Harlequin Rex (9 page)

Louise
achieved
a
doctorate
and
became
something
between
a
linguist
and
an
anthropologist.
She
elaborated
the
history
of
people
through
their
languages,
and
died
suddenly
in
Andalusia
of
food
poisoning.
Kevin
finally
managed
a
BA
in
education,
and
became
a
futures
broker
in
Melbourne.
David
met
him
afterwards
only
once,
in
an
Irish
pub
in
Sydney.
They
laughed
each
other
silly
over
their
reminiscences
of
Llama
Heaven,
and
then
had
absolutely
nothing
else
to
talk
about.

‘It’s
all
relative,
though,
isn’t
it?’
Kevin
would
say
in
each
discussion,
or
argument.
His
hair
was
straight,
stiff,
and
like
a
sparrow’s
wing
jutting
above
his
face.
He
would
fluff
it,
bent
over
his
desk,
and
then
collect
the
dandruff
into
a
small
heap
with
his
finger.
He
won
brief
fame
when
he
pulled
a
schoolgirl
out
of
the
creek
when
she
rode
off
the
path
while
cutting
through
the
campus.
A
thin,
flat-chested
girl,
who
wasn’t
able
to
reward
him
immediately
in
any
substantial
way,
he
said.

In
the
second
year
David
was
at
Llama
Heaven,
the
Bah
a’i
woman
had
a
need
for
him
early
in
her
pregnancy.
‘It’s
not
that
I
don’t
love
my
husband
just
the
same,’
she
said.
‘It’s
the
energy
I
need.’
She
never
took
him
into
their
bedroom
but,
when
her
husband
was
at
work,
David
would
go
to
their
small
laundry
and
there
she’d
kneel
and
take
him
in
her
mouth.
He
never
forgot
the
white
parting
in
the
centre
of
her
long,
free
hair,
and
the
flash
of
her
eyes
as
she
would
look
up
at
him
to
share
his
pleasure.
A
stage
in
her
pregnancy,
just
two
months
or
so,
and
then
she
dismissed
him,
and
they
were
mere
acquaintances
again.

Llama
Heaven
became
in
retrospect
almost
the
whole
of
his
higher
education.
Of
the
books,
lecture
rooms,
plump,
bearded
academics,
the
assignments,
the
wider
student
population,
numbing
examinations,
virtually
nothing
 
remained.
All
spun
out
of
his
recollection
by
the
powerful
centrifuge
of
Llama
Heaven.
He
had
the
feeling
that
it
was
all
still
there,
like
a
bright
carousel,
and
that
if
he
stepped
aboard,
all
would
start
up
again,
just
as
before.
Those
who
have
no
good
times
for
regret,
have
regret
indeed.

Lucy Mortimer went into Kotuku block, with Colin Squires and Polly Merhtens as the aides, and Roimata Wallace as physician nominally in charge of her treatment. Most patients had to park their reputations, and enter as uncomplaining equals until they proved themselves to be intrinsically more, or less, than others, but Lucy’s moderate media fame remained with her; set her just a touch apart. Not so much by admiration, certainly not envy, rather a sense that they knew her, when it was only recognition. And they saw in her the unexpressed, sad proof that no one was beyond the reach of Harlequin.

Schweitzer himself had diagnosed her, after being contacted by someone high up in the TV business, and he took a part in her treatment with Roimata Wallace and Tony Sheridan. Lucy was resting privately because of overwork and stress, it had been announced. Schweitzer told all staff not to draw attention to the more high-profile guests. There were some far more newsworthy than Lucy — like Celia R who was the daughter of the deputy prime minister, like the Olympic triple gold medallist who had cut his way into the tiger enclosure at the Auckland Zoo, like Chandiwala and
Bazarov, drawn from so far apart to Mahakipawa by Schweitzer’s reputation. The deaths that occurred at the centre shouldn’t be discussed either. People outside weren’t in a position to understand, Schweitzer said.

David made no initial effort to approach Lucy. Guilt conditioned him to keep his distance. His self-esteem had taken a beating over the previous two years. Lucy, though, had smoked pot moderately for years, and made it her business to find out that David was one of the few guys who could supply the stuff. After three weeks she came over in an evening that had a sweet, fine rain drifting in from the sea. David was in the lounge room with others, sitting with Abbey and old Mrs McIlwraith as he helped the latter to glue a break in her reading glasses.

Lucy wore a navy blue jersey, and the tiny droplets were caught on the fabric, and on her dark hair. She had a bruise beneath her left eye, from a fall in the night she said, but her tone didn’t invite commiseration. ‘I don’t want to be a pain, particularly if you’re not on duty.’

‘Can’t hear a word,’ said Mrs McIlwraith.

‘She’s not talking to us,’ said Abbey.

‘Eh? What’s that?’ Mrs McIlwraith had a hearing aid, but made no adjustment. She didn’t appreciate the progress on her repairs being threatened.

‘Just a minute or two if you’ve time,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m told you might be able to help. No hurry, though.’

The low clouds were grey, the sound was grey, the drifting rain was silver grey, the bush high on the hills behind the centre was massed green-grey. It was still warm at eight o’clock as Lucy and David stood on the verandah of Takahe for privacy.

‘David, you’ve still got my superb glue,’ shrilled the old lady.

‘She means super glue,’ David told Lucy. Why should he feel a need to explain?

‘Take no notice of her,’ called Abbey.

‘Look, I’m in no rush.’

‘It’s fine,’ said David.

‘The thing is,’ said Lucy, ‘I need a few joints. Something to while away a wet evening in this paradise of yours.’

‘Schweitzer’s against it. You know that. It’s banned within the centre. Some people say it even sets Harlequin off.’

‘This is to jack up the price, is it? All the difficulties you face, the risks. I gather there’s others you’re happy enough to help.’ It was disconcerting the way that she kept direct eye contact: not aggressively, not at all flirtatiously, but to get the two of them talking on the same level if she could; make some connection she was able to assess.

‘I’m not a supplier here or anything,’ he said. ‘I give some of my own stuff to a few friends, that’s all.’

‘I didn’t mean it about jacking the prices up. Sorry, that’s shitty. I’ve been an occasional user for several years now. I could get Laurie to send it in somehow, but that takes time. At the moment I’m a bit down to it in this place. I haven’t got the knack of living here yet, you see.’

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘Compared to what!’ Lucy seemed to think she’d made a joke, and laughed at it herself. ‘For you it’s a job, isn’t it? Well, I had a life and job out there, and now it seems likely enough that I’m in this place for keeps. What’s a little happy baccy if it’ll schmooze the days.’

David couldn’t come up with any reply that wasn’t fatuous, so he just smiled, lifted his hand as a sign that she should wait and went to his room for his stash. He had some in his pocket as he came back through the lounge room, but no one was paying any attention. Abbey had joined several others who were watching TV: lives almost as far removed from everyday existence as their own. Mrs McIlwraith was left upright in her chair, grasping the armrests like Abraham Lincoln. He could have injected himself with heroin before her face and she be none the wiser. Her eyesight was okay, but there was nothing in her
past that gave awareness about such things. Indoor plants were what she knew, brass and copper antiques, and dinner parties in Merivale for six, or eight at a pinch. The Slaven Centre, and the episodes Harlequin imposed on her, were incomprehensible and therefore best ignored when possible.

Lucy was well back on the verandah to avoid the drift of rain, and she took the four tinnies David offered and closed her hand softly over them.

‘These might do something for you,’ he said. ‘Some good head shit, and not just cabbage.’ She asked the price. ‘A little gift,’ he said, and she thanked him, but showed no inclination to stay and talk. ‘I’ll come over some time and see how you’re holding up.’

‘Okay, yes, but not for a few days,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m no company at present, and getting a fair belt with initial treatment.’

She stepped into the greyness of the drizzle, and her dark jersey and hair bobbed through it towards her own block. What a thing it was, that she should get so far in her life and then be dragged down through no fault of her own. You can’t know how you’re going to act if such a thing happens. David wasn’t a great one for television, but she used to front a show about the lives of single people, he remembered. A documentary-style programme full of assured, artistic or professional people of a sort he rarely came across in his own life. And Lucy, with so much going for her, had stood out among them.

He didn’t think that he’d go and see her, despite the sharp black and white of her looks, and her approach for shit. Who wanted to be a witness when Harlequin put her through the hoops? Who wanted to give up the personal secrets that a sincere friendship demands?

His
father
had
just
cut
a
lettuce,
and
the
milk
of
its
blood
marbled
his
hand.
He
stood
upright,
then
swayed
back
that
little
further
to
ease
the
spine
after
stooping.
The
lawn,
the
 
vegetables,
the
trees
and
pasture
beyond
were
part
of
Beth
Car.
‘Someday,’
he
said,
‘you’ll
have
to
take
care
of
all
of
this.
You
know
that.’
His
father
enjoyed
the
exploitation
of
the
cliché
and
David’s
smile
in
response.
His
father
had
been
to
a
wedding:
his
suit
trousers
were
tucked
into
his
dark
socks,
and
he
wore
unlaced,
old
shoes
from
the
porch.
And
he’d
removed
the
red
and
black
tie
from
the
collar
of
his
best,
white
shirt.
A
cool,
scoffing
day,
and
the
breeze
brought
the
smell
of
the
rain
that
was
falling
in
the
hills
at
the
head
of
their
valley.
With
his
free
hand,
his
father
drew
the
collar
ends
closer
across
the
base
of
his
throat,
and
tugged
at
the
grey
hair
tufted
there.
‘Your
mother’s
already
begun
to
worry
whether
there’ll
be
enough
graduation
tickets.
She
wants
a
mass
of
clan
witnesses
again.
’

‘You
know
how
boring
it
is.
The
stage
so
bloody
far
away,
and
it
seems
like
thousands
going
up
to
get
their
degree.
It
pays
to
be
well
up
the
alphabet:
the
clapping
gradually
gets
less
and
less.’

‘In
my
day
there
was
just
one
ceremony
for
everybody.’

With
a
twist,
David’s
father
took
the
rank
outside
leaves
from
the
lettuce
and
spun
them
towards
the
compost
heap.
Greenfinches
and
sparrows
darted
over
the
garden.
A
couple
of
the
dogs
rattled
the
pipe
and
netting
gate,
wanting
attention.

‘Congratulations,
anyway,’
he
said.
‘A
good
degree.
No
one
can
take
that
away
from
you.
People
think
it’s
all
brainpower,
don’t
they,
but
there’s
no
end
of
bright
students
who
can’t
hack
it
for
one
reason,
or
another.
No
discipline,
or
something
going
wrong
in
their
life
—
just
loneliness
even.
Cheever
said
that
loneliness
is
a
kind
of
madness.
’

Had
he
been
more
than
a
passing
fancy
of
pregnancy
for
the
Bah
a’i
woman
of
Llama
Heaven,
maybe
David
would
himself
have
remained
a
perpetual,
contented
student.
Sex
can
be
a
kind
of
madness
too.

‘Gordon
Aimes
complained
to
me
that
his
daughter
never
used
her
degree,’
continued
his
father.
‘As
if
it
were
a
power
 
saw,
as
if
you
can
go
through
those
years
and
then
live
without
any
influence
of
them.
Right?
’
His
father
extended
a
cool
hand
to
shake,
slightly
wet
with
the
dew
from
the
heart
of
the
lettuce
and
its
white
blood.
‘Anyway,
go
in
and
see
your
mother,’
he
said.
‘She’s
been
so
looking
forward
to
you
coming.’

‘Come
in
with
me,
’
David
said.

‘I’ll
be
in
shortly.’

As
long
as
he
could
remember
that
had
been
their
way:
neither
of
his
parents
comfortable
in
the
presence
of
the
other
when
they
wished
to
express
their
feelings.
It
was
a
courtesy
perhaps
that
they
had
developed
in
order
to
live
together.
How
much
of
marriage
which
is
called
natural,
is
only
customary.