Harlequin Rex (32 page)

‘Come in,' he says, and stands from his desk to welcome Ormond Sheppard, comes from behind it, and sits with him
looking out towards the sound and dinghy. If Harlequin is the herald for the end of the world, what does Ormond's status in the centre matter, or his remuneration and, if there is a longer term, don't those things remain profoundly insignificant within the process? People are dying in the treatment rooms as they speak, are in a flux of mental dissolution, the ferocity of which is appalling even to clinicians, but Schweitzer gives Dr Sheppard his attention. It's possible that Ormond Sheppard might be the one who makes the breakthrough in the puzzle of Harlequin, whose name goes down in history, while Schweitzer is forgotten with all the others. All sorts of ironies are possible, and Schweitzer fully expects them to be played out against
himself
. He has brought Harlequin home with him, hasn't he? He built a pool for his family's pleasure, didn't he?

When his colleague has gone, bolstered by support for his advancement, Schweitzer allows himself a few more minutes with Bellini's letter, before the meeting with
combined
ancillary staff which Mousier is to chair, and on which he has promised to sit in.

Schweitzer worked for two and half years with Bellini at the Rushmilt Institute in Kinshasa, Zaire, and in the
Democratic
Republic of the Congo, attempting to determine if there was a history of Ebola in certain indigenous groups. They even went to the Kitum Cave on Mount Elgon together to take samples, protected almost like astronauts. Bellini's long, seigneurial nose had its end pressed against the glass of his visor.

The last time they met was eleven months ago, at Ventimiglia close to the French border, and they drove up to Tende in the Vallée de la Roya for a couple of nights, before Bellini went on to Genoa, and Schweitzer in the other
direction
to Paris. The mother of Bellini's ex-mistress had a small hotel in Tende, and although the ex-mistress vowed to knife him, she was never much at home, and Bellini and her mother got on well. It was autumn, with few tourists, but a chill quite
different from the coast. The old village was squeezed between the mountains. ‘It's French now,' said Bellini, ‘but its people and its history are more Italian,' and he showed Schweitzer all the Italian names in the high cemetery.

Schweitzer took a small gift from Ventimiglia for the mother of the ex-mistress: a basket of clementines with the fruit still attached to twigs of greenery as was the local custom. In the small hotel there was always the sound of French or Italian coming from one direction or another. He found that foreign languages, indistinctly heard, tended to be reformed by his ear into echoes of English, or perhaps the universal rhythms of conversation. Almost intelligible phrases would make him turn with a smile of recognition, only to find as people neared him that both they and their language were strange to him.

He and Bellini sat in a sunny nook away from breeze, and drank espresso as dark as used car oil. The conversation of old friends recognises no distinction between what is personal and what is professional, so the talk of Harlequin and performance contracts was mixed with talk of food and women, mutual acquaintances and common enemies, trivial and august recollections of Africa. Before leaving they walked in the steep hills above the village, where old terraces, the labour of centuries, were almost all abandoned to a beautiful encroachment of wild plants. The late autumn colours were far more varied than any part of home that Schweitzer knew. There were firs and chestnuts on lower slopes, but blues, yellows and greens of low-growing plants mottled the heights, with the smoke bush standing out a sharp red against the others and the pale alpine rock.

Bellini's face was lined, there was a tinge like grey slate beneath his eyes, but his hair was still dark and thick, left long so that it fell almost in tresses. He told a typical Italian joke, which was both political and sexual, and laughed at it so spontaneously that it was almost as if Schweitzer had told it, and he himself caught unawares.

‘You can't see any way forward?' asked Schweitzer. ‘Nothing new?'

‘Only in palliative treatment. Oh, and of course we're making great strides in the description and prediction of symptoms, but little in the way of causes, or cure. The worst thing here in Europe is that because legitimate science is failing, then the quacks, the con men, the modern necromancers are moving in. The colour therapists, monkey gland and herbal people, cliques with doctrinal remedies, hypnotists. There's even a muscular Albanian who claims that he can fuck it out of people. A twenty-first-century Rasputin, I suppose.'

‘Someone will crack it though,' said Schweitzer as they walked single file through lavender. And he remembers how Bellini turned back to face him, shook his long hair and said, ‘The thing is, I've found that I've got it myself.' The steep fall of the mountain slope was colourful with hebes, smoke bush and lavender. ‘
Che
minchia
– what a bastard,' he said.

It's time for Schweitzer to go to the meeting. He puts Bellini's letter away. The tide is going out in the sound, and the dinghy is pulling for the shore, but still too far away for him to see who is rowing. A soft belly of mud is growing beyond the rushes. It is all a long way from the Vallée de la Roya and the ex-mistress's mother in Tende. Bellini said he may retreat there and set up a hospice in the time left, and when they parted he quoted Pliny the Elder:
ex
Africa
semper
aliquid
novi
— There is always something new out of Africa.

Almost always, those of our friends with the true sense of humour are the sad people too.

Schweitzer will ring his wife in Wellington after the meeting, and much later Lucy will come through the
darkness
and use her own key to the side door of the director's house. She will cook him pasta and they will talk of staff and patients at Mahakipawa; they will extend to each other the comforts that friends and lovers have to offer
and there will be no talk of his daughter, or of Lucy's future.

Schweitzer will ask her if she knows the origin of the corrupted name Mahakipawa, and go on to tell her how the people of the place set fire to their pa and fled when they knew Te Rauparaha and Ngati Toa were coming. Te Rauparaha exclaimed that he saw smoke rising — and that was the origin of the name. ‘So maybe there's a curse on the place,' Lucy will say, but believe no such thing. Harlequin has brought all the powers he needs to this place of fire and smoke.

Wake-up
time.
And
the
light
from
the
high
cell
window
was
the
colour
of
the
bath
water
for
the
last
brother
in
a
large
and
poor
family.
Maybe
David
had
been
dreaming
of Jocelyn
Parks;
maybe
of
separating
out
the
head
from
some
prime
cannabis
grown
behind
wind
sacking
in
the
shelter
belt;
maybe
of
happy
companionship
at
Llama
Heaven;
maybe
of
Beth
Car
and
the
separate
but
undeniable
love
his
mother
and
father
gave
him
there.
Maybe
he
wandered
the
steep,
cobbled
streets
of
Gattinara:
visited
the
squat,
old
church
that
was
scarred
with
bullet
holes
yet
still
protected
its
nondescript,
saintly
relics.
Whatever.
At
wake-up
in
Paparua
such
personal
treasures
must
be
packed
and
stored
in
a
fortified
place.

The
grey
light
would
manage
a
glimmer
on
the
stainless
steel
rim
of
his
lavatory,
and
show
the
tourist
mountains
of
his
calendar
in
a
dim
parody
of
sunrise.
How
well
he
knew
the
routine
of
the
day
—
quite
stuffed
with
lack
of
opportunity.
The
cell
check
and
ablutions
block,
the
breakfast
amid
the
clatter
of
both
cutlery
and
the
broken
language
of
his
peers,
the
mail
call
that
brought
nothing
personal
—
ever.
The
proximity
of
Grocott,
and
the
almost
companionship
of
Lund
and
Bowden.
The
table
tennis,
which
was
a
dreary
exercise,
but
helped
to
pass
the
time.
The
television
programmes,
which
were
so
antithetical
to 
his
frame
of
mind
that
there
seemed
no
distinction
between
fact
and
fiction
—
the
Lotto
celebrity
and
the
talkshow
celebrity
no
more
real
than
the
languid
stars
of
soap
opera.
Maybe
in
his
day
there'
d
be
the
comparative
peak
of
a
reading
recovery
session
that
went
well,
or
a
chat
with
Mike
Wir
emu.
Maybe
a
hail
storm,
and
the
novelty
of
the
ice
blocking
the
gutterings
would
pass
an
hour
or
two
of
his
sentence.

In
prison
two
of
the
most
melancholy
and
sapping
convictions
were
able
to
flourish
side
by
side.
One
was
that
precious,
irreplaceable
time
was
being
wasted:
the
other
that
it
couldn't
be
wasted
fast
enough,
such
were
the
boredom
and
reduced
possibilities
of
life
there.

Books
should
have
allowed
him
a
form
of
escape.
Wasn't
that
the
advantage
his
education
provided?
And
through
Wiremu's
kindness
he
had
access
to
books
quite
out
of
the
ordinary.
They
didn't
do
it
for
him,
though:
he
seemed
always
aware
of
the
base
level
noise
of
prison
life
around
him,
a
vibration
of
disquiet
and
resentment
and
disappointment
which
never
ceased;
which
was
present
day
and
night,
as
if
Paparua
were
some
blunt
cargo
ship
pushing
on
to
God
knows
where.

Mike
Wiremu
had
a
rare
judgement
which
allowed
him
to
be
at
times
completely
open
about
feelings
and
opinions,
without
the
intrusion
that
might
cause
awkwardness
when
the
two
of
them
met
again.
Apart
from
the
programme
they
did
together,
the
things
they
talked
about
were
quite
distinct
from
crime
and
punishment
and
rehabilitation.
Wiremu
was
a
country
boy
as
well,
from
the
Hokianga,
and
they
yarned
together
about
landscapes,
family
ties,
seasons,
stock
and
the
habitual
political
neglect
of
heartlands.
Wiremu
talked
also
of
his
time
as
an
army
officer:
the
range
of
character
and
incident
he'd
run
across,
the
stints
overseas
as
a
United
Nations
observer.