MANGLING THE REMAINS OF THE YEAR

Come the evening they were up and about again, hand in hand, nearing ever closer to the end of the year. The heat of the day had passed and the remains of his discomfort were seeping out of Louis and into the ground beneath his feet. At one stage he saw some strange metal creatures start coming to life, and he watched them a while, comfortable for once in the crowd. An impassive silver head of a woman atop a shiny silver torso caught his eye. Ominous looking long metal legs, like that of an enormous spider, shot out from her body. Fenced in, the moving metal limbs were soon mangling the remains of the year, accompanied by shooting flames, drumbeats and cheers. Otherwise, Louis said, the evening was more or less a blur, with chit chat and smiles and then the return of a devilish drowsiness that sent him scurrying back again to the tent, still a while before midnight, and this time with the welcome presence of his wife. The next morning, Susie said goodbye to those she'd met over the last few days while Louis set about packing up camp. He was baffled by her ability to acquire so much camping equipment so quickly but was grateful at least that he was taking down the tent and not putting it up. He thought back to London and the day he decided to leave for Australia. He had toyed with the idea through many a drizzly afternoon while working on his translations but it was only upon waking one morning with a vivid dream that he went as far as booking a ticket. In the dream, he saw great hulks of ships in gray heaving waters, docked side by side and enjoined by what appeared to be enormous shoelaces. Each vessel was populated by peasants as well as the plentiful others let down by lousy lawyers and corrupt cops bulging with cream. Countless legs were ringed with heavy iron anklets, in turn attached to great rusty chains. Not long after being led up the gangplank, he was restrained from behind and slammed to the floor. Lovely, lovely, someone said, what special pearl do we have here now? Legs and arms held him down and his hair was roughly cut from his head, leaving scratches that were soon sweating blood. Next the clothes were cut from him and he felt as if they were gutting some poor dinner plate destined beast. He was shoved into a sack with parts of words enjoined to others in the stitching, beyond his comprehension, as if he were not only near naked and shorn but also obliged to learn how to read all over again. Following the irregular rhythm of the slapping water below seemed at one point to be his only salvage, until a new strength seeped into him and he suddenly became determined to escape, however necessary, and kill whoever deemed it worthy to stand in his way. 

HUEVOS RANCHEROS SENOR

They're Guatemalan, said Susie, and they have the best breakfast around here by far. They ordered two specials (Sunday), which consisted of a tortilla with refried beans, fried egg, tomato, lettuce and chili. Louis said it was delicious, and deserving of a rave review. Simplicity in all its splendor. He ordered another plate when barely half way through the first and asked Susie what she wanted to talk about. You, she said. You, you, you. She wanted to know when he was thinking of coming home again, or how much longer he was planning on staying on this side of the world, which might have amounted to the same thing, she wasn't sure, maybe he'd be off somewhere else again, as soon as the trail told him to. She wanted to know whether he was any closer to finding what he was looking for. Nothing in the end, he told her, that aided his translations of the letters, but, all the same, there was something to be said for sitting on the land where some of the work seems to have at least been written. The smell of the sea for instance. The dry air. The severity of the sun in the early afternoon. The isolation. Nothing though to indicate that he was getting any closer to actually finding the man who wrote the letters. Or least find out what happened to him. Susie smiled. I want to stay, she said. I've taken leave from work. There's time. She said they should keep on driving once the festival was finished. Just pick up and go. She heard something about Byron Bay and its surrounds. Heard it was worth a visit. Louis had heard something similar, and he didn't need much persuading at this point. Some sea on the skin might have been just what was needed. Another mouthful of tortilla and beans and he knew she was right. The Guatemalan hospitality was working wonders. He almost felt new again. They ordered a coffee and some chocolate covered coffee beans and then walked around the festival site some more, hand in hand. Eventually they were back at the tent again, where they napped in preparation for the new year's festivities. Louis was relieved, for he was exhausted. He tried to relax and enjoy the surroundings while they were ambling around, but it was no use. He couldn't help but keep searching the faces that passed by for clues, for some sign of recognition, for how he would imagine the author of the letters, one Anthoniszoon van Aken, otherwise known as AVA, to look if he were there, even though such a thing seemed near on impossible, but still he couldn't help it. And so it was a relief, he said again, to lie down and rest, to lie down and stroke the soles of Susie's feet with the tips of his toes, before slipping off into slumber. Trying to think of nothing but the breathing between them, rolling in and out like the sea. And when he woke there were vivid images of a dream by the ocean, with diving dolphins, and clouds that appeared to weep tears flowing up toward the stars in bright daylight.

LIT BY FEINT ORANGE LIGHTS

It was still dark when he woke (Saturday), but a thin pale orange line was beginning to assert itself over on the horizon. Then some birds came and starting singing the line even further into existence, and he shuffled his bare feet through the dew heavy grass that made him think of the sea. Susie was still asleep atop the covers. He couldn't recall hearing come in during the night. He walked a distance toward some trees and then returned to the camp. He pegged back some flaps on the tent so as to make the most of any breeze that might consider them worthy of a visit, then lay down beside her. And it wasn't long before he started dreaming. He dreamt of Susie, who was playing the part of a primary school teacher, escorting her class on a special excursion. She unfolded a map and asked Louis, who was passing, for directions to the waterworks. She expected them to be somewhere more or less around where she was standing, though she did admit that her map by now may be long out of date. Yes, it appeared quite old, said Louis, but it still should be more or less applicable. It looked as if she had come over one street too many, that's all. He pointed her in the right direction, right behind the city's central gardens. She wanted to show her appreciation by making him a gift of the map, which, on closer inspection, appeared to be an antique. The place and street name script was unfamiliar, ornate, and in a language he kind of recognized and even strangely understood a little. Certainly the map seemed valuable. Louis thanked Susie and asked what she would be doing while the children were playing in the waters. Without saying another word, she took his hand and led the way. Lit by faint orange lights were the interweaving channels underground. After checking in their belongings with the concierge, the children streamed off in all directions, some toward the slides and wave pools, others to the flying foxes and waterfalls, each under the watchful gaze of their specially appointed personal guide. From a window above, Louis knelt behind Susie and watched the children frolic in the orange lit channels below, blessing the golden chance occurrence which poured up through his knees in a kind of sacred erotic prayer. When he woke again, he saw Susie looking in at him from outside the tent. I know just what you need, she said, and told him to follow her. She said they needed to talk. A nearby stall was just opening for the day and a few stray revellers could be seen wandering around the ground. He checked the day with her. Sunday, said Susie. Sunday, said the nodding Latino behind the counter making coffee.

AN ANCIENT ANCESTOR

Arriving at Peats Ridge, they set up camp and went for a walk around the grounds. Crews were putting the finishing touches to various stalls and installations. Tepees even. There was abounding knotted hair about. And natural fibres ruled the day. Pity those, said Louis, with an inclination for nylon, for it would be tolerated in tents but not much else. Coat yourself in synthetics and watch your chance of a warm embrace sink like the waste in one of the many composting toilets situated around the place. Susie squeezed his hand and sent some kind of sedative to the fraying synapses of his brain. She called it love. Come nightfall, the crowd had grown significantly. In their circular wanderings, Susie came across her plane sharing ticket tout, and in turn met others who met others who met others. Plentiful introductions were made but Louis could barely keep still. He said it felt like an ancient ancestor was rummaging around his insides, eventually finding two sticks and rubbing them together while using the lining of his stomach for support. Soon there was a spark and he settled on allowing the smoke to rise out through his eyes. If that couple of scarecrows nearby weren't careful, he thought, they might catch alight. Susie, he said, was looking luminous, a different kind of light was inside of  her, one warm and comforting, welcoming, and you would be a fool not to want to be around it as much as you were able. But Louis could barely keep still. Weren't these ever grinning revellers aware of the enemy forces just over the cusp of the hill? They hadn't so much as a pitchfork with which to defend themselves, and the river wouldn't prevent even the most decrepit of demons from crossing. Ah the river. The river failed to resemble in any way the winding blue treat on the cover of the festival program. The one in front of them was a thin shallow brown line that in parts appeared at best ankle deep. So much for the rush of water whacking on the head the latest onset of his finicky illness. It easily compared unfavorably, he said, with the river in Bellingen, if such comparisons were sought. Then maniacal laughter broke out over somewhere near the beer tent. Susie stole away from her admirers for a moment to inform Louis about the closeness of their camp. In their aimless wandering, he said, his sense of direction had broken into several jagged pieces that could have sliced the length of his arms wide open. She said he should probably lie down. She offered her kind flesh for company but he told her to stay on and enjoy herself. He said he'd sleep it off. He kissed her and then eased off into the darkness, turning sharply on hearing the disembodied voice call out for the third time what sounded remarkably like: You ... You, you, you. And although it gradually lessened in intensity as he got closer to camp, it was still faintly there as he zipped up the tent and lay back on the mattress, trying to focus on the nearby beating drum as best he was able, in the hope of soon being blessed by the onset of replenishing sleep, for which he waited and waited and waited.

SHELL MIDDENS

A letter from Louis arrived this afternoon, posted from somewhere down on the south coast. It looks as if it were written in a single sitting, or maybe that's just because it unfolds in one unbroken block of words.

JR, it reads, Currently at camp and surrounded by trees that tickle the sky in a soft flowing breeze. The old blacks would have stayed here for some time I'm sure. The beach is but a spear throw away. And the sound of the surf at night soothes my synapses (somewhat). And shell middens I now see both here and in my dreams, some with a French voiceover. I was going to stay for a single night but that single night has now become seven or eight. And there's something I've been meaning to say since coming here and seeing you again.

And that something was that he had been here before, to this far part of the world, with his wife, Susie, two years ago. He came before her, but he didn't say how long before. Then she called and said she would be his surprise for Christmas. But no sooner had she arrived (Wednesday) than she was eager to get going again. Not because of where he was living, but rather due to a fellow passenger she met on the flight over, who told her of some festival coming up at a place called Peats Ridge, and whose brother was one of the organizers, and so some tickets could be arranged, if Susie liked, and Susie liked, and so some tickets were arranged. Just like home, she said, on seeing the back room of the cottage strewn with sheets of paper. She wanted to know how everything was coming along. It was coming along. Then maybe a bit of distance might do you some good now, she said. To rest. Replenish. Get a different perspective. A long drive was suggested. And then the next thing he knew (Thursday) she had a car and a trailer full of camping equipment, and a beeping flashing red light wouldn't quit until he'd clicked on the seatbelt, and the remainder of the letter he had recently been translating was folded at his feet inside a satchel, along with a change of clothes and a toothbrush. They drove some distance, in a labyrinthine manner, and then spent the night in a hotel. Come the morning (Friday), after some cold water face splashing, Louis looked into the mirror and failed to recognize the reflection staring back at him. It must be a head cold of sorts, Susie said. Maybe some bug that held on for dear life while she was clearing customs. She recommended some pills highly recommended to her by a man who insisted he knew what he was talking about, spewing forth a list of pharmaceuticals as if they were the names of Greek gods. As for the hotel, the bed was fine and strong, the breakfast lame. He went over and stood in a doorway and sipped a coffee while doing his utmost to keep still the tree lined horizon, waving as if it were a windblown sea. Passing voices suddenly started to sound like the white water of a gushing river slamming against some jutting jagged rocks. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes. Running water lingered behind his eyelids, swirling there amongst what seemed to be the rounded stones of a soft river bed, until he could start to make out the eel-like outline of a face, and then another, and another again. Flickering features interchanging as if he were looking at a police identikit, unable to settle on any single identity.

GREEN GREEDY CLAWS

No word from Louis, no card or call. Still no sight of any serious restaurant review on this side either, money is tight all of a sudden, its green greedy claws clasped around my neck, and so the thought of eating out has, for the moment, started to eat itself.

But there's still Bellingen, yes, Bellingen, where I sat with a cold Cooper's and a crossword puzzle and waited for Albuquerque to come back, flitting scenes of our childhood playing out over the black and white grid in different areas, depending on what three across had to say for instance, or seventeen down. Fleeting faces, football, the spring scent of girls in white cotton blouses. A history teacher's mustache, the walk between classes, hall after hall, and who you'd see in passing, and who you'd wish to get to know. After lunch, ice cold cola just before double mathematics in an air conditioned classroom, the soaked white shirt deliciously cooling and drying during the travail of trigonometry. The farewell of friends, the impending new term and the new arrivals. Louis was largely a constant throughout, one of the very few.

When he returned from his outing we ordered lunch. There was a complimentary water cooler for customers away from our corner, near the supply of cutlery and where you picked up the food when it was ready, a vibrating numbered buzzer they gave you when you ordered being the sign that it was time to eat. Louis drank six consecutive glasses. It was thirsty work, he said, but didn't wish to elaborate as to what work he meant exactly.

For thirteen dollars Louis had the Federal Salad, Federal being the name of the hotel. For a few dollars more you had the option of adding Moroccan spiced chicken to the concoction, which Louis took. The salad consisted of roasted sweet potato, spanish onion, pine nuts, tomato, boccocini cheese, ginger poached pears with mixed leaves and finished with a balsamic glaze, or so it said on the menu. Louis said he was pleased as Punch, and persisted to call me Judy till we finished eating.

I opted for the seventeen dollar chicken schnitzel, which was twice the size I would have expected, and so succulent it was as if the hen itself had offered up its neck to the block after a meaningful life of dreamful grazing on only the best available grass and grain. As if it were the poultry version of those Japanese cows you hear about who drink beer all day and get frequent massages.

On the drive back we stopped briefly at Armidale where Louis thoroughly checked a telephone directory, then at the town of Tamworth for refreshments, firstly at the Imperial Hotel, but only briefly, its dank empty darkness sending us quickly out on to the street again, further up the road to the Tamworth Hotel, opposite the train station, where we sipped a cold one in some cool natural light and pondered our next move. Enquiring about a room in a nearby place, the manager informed us that it would be unlikely to find a room anywhere for the next few days because of the currently undergoing international carnival of gymnastics, which she was certain we would have already heard about. We hadn't. So we kept driving, once Louis was done testing the capabilities of a telephone operator, throwing a variety of names at her while the sun was beginning to set and the train station was looking more and more two dimensional, as if it were part of a film set or some such thing.

 

- I've noticed that too, said Louis, and not just the train station but other places also. As if the land here is only willing to have these settlements on a temporary basis. As if, at any moment, the whole shebang could be wiped away in one swift move.

PIANO BAR PRELUDE

The postcard was followed by a phone call. Maybe Louis was curious about the state of the local postal service, whether it was suitably adequate in comparison to back home. I didn't find out. Maybe I should have waited for him to ask if I'd gotten any post instead of straight away saying: Hey, I got your card. Thanks.

He's currently in Tilba, a small village down the south coast of New South Wales, about, he says, five or six hours drive from here, but it's hard to say precisely, considering the stops he's made along the way, one even taking him inland, he says, a hundred kilometres or so. Why exactly he did not say. Instead he preferred to talk about coffee.

- So it's early and wet and I order a long black, and it's good, it's real good, with what I think is a little chocolate hovering in the background of my palate, and where the hell am I anyway but at some tiny stop called Tilba, actually make that Central Tilba, as there's an even smaller village a couple of clicks further along called Tilba Tilba. They must have run out of names or something, or liked the word Tilba so much that they added a second, who knows. So I'm scouring the papers, national, local, whatever I can get my paws on, when I finish a cup and then see a new white one coming along with some gentle smiling kindness attached. We made an extra by mistake, the lady says, if you can handle another, and don't mind it with milk. Later a third comes along, maybe they have someone new on the machine, or someone's ordering coffee and then suddenly realizing they hate the bean intensely and much prefer the leaves of tea, who knows.

It reminds me of something I scribbled on a napkin a couple of years back after stopping one early morning in the small town of Milton, not too far north from where Louis now found himself, if I wasn't mistaken. Her eyes - are two coffee beans. I need a barista - quick sharp.

- Ah Milton. Stopped there too. For lunch. At a place called Brill. I was strangely starving for once. A small sign was near the table explaining what makes a good cup of coffee and why it therefore might take a little longer in coming than other places. Pride was mentioned I think, and that's fine, but give me my coffee when I order it more or less, and not when I'm already some way through my steak sandwich. Furthermore, if it says caramelized onions comes with the dish then don't go slipping in a few raw rings in the hope I won't notice. You don't think I'll notice? Two lovely words, caramelized and onion, put together, and you think it'll slip my attention? The cut of the steak was commendable nonetheless, but there was all the same an underlying sadness to the meat that I'm putting down to the missing stated ingredient. By the way, how's the piano playing coming along?

He meant reviewing the Piano Bar. I hadn't got it going yet. Not a word. It seemed so foreign to try to write such a thing. Louis' distaste for the place was apparent pretty much from the start. Suffice to say, he is not a fan of piped music, at least not unless you can actually choose something to play yourself and not have to risk the mood and taste of the bar staff.

- Certainly comparisons can often be odious, but hey, they can be fun too, so in this case let's throw caution to the wind, let's throw caution up against a wall or up on the roof of an abandoned building, or in some hole we have dug with our bare hands, the rich moist soil deep under our fingernails, where caution can sleep a while, or until we're ready for a wash.

- All right Louis, lead the way.

- Fine, I'll get you rolling, but Sisyphus I am not. Why not start with the last call, or the lack of last call? At what point did this become a thing of the past, or is it something that has been adopted in Australia only? There we were, sipping our pints, and you get up to order another couple only to be told the bar was closed. It wasn't long after nine. Looking around, there were about six or seven others in the place, scattered around, and quietly minding their own business. You asked about being notified of the last call and you were told what, that such a thing is not allowed in said establishment because it encourages excessive drinking. We looked around again and noticed no barbarians at the gate that we could speak of. No ice-fuelled lads out on the tear either, or any gang of ruddy faced goons celebrating some fellow soon to face the firing squad of marriage, oh no, just some patrons whiling away the last few hours of the weekend before Monday came a knocking again. If they say it's the law, if they say their hands are tied, that they're just doing their job, following orders and all that malarkey, well fine, let's look at that then. You can use that crap on the tourists if you want to, or the casual consumer of your wares, but what about at least treating your local regulars with at least some modicum of respect. Now in no way at all am I suggesting that you are in any way a local. What did you say, that you'd been living there for near on five years or so? You'd probably need at the very least a decade under your shirt before they permitted you to even hold that particular stamp, but all the same, considering the size of the town for starters, your mug should be somewhat recognizable, particularly within the walls that serve up your favorite tipple. Now would it be too much to expect one of those girls, when they're clearing glasses or whatever, to discreetly let you know that the bar would soon be closing and that if you wanted another drink it best be ordered before the till gets shut?

Then something distracted Louis, the flow of words slowed to a trickle, he said he spotted a face he thought he recognized, and would get back to me later.

A MILTON MUNCH

JR - Drove through alternate sessions of rain and lesser rain - The petrol tank often running close to empty - Silly - Coffee consumed - And ate a steak sandwich in the short town of Milton - Good cut of meat but the onions weren't caramelized like they said they'd be - A couple of pies for the road from another place further down - Okay and a slice of cake - And more coffee came with the stamp - Then briefly talked with the counter cut clerk about forever leaving our loved ones behind in the murk - Before realizing we were both working on different planes - And then drove through a quietly cushioning rain further down into a land where steak and olive tapenade blended with the inexplicable need to ask permission for something specific I could not recall - Otherwise well - LA

BACK FROM BELLINGEN

Bellingen, a small town a short drive from the airport at Coffs Harbour. Louis said he had someone to see, the mother of a friend of a friend. I didn't ask for details, simply woke up in the morning to an empty room, followed by beer sipping with the Saturday papers until he came back. He bought the plane tickets and said it was up to me to keep him well fed enough to keep on keeping on. Not exactly too hefty a challenge to the paltry finances either, for he essentially eats one major meal a day, lunch, bookended by mere morsels for breakfast and dinner. Lunch, though, he certainly likes. I waited in the back part of the bar near the incoming soft breeze from the deck, playing with crosswords and world affairs. The beer was beginning to evaporate. When he came in he could have passed for a lion eyeing the gazelle of my wallet. The menu was lustily looked over while I ordered more drinks.

- We're going to drive back, he informed me.

He needed to make stops in Armidale and Tamworth. Another rental car was arranged already. Something we could leave in Sydney.

- But after that I have to go on alone, he said. Now let's eat.

A driving dialogue:

- What am I doing? I am trying to write.

- What?

- A book on a train. I mean, a train keeps coming up.

- About trains? Like a hobbyist?

- No. More to do with a crash. Years back.

- How many?

- Twelve now.

- And how long have you been trying to write about it for?

- Around ten.

- It must be very long.

- No, not really. A lot gets discarded.

- So why keep going on with it if it doesn't come?

- Not sure anymore. It's become a sort of obsession I suppose you could say. Often it comes to mind automatically, like the thought in the morning to put the kettle on.

- Yes, you're obsessive. About a train of all things. Sigmund I'm sure would welcome you in to his study with open arms.

- Do you reckon he had affairs with any of his housekeeping staff?

- I certainly hope so. It must take a lot out of you listening to people's problems all day. It could certainly be a drain. You'd need a release every now and then, and that's where, I suppose, the household help would come in handy. Add a little jazz salt to the mix and you're ready again for the challenges of the psyche next morning.

- When HD might come a knocking.

- And whatever other initials have made a booking.

- Maybe for him they were all initials, at least in the appointments book.

- Easier that way to avoid making attachments. They were mere mice to the master.

- I, on the other hand, seem more like a docile cow on the way to the slaughterhouse. Still nonchalantly chewing my ball of grass all the way up to the dreaded bolt. Oh hell, Sigmund would have made mincemeat of me too.

- Then save your pennies and just shake it all up a little. Perhaps partake of a prose entirely unfamiliar.

- What, like a detective story?

- Perhaps, perhaps. Though maybe not just yet. Let's see what happens. For now, what about something to do with, oh I don't know, food?

- Food?

- Yes, food. Food and hospitality. Review things. For the sake of it. Review the hotel where we stayed and then compare it with that place where we first had a drink together.

- The Piano Bar?

- Exactly. Compare them. Write down what you told me. How it's freezing in there during winter when it should be anything but. How there's no last call. How the salmon was poorly cooked and the chat potatoes hardly, and you were all of a sudden $25 poorer with nothing to show for it except the desire for a drink to help erase the taste. And so on. Actually, why not do the same for the whole town? You've already said more than once how you can see the potential of the place, how it undersells itself and relies almost entirely on the natural wonders to keep drawing in the crowds. Well, write about that. It's definitely different. See what happens. Meanwhile let the train move on. It'll pass by again if it's meant to. But for now, disembark and fold away your ticket.

INTRODUCING ALBUQUERQUE

For a moment there I could have sworn it was Sanjeev Gurung, despite the near on twenty years since I'd last set eyes on him. I could have sworn it was him. So much so I dumbly watched him pass me by on the street and only brought my vocal cords back from the dead when he was about to disappear around a peeling concrete corner.

- Sanjeev! Sanjeev! Sanjeev!

He stopped finally and turned around. Started walking back up the street toward me. And as he did so I began to see the man change from someone I once knew from school days, way back when, to a strangely recognizable stranger. And yet I once more said the name all the same.

- Sanjeev!

- That's enough of that now. Seriously. Even tanned as I am, am I anywhere close to being as dark as that Gurkha from our childhood? Six months stranded on a Tahitian island is still at best going to leave me no heavier than a strong mocha. Look again.

Almond shaped eyes, with sockets of shade. A delicate nose like a sun dial. A thin trimmed mustache curling in line with a full upper lip, and a few sprouting hairs neath the lower, as if missed by the blade. Grey light sports coat, likely linen. White shirt. And a red tie knotted loosely enough to suggest it was looking for the right moment to catch his neck.

- Jesus.

- No, Louis.

- Louis Albuquerque.

- Precisely. I suggest a drink.