Slow Man Page 16

  Marijana does not respond. He cannot remember her ever responding to his humour. Is he too frivolous for her taste? Does she find him too light, too lightweight, too much of a joker? Or is she simply not sure enough of her English to bandy words? It is just a game, he should tell her. Badinage it is called in some quarters. You should join in. It’s not hard to play, it doesn’t require a change of soul.

  Marijana’s soul: solid, matter-of-fact. Miroslav less earthbound. Miroslav, who spent a year of his life putting together a duck out of cogs and springs, and appeared with his pet on Croatian television, must surely have a sense of humour. Drago too, with his wild, constrained laughter. Drago tossed between father and mother. A good tennis player, Marijana says. Back and forth. Three Balkan types. Three Balkan souls. But since when has he been an expert on lightness, or on the Balkans? ‘Many Croatians,’ says Peoples of the Balkans, ‘will deny that Croatia belongs to the Balkans. Croatia is part of the Catholic West, they will say.’

  ‘Always fighting,’ Marijana is saying on the telephone.

  ‘Fighting? Who is fighting?’

  ‘Drago and his father. Drago say he want to come stay in your store room.’

  ‘In my store room?’

  ‘I say no. I say Mr Rayment is good man, he have enough trouble from Jokićs.’

  ‘Mr Rayment is not a good man, he is just trying to help. Drago can’t take up residence in my store room or anyone else’s, that is nonsense. But if relations are strained between him and his father, and if he has your blessing, tell him he is welcome to come back and stay here for a few days. What does he like to eat for supper? Pizza? Tell him I’ll have them deliver a giant pizza every evening, just for him. Two giant pizzas, if he likes. He’s a growing boy.’

  That is how it happens. In a flash, in a flesh. If there were any clouds, they have fled.

  ‘They are what we call albumen prints,’ he tells Drago. ‘The paper is coated with diluted egg white in which silver chloride crystals are suspended. Then it is exposed to light under the glass negative. Then it is chemically fixed. It was a way of printing that had only just been invented in Fauchery’s day. Look, here is a pre-albumen print to compare it with, on paper that has been soaked rather than coated – soaked in a solution of silver salts. Can you see how much more full and luminous the Fauchery is? That is because of the depth of the albumen coating. Less than a millimetre of depth, but that millimetre makes all the difference. Take a look through the microscope.’

  He wants to make himself interesting to Drago, that is to say, to an intelligent representative of the coming era, but it is not easy. What has he to offer? A broken bicycle. A truncated limb, probably more repellent than attractive. And a cabinet full of old pictures. In sum, not much. Not much with which to attach a boy to him as a mystical godson.

  But Drago, excellent son of an excellent mother and – who is to say? – perhaps of an excellent father too, is nothing if not polite. Obediently he peers through the microscope, taking note of the millimetre of dried hen’s egg that is claimed to make all the difference.

  ‘You were a photographer yourself, weren’t you, Mr Rayment?’

  ‘Yes, I ran a studio in Unley. For a while I also gave evening classes in photography. But I was never – how shall I put it? – an artist of the camera. I was always more of a technician.’

  Is that something to apologise for, not being an artist? Why should he apologise? Why should young Drago expect him to be an artist – young Drago, whose goal in life is to be a technician of warfare?

  ‘Fauchery wasn’t an artist himself,’ he says, ‘at least not until he came to Australia. He came out from Paris during the gold rush of the 1850s. Did some amateur gold-digging himself, in Victoria, to get a taste of it, but mainly took photographs.’ He gestures towards the group of women at the door of the wattle hut. ‘That was when he discovered his talent. Perfected his technique too. Took full command of his medium. As any great photographer needs to do.’

  ‘My mum wanted to be an artist, back in Croatia.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yeah. She went to art school. Then after art school she went into restoration, you know, restoring old frescoes and things like that.’

  ‘How interesting! I did not know that about her. Restoration is a skilled profession. You might even call it an art in its own right, except that it is frowned on to be original. First rule of restoration: follow the intention of the artist. Never try to improve on him. Your mother must have found it hard to give up her art work and move to nursing. Does she still paint?’

  ‘She has still got, you know, the brushes and equipment and stuff. But she hasn’t got time any more.’

  ‘No, I’m sure she hasn’t. Still, she is a first-rate nurse. She brings honour to the profession. I hope you know that.’

  Drago nods. ‘Where did you get these photographs, Mr Rayment?’

  ‘Collected them over many years. Went to antique shops, went to auction sales, bought old albums, bought up boxes full of old pictures, junk for the most part, but every now and again there would be something worth saving. When a picture was in poor condition, I did the restoring myself. Not nearly as difficult as restoring frescoes, but specialised work nonetheless. That was my hobby for years. That was how I spent my spare time. If your time is not worth much in itself, at least you can put it to a good use. So I told myself. On my death I will donate the collection. It will become public property. Part of our historical record.’ And he throws up his hands in an odd, unintended gesture. Astonishingly, he is close to tears. Why? Because he dares to mention his own death to this boy, this forerunner of the generation that will take over his world and trample on it? Perhaps. But more likely it is because of our. Our record, yours and mine. Because just possibly this image before them, this distribution of particles of silver that records the way the sunlight fell, one day in 1855, on the faces of two long-dead Irishwomen, an image in whose making he, the little boy from Lourdes, had no part and in which Drago, son of Dubrovnik, has had no part either, may, like a mystical charm – I was here, I lived, I suffered – have the power to draw them together.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘if you get bored, if you have nothing else to do, feel free to look through the rest of the pictures. Just don’t remove them from their sleeves. And make sure you put them back in order.’

  An hour later, as he is preparing for bed, Drago puts his head around the door. ‘Got a computer, Mr Rayment?’

  ‘Yes. You will find it on the floor under the desk. I don’t use it much.’

  Soon Drago is back. ‘Can’t find the connection, Mr Rayment. For the modem.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘The link. Do you have a cord somewhere that links you into the net?’

  ‘No, it’s not that kind of computer. I use it to write letters now and again. What are you trying to do? What do you need it for?’

  Drago gives him an unbelieving smile. ‘For everything. When did you buy your computer?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Years ago. Nineteen eighty something. It’s not up to date. If you need something more advanced, I can’t help you.’

  Drago does not let the subject rest there. They are in the kitchen the next evening, having supper. He has not ordered pizza, as he said he would. Instead he has cooked quite a nice risotto, with mushrooms and Sauternes.

  ‘Do you hate things if they are new, Mr Rayment?’ says Drago out of the blue.

  ‘No. Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m not, you know, blaming you. It’s just the style, the style of everything.’ He sits back in his chair, waves a hand casually over, as he says, everything. ‘It’s cool. I’m just asking. Isn’t there anything new you like?’

  The flat on Coniston Terrace is part of a refurbished pre-war block. It is high-ceilinged and spacious, yet not too large. He bought it after the divorce; it was exactly
what he, as a rediscovered bachelor, wanted. He has lived here ever since.

  Part of the deal when he bought the flat was that he should take over the previous owner’s furniture. The furniture was heavy and dark and not to his taste; he has always meant to replace it, but has never found the energy. Instead, over the years, he has adjusted to his surroundings, growing a little more plodding, a little more sombre himself.

  ‘I’ll give you a straight answer, Drago, but not at the cost of being laughed at. I have been overtaken by time, by history. This flat, and everything in it, has been overtaken. There is nothing strange in that – in being overtaken by time. It will happen to you too, if you live long enough. Now tell me: what is this conversation really about? Is it about a computer that doesn’t match up to your standards?’

  Drago stares at him in shocked puzzlement. And indeed he surprises himself. Why such sharp words? What has the poor boy done to deserve them? Do you hate things if they are new? A fair enough question to an old man. What is there to be cross about?

  ‘This was all, once upon a time, new,’ he says, waving a hand in exactly the same gesture Drago used. ‘Everything in the world was, once upon a time, new. Even I was new. The hour I was born I was the latest, newest thing on the face of the earth. Then time got to work on me. As time will get to work on you. Time will eat you up, Drago. One day you will be sitting in your nice new house with your nice new wife, and your son will turn around to the pair of you and say, Why are you so old-fashioned? When that day arrives, I hope you will remember this conversation.’

  Drago takes a last forkful of risotto, a last forkful of salad. ‘We went to Croatia last Christmas,’ he says. ‘Me and my mum and my sisters. To Zadar. That’s where Mum’s parents live. They’re pretty old now. They also got, like you said, overtaken by time. My mum bought them a computer and we showed them how to use it. So now they can shop on the internet, they can send e-mails, we can send them pictures. They like it. And they’re pretty old.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you can choose,’ says Drago. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  Twenty-four

  When he invited Drago to stay, there was, behind the invitation, nothing that he would deem – he picks up the primly disapproving word of the day, weighs it, tests it – inappropriate. His heart, as far as he can see into his heart, was and is pure, his motives innocent. He is fond of Drago with a measured, an appropriate fondness, as any man might be of an adopted son, or son-to-be.

  The cohabitation he envisioned for the pair of them was to be on the mildest scale: a few companionable evenings together, Drago hunched over his homework at the dining table, he in an armchair with a book, while they waited for tempers in the casa Jokić to cool down.

  But that is not how it turns out to be. Drago brings in friends; soon the flat has become as noisy and confused as a railway station. The kitchen is a mess of take-away cartons and dirty plates; the bathroom is forever occupied. None of the quiet growth in intimacy that he had looked forward to has come about. In fact, he feels that Drago is pushing him away. After the evening of the mushroom risotto they do not even eat together.

  ‘I’m making myself an omelette for supper,’ he announces as casually as he can. ‘Shall I make one for you too? Ham and tomato?’

  ‘Not for me,’ says Drago. ‘I’ll be going out. One of my mates is picking me up. We’ll get something to eat.’

  ‘You have money?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, my mum gave me money.’

  The mate in question is a pimply red-head named Shaun, to whom he has taken a dislike at first sight. Shaun, who according to Drago doesn’t go to school much because he plays in a band, haunts the flat. He and Drago go out after dark, stay away till late, then return and shut themselves up in his ex-study, which has become Drago’s room. Music and the murmur of their voices keep him awake into the early hours of the morning. Grumpy and miserable, he lies in the dark listening to the BBC.

  ‘It is not just the noise,’ he complains to Elizabeth Costello. ‘Drago is used to a large family, I don’t expect a monkish silence from him. No, what upsets me is the way he reacts when I dare to ask for a little consideration.’

  ‘How does he react?’

  ‘A shutter falls. He does not see me any more. I might as well be a stick of furniture. Marijana says he and his father are always at loggerheads. Well, I begin to see why. I begin to sympathise with his father.’

  After her cold words at the riverside, he had thought he might not see Elizabeth Costello again. But no, she is back, perhaps because she cannot give up on him, but also perhaps because she is not well. She has lost weight; she looks more than a little frail; she has a persistent cough.

  ‘Poor Paul!’ she says. ‘So late in life, so monkish, as you say, so set in your ways, and now so grumpy too! What a reckless venture into childminding! In the abstract I am sure you would like to love young Drago, but the facts of life keep getting in the way. We cannot love by an act of the will, Paul. We have to learn. That is why souls descend from their realm on high and submit to being born again: so that, as they grow up in our company, they can lead us along the hard road of loving. From the beginning you have glimpsed something angelic in Drago, and I am sure you are not wrong. Drago has remained in touch with his other-worldly origins longer than most children. Overcome your disappointment, your irritation. Learn from Drago while you can. One of these days the last wisps of glory that trail behind him will vanish into the air and he will simply be one of us.

  ‘You think I am crazy, don’t you, or deluded? But remember: I have raised two children, real-life, unmystical children; you have raised none. I know what children are for; you are still ignorant. So pay heed when I speak, even when I speak in figures. We have children in order that we may learn to love and serve. Through our children we become the servants of time. Look into your heart. Ask yourself whether you have the reserves of fortitude you will need for the journey, and the stamina. If not, perhaps you should withdraw. It is not too late.’

  Speaking in figures. Angels from on high. It is the most mystifying speech she has made since the hocus-pocus about the woman with the dark glasses. Is she light-headed from fasting? Is she trying to make a fool of him again? Ought he to offer her more than a cup of tea? He gives her a hard look, as hard a look as he can. But she does not waver. She believes what she is saying, it would seem.

  As for the contract solemnly concluded between Marijana and himself, that seems to have gone up in smoke. Day after day she stays away without a word of explanation. Her son, on the other hand, is blessed with frequent telephone calls. Of Drago’s end of their conversations, which are in Croatian, he hears only a monosyllable here and there.

  Then one afternoon, when he least expects it, Marijana drops in. Drago is not back from school; he is taking a nap.

  ‘Mr Rayment, I wake you? Sorry – I knock and no one come. You want I make you tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He is piqued at being caught asleep.

  ‘How is your leg?’

  ‘My leg? My leg is fine.’

  A stupid question and a stupid answer. How can his leg be fine? There is no leg. The leg in question was long ago hacked off and incinerated. How is the absence of your leg?: that is what she ought to be asking. The absence of my leg is not fine, if you want the truth. The absence of my leg has left a hole in my life, as anyone with eyes in her head ought to be able to see.

  Marijana has brought Ljuba with her. For the sake of the child he tries to hide his irritation.

  Marijana picks her way through the mess on the floor and perches at the foot of his bed. ‘You have nice life, nice and peaceful,’ she says. ‘Then pfu! car hit you. Then pfu! Jokić family hit you. Not so nice any more, eh? Sorry. No tea? You sure? How you and Drago get on?’

  ‘Nothing to complain of. We get on well enough. It does me good, I am sure, to be with young people. Liv
ens me up.’

  ‘You and him make friend, eh? Good. Blanka say thank you.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Blanka come one day to say thank you in person. But not today. She is still, you know, father’s girl.’ Which he takes to mean: There are still two camps among the Jokićs, the father’s camp and the mother’s camp. And all on account of you, Paul Rayment. Because of the tempest you have unleashed. Because of the inchoate passion for your cleaning lady that you were so foolish as to declare.

  ‘So! You have new visitor!’

  For a moment he cannot work out what she means. Then he recognises what she is holding up for inspection: the nylon stocking that Mrs Costello used to blindfold him, the stocking that for some reason he knotted around the base of the bedside lamp and forgot.

  Marijana brings the stocking delicately within range of her nose. ‘Lemon flower!’ she says. ‘Very nice! Your lady friend like lemon, eh? In Croatia, you know, we throw lemon flowers on woman and man when they get married in church. Old custom. Not rice, lemon flowers. So they have lots of children.’

  Marijana’s humour. Nothing subtle about it. He ought to adjust, if he aspires to one day be her mystical bridegroom and be showered with lemon petals.

  ‘It is not what it seems,’ he says. ‘I am not going to explain. Just accept what I tell you. It is not what you think.’

  Marijana holds the stocking at arm’s length and ostentatiously lets it drop to the floor. ‘You want to know what I think? I think nothing. Nothing.’

  A silence falls. It is all right, he tells himself, we know each other well enough by now, Marijana and I, to have our little contretemps.

  ‘OK,’ says Marijana. ‘Now I check your leg and give you wash and then we do exercise like usual. We fall behind our exercise, eh? Maybe you don’t do exercise so good when you alone like. You sure you don’t want prosthese?’