Harlequin Rex (25 page)

‘Do
you
dream
about
your
dad?’
asked
Mad
Max.

David
knew
that
there
was
nothing
he
wanted
to
say
about
his
own
father
—
not
to
Houghton,
Bagger
and
the
others,
not
to
Mad
Max
—
but,
even
had
he
wanted
to
speak,
his
love
and
sadness
would
have
choked
him.
‘All
that
crackling,’
Bagger
concluded,
‘and
the
pork
fucking
tender
so
that
it
just
falls
apart.
Bloody
beauty.
And
this
waitress
slut
scared
shitless.’

The
fact
that
David’s
father
had
done
a
thesis
on
Lucius
Cornelius
Sulla
was
no
hindrance
whatsoever
to
his
skills
as
a
farmer.
He
could
have
killed
Bagger’s
pigs
better
than
the
next
man
and
dressed
the
carcases
almost
as
neatly
as
a
works’
butcher.

He
had
a
favourite
knife,
slimmed
in
the
middle
from
sharpening,
and
so
keen
at
the
blade
that
flesh
seemed
to
flee
before
it.
‘Always
cut
away
from
yourself,’
his
father
told
him.
‘Then
if
the
knife
slips
you
don’t
slice
yourself.
And
never
try
to
work
quickly
with
a
knife
when
you’re
tired.’
He
could
peel
the
pelt
from
a
dog
tucker
ewe,
or
table
hogget,
like
a
banana
skin.
The
inside
of
the
pelt
had
a
pearly
sheen,
and
in
winter
steam
would
drift
from
it,
and
from
the
carcase
swaying
slowly
beneath
the
tree,
suspended
by
the
metal
hook
beneath
the
tendons
of
the
back
legs.
 
‘Best
to
kill
an
animal
when
it’s
relaxed,’
his
father
said,
‘A
frightened
animal
spasms
and
the
meat’s
never
as
good.
’
He
hated
cruelty
and
suffering.
Death
was
another
matter
entirely;
just
like
the
sun
and
rain
which
made
the
farmer’s
world.

A
mother’s
love
is
demanded
and
a
father’s
love
sought,
Mad
Max
told
them.
One
of
the
circle
said
his
father
never
said
anything
at
all
within
the
house,
but
that
he
would
sing
and
talk
to
himself
behind
the
locked
door
of
the
garage.
The
shed
is
a
male
domain,
Mad
Max
told
them,
and
preferred
for
suicide.

Drought
was
the
punishment
for
an
east
coast
farm.
David’s
father
had
paid
no
attention
to
the
showers
that
only
laid
the
dust,
but
a
sweet,
persistent
rain
brought
him
out
to
watch
his
land’s
release,
even
if
it
came
at
night.
He
would
wake
to
the
sound
of
it,
lie
listening
and,
if
it
set
in,
then
he’d
get
up
from
his
single
bed
and
go
quietly
out,
taking
a
parka
from
the
hook
at
the
back
door.
David
had
sometimes
heard
the
click
of
the
gates
as
his
father
went
down
to
the
yards,
and
from
the
window
he
could
see
him
under
the
overhang
of
the
tractor
shed,
or
the
pines,
listening
to
the
rain,
taking
a
quiet
pleasure
in
his
land
drinking
after
drought.

There
was
nothing
that
David
wanted
to
say
about
his
father
at
Mad
Max’s
session:
nothing
that
he
would
willingly
share.
Not
that
he
thought
himself
better
than
Houghton,
Bagger,
or
Paewai,
in
for
assault,
who
had
a
tooth
turning
black
as
coal
in
his
upper
jaw,
but
that
his
father
was
too
good
for
them
and
him,
and
by
a
mile.

‘Why
is
that,
do
you
think?’
Mad
Max
had
asked
equably
after
Richards
said
that
his
father
never
allowed
his
mother
to
sit
in
the
front
seat
of
the
car.

The
Romans
were
a
very
violent
people,
David’s
father
told
him,
but,
unlike
some
other
violent
peoples,
they
were
creative:
and
valued
dignity
of
mind.

Schweitzer's secretary buzzed through to Takahe just a day or two after Easter. Was David able to come over? Some time between eleven thirty and noon if possible. The greater the gap in status, the less it needs to be emphasised. David thought Schweitzer was beginning to take something of an interest in him. He'd used his name at a staff meeting, which was something in an organisation so large; he'd sent a memo specifically asking him for a report on Dilys Williams's condition after the business of heckling phone calls to the mayor of Picton.

Once, when out jogging, Schweitzer had come over to where David and Abbey sat on the verandah. He did his warming-down exercises, and talked in his quiet, fluent way: his language never self-important, but supple, original, responsive to his listeners. He hadn't become overwhelmed by his own achievements. Abbey was so blessed by his
attention
that she breathed through her mouth to be noiseless, and her eyes widened in the regard of him. Schweitzer had a smooth scar on his left knee: a burn probably. Sweat darkened his hair, and his throat was noticeably pale, because he habitually wore a tie.

He said that he sometimes saw David rowing out in the dinghy to go fishing. ‘I can see the sound from the office and I look up from my desk and there you are, enjoying the distraction I often wish for myself. Perhaps it's another keen fisherman, of course. It's too far to tell, but I know you're often there.' Abbey said meekly that sometimes she went out in the boat too, and so reminded David to introduce her.

That day, however, soon after chocolate eggs and an increase in visitors, when David was shown into Schweitzer's office after waiting less than fifteen minutes, he could see the reduced pink float marking the favoured fishing spot, and there was no one there at all. The director's office was unlike that of any of the other administrators, and not just in favoured size and location. Some modern philosophy of management determined that the evidence of a chief executive's day-to-day responsibility be hidden. No stacks of files, no in tray and no out, no bagged sandwiches, no heavily scored wall diary, no obsolete monitor relegated to a corner. No adhesive smudges, darkened sellotape tracks, or pin holes on the sheened walls. No white, warped plastic hanger behind the door. Not even framed qualifications with the rich, wax seals of approval.

Just the quiet heart of efficiency and decision. The arrangement of fennel and chrysanthemums on the expanse of the desk, a Grahame Sydney print of tussock land behind it, a buttoned, dark blue leather sofa and three matching chairs, so that Schweitzer could choose to abrogate his status behind the burnish of his desk and come to sit with his visitors. He didn't go quite that far for David.

No pretension, however, no arrogance. Schweitzer's talents required no such protection. It was the programme of challenge therapy that interested him, he said, and David was happy to talk about it, though Schweitzer could have picked a better day. David had a cold so severe that his sinuses were stuffed with mucus thick as rope and throbbed with
the heart's pulse. Schweitzer wore a wine-coloured suede waistcoat with his grey suit trousers; the coat hung in the closet by the drinks cabinet. ‘I have to fly up to Wellington after lunch,' he said. ‘There's a big push on for more funding. Money coming in makes the politicians' mouths water, but going out makes their eyes water.'

‘And is throwing money at Harlequin the way?' asked David.

Schweitzer didn't answer that at once. ‘No matter what your profession, growth of responsibility means in the end your main task is ensuring resources — making money. And you're in competition not only with others like yourself, but with those whose speciality was money in the first place.'

‘But what else has the shock value of Harlequin?'

‘Shock value?'

‘Doesn't fear loosen the purse strings?' said David. His voice sounded strange to himself because of his trivial illness. Schweitzer nodded gently and sucked air through his teeth. His eyes rested for a while on the bushed hills across the sound, before coming back to David, candidly. ‘But how much do we want to scare them?' he said. ‘That's the question making me sweat at nights. Scared people are dangerous.'

Perhaps if David had got married, he might have worn a waistcoat on his wedding day, but no other situation had prompted that small, sartorial experience missed. The wine suede was trim, elegant almost, with a close line of silver buttons. And the shirt was the pale pink of the bleached craypot float at the fishing spot. And Schweitzer's burn scar was hidden by the quality fabric of his trousers, while David had a shirt with a worn collar and breathed through his mouth. All over the world was a juxtaposition of setting and circumstance which would never quite exist again, despite the apparent repetitions of everyday life. Things were for an instant, then toppled into the abyss.

‘I wish I knew the best way to tackle Harlequin Rex. Jesus, yes,' said Schweitzer.

‘I've never heard the Rex added.'

‘Nothing. Just a foible usage of mine,' said Schweitzer. ‘But anyway, you learn that any approach takes money.' He was looking at David appraisingly, as if he'd been told things about him and wanted to see if they fitted. David had reasons for not wanting too much enquiry, despite his respect for the director. ‘Tony Sheridan tells me that you and Raf Hewson are accomplishing a good deal in Takahe with people who could turn out to be among our successes. There's resilience and intelligence there.'

‘And despair.'

‘All of us dealing with Harlequin have that acquaintance, don't you think?' said Schweitzer. That was true enough, but had David known him better, or been less junior in his organisation, he would have questioned the lumping together of those who treated the symptoms of Harlequin with others who were afflicted with it. Almost every night, just before David slept, his true, unguarded self rejoiced in being free of the disease: an emotion stronger than any commiseration with those who suffered. He knew he couldn't bear to change places with any of them; no, not even Lucy.

‘Anyway,' said Schweitzer, ‘what I wanted to ask you was whether you'd be prepared to co-ordinate an extension of your programme throughout the centre? Perhaps initially develop a presentation for supervisory staff. Dr Mousier, or myself, would help kick it off, and Tony Sheridan's willing to set up an ongoing medical appraisal as to its benefit. There's some initial research evidence from France that Harlequin may be ameliorated by emotional distraction: a sort of psychological displacement therapy which inhibits attacks.'

‘Or maybe it's just patients clutching at anything to take their minds off this appalling illness.'

‘Quite, and maybe even that's a justification for your programme.' Schweitzer never pretended that he had a handle on Harlequin; that there was no crisis, that a cure
was at hand. That lack of pretence was one of the likeable things about him. Another was his ability to put aside most of his specialised jargon for a time and still assume
intelligence
, as he did in his continued conversation with David about the programme. The desk buzzer sounded several times, but the director took no notice of it. He had the mild mannerisms of swaying forward to smile, and smoothing his eyebrows in reflection. ‘And where do these ideas come from?' he asked. ‘They're new to me, but I gather that you've been overseas a good deal.'

‘They come from prison and military rehabilitation courses,' said David.

‘Ah, then no wonder they fit snugly round here,' and Schweitzer gave a laugh of genuine delight, but didn't press any more about origins. Another thing that David appreciated.

When Schweitzer had to leave, he took his suit coat from the closet, running his fingers under the side pockets to make sure the flaps weren't tucked in. He had yet to drive over the Rai and Whangamoa to Nelson Airport. ‘My door's always open. Well, figuratively,' he said, smiling as he closed it behind them. His secretary had selected two letters of particular note from the latest heap, and she held them up like an auctioneer's chit, and the director took them with the use of the same smile.

Schweitzer and David went down together towards the main entrance, and David saw an opportunity for a question. ‘Where do you think it comes from?'

‘I know where it comes from. It comes from the same place as Lassa fever and Ebola — it comes from Africa. Man came out of Africa, and now perhaps his nemesis is taking the same path.' Schweitzer raised a hand to Louise at the reception desk, and went and put his head around Mousier's door. ‘I'm off,' he said. When Schweitzer talked of Harlequin he might have been talking about David's head cold, or the fishing that he was wistful about, but never had time to do.
You can become accustomed to talking about something even as hideous as Harlequin. Familiarity, evasion, optimism, impotence, all play a part. As the Jews debated orthodoxy while waiting for the gas chamber.

‘And how did it get here of all places?' asked David.

‘Better questions, and I've no answers,' said Schweitzer. They had come out of the main door and to the parting of the ways, but the director paused briefly, just his words speeding up because he was short of time. ‘You know the real thing is to find how to stop the bastard in his tracks: bring him down.' He rarely swore, certainly not in the staff meetings. The vehemence was heartening somehow. ‘We're not anywhere close to cracking it at present. That's the truth,' said Schweitzer. He shrugged and raised his palms in apparent apology, for his inability to give better news
perhaps
, or the need to leave at once. David watched him walk up the slope towards his house: the posture impressive, the stride benefiting from the regime of jogging. His black shoes, highly polished, shone in the sun; his jaw, closely shaven, was gun metal blue.

Another busload arrived that day; newly arisen Harlequins after Easter.

Is becoming Harlequin's view, for he is at the arched entrance to an episode. Maybe soon he will blow, or be driven to a fit of compulsive gymnastics on the cool, perky grass of the night. The world is as each individual sees it, and Harlequin sees it with ancient, such ancient, eyes. A dangerous and exhilarating release spreads through Tolly's system as the checks and balances of thousands of years fall away, and jaunty, with simian insouciance, old brain steps out again to claim his subject — Harlequin Rex, demon hunter, primal lord.

The face is a familiar map for the neurologist. The lion
visagè of Alzheimer's, the tic grimace of Tourette's, the averted eyes of autism. Schweitzer has dubbed Harlequin's expression ‘the scenting face'.

Tolly has it now: restless, inattentive to any verbal language, his head tilted up and mouth half open. He stands in the night by his telescope on the Takahe verandah. The receding voices of rationality and temperance give way to sharp awareness of possibilities around and within. The distant majesty of stars, which have no fragrance whatsoever, is not enough. Oh, the scents of the night, and the tastes borne on the air to the acute tongue in his open mouth. His head lifts in the luxury of it, and lips draw back. Bathroom fittings and investments are nothing to him now: he cares bugger all for the responsibilities of family or friends. No pallid restraint of dignity, or convention. Fierce appetite and dread, curiosity and stimulation — self,
self
, above all.

Tolly starts to hum: basic, stripped down forms of the more sophisticated music he loves. Music is a link between old Tolly and new Tolly. In terms of Harlequin, of course, the old Tolly is the new Tolly and the new Tolly the old.

He knows that Transylvanian garlic has been crushed in the kitchens, and that kumara is being scrubbed up. The meat tomorrow will be pork. He knows that in his own block both Abbey and Gaynor are menstruating, that Dilys Williams has apples hidden in her room, that David has a fresh stash of prime West Coast shit, that the caretaker's Samoyed is running free on the gorse slope. He knows that Evan Beal sprayed Roundup hours before, because the poison is sharp in his nose. He hears rats in the ceiling by the water cylinder, a hedgehog in the gardens, and the rustle of thin, upright branches of broom on the hillside. His vision sharpens too: there are distinct vehicles in the car park, and swimming togs draped on the edge of the verandah. He sees the lights from the windows of other blocks blaze like
campfires
. Woodsie from Hoiho is far down the covered walkway going home. Tolly cannot recognise a face at that distance,
but the posture, the mode of locomotion, are simple for Harlequin to identify.

He feels a flare of animosity for that shallow, pompous bastard, Woodsie. Maybe he should go to Woodsie's block through the night, and give him a good thud or two. Yes! Woodsie's well-merited pain and confusion; the impact of Tolly's boot on his tender balls. The establishment of primacy by force. Maybe he should visit Amelia Struthers of Weka to put his mouth to the large tits he saw by telescope the night before. He imagines all the natural and roguish smells of her, the pleasing roughness of her nipples to his tongue, his grip on the heavy flesh of her shoulder. Harlequin in this simulation has no way, or wish, to give him the artificial fragrances of soap or perfume.

Maybe he can evade the curfew check by Raf, or David, and walk down to his dinghy, launch it into the sound. He imagines trailing his hands in the cold water, cupping one so that he can sip from it and taste not just the variety of salts, but an array of other flavours as subtle yet distinct as a fine bordeaux.

Tolly's humming grows louder. He starts to jig a little, and steps into the grounds. What is going on within his territory here at Mahakipawa? What is here for interference, gratification and pain? What are the imperatives rising from deepest parts of his brain to take the helm again? Tolly takes off his shoes and his jersey, which have become too much insulation for him. He needs to feel with his hands and feet. His shirt goes then, although he wasn't hot before. He needs to have skin open to the world. What? What? What is there for him amid all the jostling possibilities of which his senses are aware? He feels the air moving through the hair of his chest and back, smells his own sweat as he keys up for fight or flight. Fear and threat and pain are strong in Harlequin's world, but so are vengeance and victory, precedence and power. The millionaire of bathroom fittings begins to jog away into the night. The astronomical commentator baboons
to the moon, and does a cartwheel on the scented earth, crushes late flowers to his face. Tolly is well away, following his nose in search of mischief and excitement.