother's image. The photograph was an arm's length away, her fugitive reflection was twice that - an arm's length to the glass and an arm's length beyond, at once before and behind the image of her mother. Christine's eyes adjusted and re-adjust as her focus shifted. Her hand on the frame began to perspire, and she released the picture, examined the faint sheen of her palm, then wiped it dry on the back of her jeans.
When she and Diana said their goodbyes, Christine had looked into Diana's perfect eyes. There were lots of things about eyes that could make you want to look closer - clarity or milkiness, colour or penetration, or Jonathan's knack of being big-eyed and squinty-eyed at the same time. None of these things matched Diana. Christine had become aware that her gaze was deepening into Diana's black pupils. Something.
Christine felt a warm, damp sensation about her ankles. The softness slid across her shins and between her legs.
"Hello Annabel," reaching down to scratch beneath her cat's up-help chin. "Now. Where have you been?" Annabel, looking sideways, towards the closed door, said nothing.
Moon: Waxing Gibbous
6 "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."
The head Turkey said 'two' into the microphone as Christine set down a schooner for Jonathan and one for herself: the all-important second beer.
"Do you think she'll show?"
"Why shouldn't she?" Christine said, craning her neck and leaning forward to get a look at the stage gear.
"Would you like me to leave early?"
"No need," glancing back at him. "I think it's you she's interested in anyway. Although, frankly, I can't see the attraction." And she twisted on her chair to inspect the hardware, a smile upon her face.
"Did you get Bruno organised?" she asked, this time without turning back.
"Gave him the four-track," Jonathan rolled his schooner glass between his palms. "This week some time, he reckons. Whenever the studio's free. Tonight if we're lucky."
"Right," and she glanced back again. "Tonight then. I feel lucky."
"Beautiful. It's good to at least feel lucky." Christine snorted, returned her attention to the stage set-up.
The 'stage' was a wooden wedge raised about half a metre off the floor, jammed into a corner. The Rose was an old pub and the bar took up far too much room, built so a battalion of bar-staff could contend with the six-o'clock swill. From her table, sitting back in her chair, Christine could see a stack of speakers and the profile of the singer, but not much else. The other side of the pub was for dancing or for standing. Out the back there was plenty of room, among the pool tables and the card machines, but if a glimpse of the band was to be had from there, it was a wild accident, not to be counted on a second time.
The Young Turkeys were a punk/country/surf outfit. They regularly played Jonathan's first publicly performed song: "Since You Left Me, You 'Bin Gone", written before he had struck his partnership with Christine.
Christine and Jonathan had met through her old day job at the Bondi CES. This was a highly seasonal operation, and she liked to think of it as the new agriculture. Business would begin to build through spring, reaching a frenetic peak by February. Then winter set in, the full-time jobs returned to the market, and the seasonal clients migrated north.
In December, tempers and temperatures vied for supremacy, and it was one December that Jonathan's telephone enquiry was mistakenly put through to her. His dole had been cut off due to his tremendous earnings as a full-time song writer and part-time exam supervisor. Christine listened as he complained bitterly, although, really, it had nothing to do with her: she was doing him a favour just by taking the call. When she told him so, he told her a thing or two. She said she was a public servant, not a public slave. He said, right, I'll see what I can do to make your life easier, make a few calls, pull a few strings. She told him he was a fucking idiot and should piss off and bother some other poor sucker. He said 'don't you abuse me over the phone', and she said he could come on in and she would abuse him in person if he preferred. He said, right, that was fine by him. It was fine by her. Right. Right. And so they became friends.
Christine and Jonathan each felt on their fingers the air's moisture, condensed to liquid on the hard glass, as they drank: Christine, in long, slow draughts, Jonathan at a quick gobble. A kind of harmony of consumption. They wanted something to do besides wait.
"Another?"
Behind the black speakers, the drummer hit his sticks for the beat. On 'three' the bass slid down an octave, on 'four' the kick drum got a belt, and on 'one', the Young Turkeys launched into "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance".
No comments:
Post a Comment