GONE: NO ADDRESS
Home page | Floaters | First chapter | Next chapter I took a taxi to my new home, with all my worldly possessions: the sausage-bag, some basic food and kitchen things, and my print of Nimue beguiling Merlin.
Grandly alighting from the taxi, I opened my squeaky gate and noticed my overflowing letterbox. I love getting mail. Even junk mail. Even if it's not for me. As I unloaded my things at the front porch, the phone started ringing again. Before I saw anything else, I found the phone in the dining room, on the wall.
"Hello?" I said, breathless, wondering why I have this compulsion to answer phones.
"Natasha?" said a man in a thick Eastern European accent. "You're back. About time. I need, urgently, to speak to Martin. Tell me, is he there please?"
I explained that I'd just moved in, but the man didn't want to believe me.
"Pooh," he said. "Constantly pulling my legs. Is that you, Marcia?"
"No," I said patiently. "I'm Nimue. Nobody else lives here any more."
"This cannot be true."
"Tell me," I said, getting an idea. "What number are you ringing?"
"579-7643."
The number was written on the phone, but somebody had doodled all over it. It certainly ended in 43. That was lucky: now I knew my phone number.
"That's right," I admitted. "But what name is it under in the book. Would it be Martin's surname? Natasha's? Marcia's?"
"Not Marcia's. That I cannot tell you. Perhaps Akhasheni." He laughed.
"How do you spell that?"
"Look here, it is I who am looking for Martin. You cannot ask questions to me."
"Can't I just?" The new Nimue began to feel very daring. "What's your name? How do you know Martin and Natasha?"
He hung up.
I looked up Akhasheni in the phone book, but there was nobody of that name. Maybe I didn't spell it right. "Partly furnished?" Annette had told me, adding that I can't use the garage because the owners are storing things in there. Like their decent furniture. Then they must have scoured the auction rooms for the cheapest junk they could find, and filled the house with it.
I'm beginning to form a mental picture of the owners: they aren't professional landlords, but they normally live here. They don't have a lot of money, and they could be Russian. They're either lazy about gardening, or they like lots of greenery. Even though this is the most average suburb in Sydney, they don't seem very average.
I looked around the house. You come in from the road, walk up the path which goes to the right of the house, and halfway along the right-hand side is the front door, shaded by a small porch, in typical 1920s style.
When you open the front door, you see a hallway. On the left are two doors: first the living room, then the main bedroom. Both of these rooms open onto a small raised porch, which is screened from the road by a clump of wattle trees.
At the end of the hall is the bathroom, with hideous blue tiles. On the right as you go down the hall are two more doors: first the back bedroom, then the dining room. From the dining room you go into the kitchen. At some stage most of the wall between the dining room and the kitchen was removed, so now it forms one big room. The dining room window (next to which is a corner fireplace) looks out to the driveway, so overgrown that nobody can have had a car in the garage in years.
The kitchen window looks out into the back garden, which will be mostly shaded by the big walnut tree, when its buds grow into leaves.
To the right of the kitchen, and behind the second bedroom, is the laundry: a long narrow room with a lot of louvre windows. It'll be a perfect studio for me.
On the picture rail just inside the front door is a nail, on which I hung my new print. As I stood back to admire it, checking if it was straight, there was a knock at the door.
Suddenly I felt scared: why won't people leave me alone? I had the stupid feeling it could be Simon, or one of his minions from the OSS. Noticing a tiny peephole in the door, I put my eye to it. An old man, in a hat.
"Come on," snarled an intolerant voice. "Open up. I know yiz are in there."
I opened the door instantly, surprising him.
"What's the game?" he muttered, blinking like mad. "Who the f##k are you?"
"I'm Nimue. How do you do?" I extended my hand.
"Where's bloody Martin?" He looked away from my hand.
"If you mean the previous owner, I understand he's overseas."
"How do you know that?"
"I've just rented this house," I patiently explained. "I know nothing about the people who lived here before. Not even their names. Tell me, what's Martin's surname?"
He looked at me suspiciously. A nasty piece of work, this old guy in the hat. He had a thin face and a mean mouth. Fortunately he looked small and weak. I could probably knock him over, if the worst came to the worst - except that he was the type who'd carry a knife.
Very slowly, he said: "If you don't know his bloody name, how do you know it's bloody Martin?"
"You're wasting my time - goodbye." I shut the door in his face, and stood on the other side, breathing hard. I've never been so decisive in my life - but I still felt scared. My heart was pounding furiously.
He knocked on the door again, making me jump.
"Tell them it's Charlie. The bookie," he yelled. "I live over the road, number 84. Tell them they owe 230 bills, and I'm charging them interest, starting last Monday."
"You tell them," I called back. "I won't be seeing them."
"Open the bloody door when you talk to me!"
"No!"
I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. I'd just bought everything I needed, including two cups, two spoons (on the off-chance I'll ever have company) and even an electric kettle. I filled it with water, plugged it in, and looked forward to my coffee. But nothing happened. The power was disconnected. There's a gas stove, and that was working, but I don't have any pots, yet.
I started looking in cupboards, for something I could boil water in. Three pink tumblers, and a few empty wine bottles, labelled Akhasheni. Now I understood why the Russian had been laughing.
"Go back to the Hurstville shops and buy a pot," my stomach ordered.
"Don't even think about walking again today," my sore feet responded.
In the end, the warring parties compromised: I rang a taxi. As I waited, I realized it would be difficult to get the electricity connected without telling them my name. The best thing would be to find out the owner's surname, and use that, but I haven't been too successful so far. I thought of looking up the directory inquiries number: perhaps I could ring and ask for the name of the owner of the phone. I didn't hold out much hope though: organizations like Telecom always tie me in knots.
But later among the junk mail I found some dusty letters, addressed to Mr M. and Mrs N. Rustavi. They looked as if they'd been in the letterbox for weeks. The first letter I opened was a bill threatening to cut off the electricity if the bill wasn't paid by 12 October. That was a week ago. I rang up the power board, pretending to be Mrs Rustavi, saying I'd just got back from holiday, found their bill, blah blah blah, how sorry I was, blah blah blah, could they restore the power, and I'd pay on the spot.
If I go to their office tomorrow morning and pay a reconnection fee, they said, they'll put the power back on tomorrow afternoon. That's their way of saying they want to punish me a bit more. But I don't care: I'm so relieved I don't have to prove who I am.
"You've done it, Dell," I told myself, dancing around absurdly. (I never do that sort of thing.) No, I thought to myself: no! "You've done it, Nimue."
But there should nothing to rejoice about, because Nimue is born to succeed.
From another letter, addressed to Natasha Rustavi in a hasty scrawl, I deduced that she was looking for a job. The sender, identified only as "L," enclosed a small classified ad and suggested that he or she might carry some influence.
I rang Annette, to find out where to forward the Rustavis' mail. She didn't bat an eyelid when I mentioned their name, but told me their letter had given no forwarding address. They left in a tremendous hurry, she said. When the packers came in, they'd found unfinished meals still on the table.
"I guess you can send it here," she said, unenthusiastically. "Or else you can hang on to it for them? That would be better: keep it all, and if we do get an address for them, I'll let you know."
She couldn't care less, I thought. But if the bills don't get paid, I'll be the one to suffer. On the strength of that thought, I opened the Rustavi's other letter. It was from the registrar of Austeel to Mr M. Rustavi, saying that his claim for replacement share certificates would be considered, following an examination of the registry book for 1932. It seemed that Martin (or a relative? the registrar queried) had bought 2,000 Austeel shares back then, had advised them he was about to move, and would notify them of his new address. But he had never done so, and a vast sum in dividends was now due to him. Reading between the lines, it was clear that the registrar hated the idea of having to pay out, and would procrastinate as long as possible.
Lucky people, the Rustavis. They seem far from wealthy, so maybe it's on the strength of this windfall that they've taken their long holiday.
As I thought about all this, I was cleaning the kitchen. I may have been a slob in Canberra, but everything's different now. I was getting hot in the hideous tracksuit, so I took it off and did the cleaning in my underwear. The spermy underpants are actually very comfortable. The baggy bit in front makes me feel masculine and capable. Once, when I was out of clean pants, I wore some of Simon's underpants. As I was getting undressed for bed, he noticed them, and really hit the roof. I was quite amused, but he seemed to think his dignity had been trampled on. I said he could wear mine any time he wanted, but he made a very strange sound. But later we Did the Act - and it wasn't even Saturday.
Still in my undies, I went and explored the back garden, revelling in its privacy. I went over to greet the walnut tree. On its pale grey trunk is a funny mark that looks like a face: probably where a low branch came off years ago. It's about the size of a real face, except that it only has one eye, in the middle. I kissed that face, and, on impulse put my arms around the tree. I've always thought hugging trees was stupid - but not this tree.
Welcome to 87 Boongarre Street, it told me. May you have a good time here. May you find peace.
A bull ant ran from the tree to my arm, and I laid it gently on a leaf.
I looked at the vegetable garden, and its tall cabbage-like plants going to seed. I decided to grow some tomatoes. I haven't done that for years. The climate in Canberra isn't kind to vegetables.
Finally I studied the garage. The front doors and side door were all padlocked, but peering through the cobweb- encrusted window, I could dimly make out shapes which might be furniture. I wondered if there was a decent bed. The double bed in the main bedroom sags horribly. I've already decided to put the mattress on the floor tonight, and buy another bed. But if I start buying furniture, my money will run out fast, then I'll have to find a job. It would have to be an under- the- table sort of job, so Alison wouldn't find me with her tax computer. Perhaps I can produce paintings, and sell them door- to- door for cash. No, forget that: I'm not the selling type. Nobody would ever buy anything from me. Not even from Nimue.
One of the junk mails was from a Chinese restaurant which did home deliveries, so I daringly rang up and ordered some food. A friendly young Chinese guy delivered it. "Mrs Nimue?" he asked, smiling, when I opened the door. He even pronounced it right.
As I ate the Chinese food, I remembered Sue. I thought I'd better ring her up, to let her know I wouldn't be there tonight. She wouldn't be home till late, so I'd ring her at work. Then I realized I didn't have the number, and wasn't certain of the name of her company, and she wouldn't want to be called at work when she was so busy. So I rang her at home, to leave a message on her answering machine.
When the machine was halfway through its spiel, the phone was picked up.
"Hi there," said a man, in a sort of American-influenced accent that I hate.
"Hello. Is that Aaron?"
"You guessed it, babe. You're after Sue, she's working late. Call back about 8 or 9. Or do you want me to get her to call you?"
"Um," I said, trying to decide.
"Hey, is that Dell?" he said.
"No, I'm Nimue."
"You sound like Dell. Very like her."
"I've changed my name. Last night I was Dell, today I'm Nimue."
"Hey, I like your ass, Nimue. Like it a lot. You wanna meet up some day?"
"But you're with Sue."
"Not forever. I might throw her over in a week or two. Sooner, if you want to put out. And who said we're being exclusive?"
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea," I said, trying not to hurt his feelings. Though he probably didn't have any.
"Hey, you took my underpants, so you must have the hots for me, right?"
"Don't be dumb. I just like the design."
"I want them back."
"You can't have them back. I'm wearing them."
"So what do you want me to do?"
I was going to ask Sue to call me back, but I didn't want to give Aaron my number. "Just tell Sue I'm in my own place already, would you?" I said. "So I won't be coming over tonight. I'll ring her at work tomorrow. Bye."
"Hey, what's your new name again? Nabooey or something?" He was slurring his words: he must have been drinking a lot.
"Nimue. And if she wants to talk, she can find me under Mr M. Rustavi in Hurstville."
I realized as I said this that the wording wasn't the best, but I wanted to hint at where she could find me in the phone book, without actually giving away the number.
"Lucky guy!" said Aaron. "Even I can't work that fast. But, hey, Rustavi, where have I heard that name? Can't be many of those around. Hold it, it's coming to me. Hey, you still there?"
He put the phone down on me, while I was thinking. People are always doing that to me: they can't bear a few seconds of silence.
Three days after I left Canberra, you'd hardly know me. I've had my hair bobbed, which makes it look darker. I've bought a whole new set of clothes - mostly loose, dark-patterned, and Japanese-influenced. I dumped the two-day-old pink tracksuit in a charity bin. When I get my contact lenses next week, even Simon won't recognize me.
As well as working on myself, I've been busy on Broceliande: the name of this house at 87 Boongarre Street. This is the sort of eerie coincidence that sets my hair on end. When I was trying out the front porch this afternoon, I got curious about the brass nameplate. I peeled the ivy back, and had the surprise of my life when I found the house was named after the forest in Brittany where Nimue imprisoned Merlin. I only know this because a few years ago when Simon was at a database maniacs' conference in London, I took a tour of Arthurian sites from Cornwall to Brittany. All I need now is a Merlin to imprison.
The neighbours have begun to emerge from their holes. Yesterday, when I was checking the mail, I met the old lady from next door. Another Italian, I think. Her English is badly fractured, but she was friendly, and half an hour later she knocked on the door with a jar of dried tomatoes. On the other side, there's no sign of life, and the side fence is too high to see over. I peeped over the back fence, climbing up on a rail, and saw that the entire back yard was a vegetable garden. An old couple were squatting down to interrogate an errant plant.
The bookie comes over every day, looking for the Rustavis. Today he knocked when I was cleaning the back bedroom. I gave him a fright by answering the door clad only in my spermy underpants. The Sydney climate is like a warm breath on my skin - the less I wear, the better it feels.
I never saw a man turn tail so fast; though it might have the opposite effect on a younger man. Aaron, for example. He rang me up with a message from Sue. She's too busy to talk to me, but he seems to have plenty of time. She's not trying to pass him on to me, I hope, as a sort of misplaced gesture of friendship. He wanted his underpants back, again. I told him to get lost. I'm to meet Sue for lunch tomorrow in North Sydney. Let's hope Aaron isn't there too.
When I returned to cleaning the back bedroom, I found a secret hiding place. My new broom hit a short piece of skirting board between the door and the wall. It rattled, and I thought I'd knocked it loose. Squatting down to inspect the damage, I found that the board slid up, and behind it was a brick-sized hole. In the hole was a dust-browned pound note, which might have been there for decades. That hole is perfect for storing my little stash of money. I've been worrying about where to keep it, because I can't use my bank account, and if I were robbed I'd be penniless.
As soon as I'd put my stash in the hole, there was another knock at the front door. I thought it might be the bookie returning, and I didn't feel like answering. But I looked through the peephole first, and saw two young men in suits. They looked too nervous to be investigators from the OSS, so I put on my slinky new silk kimono and opened the door.
"We're doing a house to house survey of this area," one said, swallowing to feed his huge Adam's apple. "Can we have a few details about your household, please?"
My mind ran into panic mode: when Annette had faxed my lease to the OSS, they must have looked up Nimue Jones on their database, not found her, and concluded she was an unregistered fugitive.
"Where are you from?" I demanded.
They coughed a bit at that, and began to blab on about some revered organization. That certainly didn't sound like the OSS. I caught sight of a nameplate on one of the men: a black plastic badge with ELDER BERRES engraved on it in white.
"Are you Mormons?" I said accusingly.
"No, the Church of Latter Day Saints," said the other one.
"It's no good talking to me," I said, immensely relieved. "We're all Satanists here." I fingered the lapel of my beautiful kimono, to give them a glimpse of neck, so they'd realize I had nothing on underneath and was totally dissolute.
They opened their mouths in horror, but couldn't stop looking.
I thought of something else. "We play records backwards here," I claimed. "We listen to Satanic messages." I tried to do a Satanic chuckle, but it didn't come off very well. Why wouldn't they flee, like the bookie? Too young, that's what - even if they did claim to be religious.
"So you play records backwards?" Elder Berres queried. "Tell me, how exactly is that done? I've tried to do it several times, and always broken the needle."
"You whaaaaaat?" said the other Mormon, horrified that his superior indulged in such practices.
"We must confront our enemy," Elder Berres told him gravely.
Witchlike, I raised my hands above my head, and tried to cackle. My loosely-tied silk belt slid away, and the kimono opened, wider than I really wanted. That did it. They left in a hurry. I laughed so much I could hardly stand up.
It was then I realized how alone I am at the moment: this was the sort of incident I desperately wanted to tell somebody about, but I couldn't think of anybody to tell, apart from Sue, at lunch tomorrow.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang again. This is ridiculous, I thought, belting the kimono tightly this time. It was the postman. I knew that because he held a letter in his hand. He looked Indian, was fairly young, and had an earnest moustache.
"Mrs Rustavi?" he asked. His teeth were beautiful.
"I'm looking after the house for her."
"I have mail for her, very old, and underpaid." He handed it to me, and I gave him a dollar for the extra postage. The letter bore a New South Wales stamp instead of an Australian one, and the writing was copperplate. Instead of glue, there was a wax seal. The whole impression was so perfect that, if it hadn't been for the underpaid postage, I'd have suspected it was advertising a sale of antiques. It was addressed to:
Mrs N Rustavi,No "Sydney" or postcode. It read:
87, Boongarre-Street,
Hurstville.GREAT WESTERN HOTEL, KATOOMBAPity the letter arrived 115 years too late. But the hoax would have been more convincing had it been addressed to a house that actually existed in 1879. Parts of Hurstville may be that old, but this house dates from about the 1920s. And Mrs Rustavi certainly wasn't living here 115 years ago. It crossed my mind to go to the local library and find out just what was around in Hurstville in 1879. I'll do that later, when I've got the house in order. While I was cleaning, I found a library card for Mrs N. Rustavi. I might as well use it, because she's not going to.
27th February 1879Dear Mrs Rustavi,
Thanking you for yours of 18th inst. Your booking for this Easter is confirmed.
Yrs,J. Callaghan
Major-DomoAs well as the string of visits and mail, I've had more phone calls. One was from a man called Tony, looking for Martin. "They've gone away for at least a year," I told him.
"What? They've actually done it?"
"Were they talking about it for a long time?"
"It's not so much that. Do you know them well?"
"Hardly at all. I'm just looking after the house for them."
"Martin's so full of shit. I thought he'd never do it. Did they take the yacht?"
"I didn't know they had a yacht."
"Down at Oatley Marina, and bloody unseaworthy too. I wouldn't even sail to Botany Bay in that thing. Who are you, anyway?
"Nimue."
"New name on me. Nimue who?"
I'd been using the name Rustavi, but could hardly do it with a friend of theirs. "Nimue Jones," I said, thinking fast.
"Right!" he said. "I remember you. Have fun holding the fort. And don't let them play any of their funny tricks on you."
I wondered if the letter from 1879 was one of their funny tricks.
The next phone call came just a few minutes later.
"Hello," I said, half expecting more advice from Tony.
"Dell!" a woman screamed. "Get home at once!"
My blood ran cold. Who was it? Maybe Paula Hincham, the assistant head at school; she had a rough accent like that. But I hardly knew her; why should she care where I was. And how could she find me?
"You're mistaken," I croaked. "I'm Nimue. You must have a wrong number."
"It's not," the woman ranted. "I've spoken to you before. Send my bloody daughter home, or I'll call the cops."
I was relieved she hadn't meant me, but cops are the last thing I want here.
"OK," I said, trying to pacify her. "She hasn't shown up yet, but if she does I'll tell her to go home straight away. What's her name?"
"Thank you," said the woman rudely, and hung up.
My heart was pounding furiously. "Why can't those Rustavis and their friends leave me alone?" I asked aloud.
It's OK, I said to myself, trying to calm down. That last one was obviously a wrong number, and the poor woman was upset because her daughter had disappeared.
My first night here, I took the mattress off the saggy bed, and put it on the floor. The mattress was so thin and worn that I might as well have lain on the threadbare carpet. And because I had no bedclothes, my feet froze.
Late in the night, strange sounds began. The whole house vibrated. It sounded like a giant gargling. At first I was terrified. I got up, looked around, but found nothing. It seemed to be coming from under the house, but was equally loud in every room. I went outside, but could hardly hear it. I walked around to the front of the house, where there's a vent under the sitting room. Not a sound. I went back inside: it had stopped. Fortunately it didn't happen again.
My second night at Broceliande was free of the horrific underfloor gargling, so I assumed it was a one-off event. I was wrong: it happened again last night. I waited it out, lying in bed with my heart beating wildly. After an eternal five minutes, it suddenly stopped.
When I run the bath, there's a similar sound, but much fainter, almost like distant music. I assume it's something to do with the plumbing.
Today I washed the garage window, to get a better view inside, and thought I saw a thick double mattress. The side door of the garage was padlocked, but onto a very weak-looking chain. With the pliers from my new toolkit I tried twisting the chain. One link snapped. So much for padlocks.
There's all sorts of strange stuff in the garage, which I'll explore later. For example, a tea-chest full of chopped-up bugles, tubas, and the like. And half a dozen old vacuum cleaners, in various stages of dismemberment. Maybe a conceptual artist lived here once, and these were for an installation.
But today, the main thing was a mercy mission: both for my back and the Rustavis' good mattress. It rained last night, and a rusty puddle had formed on the garage floor, close to the mattress.
The furniture will last longer if I bring it inside. I can understand why the Rustavis put their furniture in storage, but they obviously weren't expecting a careful tenant like me. Besides, a lot of their stuff isn't in marvellous condition. So I manhandled the big double bed and the good mattress inside. It took me ages, but I did it. Then I spent almost as long taking the worn-out bed and mattress out to the garage. Tomorrow I'll swap the rest of the furniture, but I'll keep the old kitchen table they left me. It's ugly, but solid. I'll put it in the laundry, and it'll become my drawing table.
Also, the built-in bookcase next to the fireplace in the sitting room looks soulless without books, and the Rustavis' books are stored in boxes, mouldering away in the damp Sydney climate. Their main interests seem to be maths and science, history and travel. And some of the books are ones I've always wanted to read. It's amazing how much you can know about somebody by seeing their books. I'm starting to feel sorry they've gone.
All this keeps me busy, you see: it stops me dwelling on the past. Forget the past, Nimue, I tell myself. The past was not a success. Look to the future. And stop worrying about Zach - having been a teacher, you know perfectly well that 15-year-old oafs become real human beings when they turn 17.
Tired after my furniture-moving, I sat on the back lawn after dark, and looked up through the fresh leaves of the walnut tree. The night was cool and clear, more like a Canberra night than a Sydney one. You don't see many stars in Sydney (it's too hazy) but tonight they were all over the sky. On impulse, I climbed the tree for a better view. It reminds me of one we had at Albury when I was eight or nine: a perfect tree to climb, with its solid, well-spaced branches.
As I sat halfway up the tree, swinging my legs from a thigh-thick branch, a cat appeared below, and complained at me.
"What do you think you're doing up there?" he squawked. "That tree's mine. Come down this instant, you lazy baggage, and feed me."
"Get lost, cat," I said. "I'm having no dependents."
"Tough luck," said the cat. "And what makes you think you're having me? If any having goes on around here, I'll be the haver."
"What's your name?" I asked.
He wouldn't answer that one. Cats aren't good on specifics, I find.
When I got tired of being harangued, I climbed down from the tree, and looked in the fridge. Half a fish fillet was there, left over from my dinner the other night. I don't know why I keep these scraps: I always end up throwing them out. I offered it to the cat.
"Not good enough, baggage," he growled. "Not fresh, and too cold. Actually, I'm much more interested in that carton of milk."
I poured some into a saucer, and he lapped it furiously.
He was a scrawny creature, a dark tabby tom with a runny eye and chunks bitten out from his ears. His melancholy look reminded me of somebody; I couldn't think who. As he drank, I noticed twigs tangled in his fur. He must have been sleeping in a dry, dusty place.
"That was all very well," he grumbled. "But where's the main course?"
I poured him another helping of milk, left the back door open for him, and went into the sitting room to read one of the Rustavis' books. A couple of hours later, aching a little from the furniture-moving, I remembered I now had a proper bed, and decided to use it. But when I went into the bedroom, I found it already occupied.
"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded. "Get off my new Japanese quilt, you flea-ridden monstrosity!"
He gave a few lazy purrs, and stayed put. I didn't want him on that quilt. It's a beautiful design, in the style of Ogata Kenzan, and the cloth is rather flimsy. But when I shook the quilt to remove him, he dug his claws in. Eventually I decided it was better to put up with his twig. He reminds me of a painting I saw of Saint Onuphrius, a grubby crackpot who lived in a desert for years.
"I'll call you Onuphrius," I threatened.
"I couldn't care less," he said, sighing heavily in his sleep. "Whatever you choose to call me, I shan't be answering to it."
It occurred to me, as I prepared for bed, that this cat has been spying on me ever since I've been here, but hasn't bothered to show his face until I re-installed the good mattress.
When I slid into bed I kicked him over to one side. There was plenty of room for both of us.
I slept well, in the new bed. It wasn't the plumbing-song that woke me, but the sun. Onuphrius was gone, through the window I left open. I suspect he'll be back.
After a week, everything's sorted out at my new home. I keep thinking I've got rid of all the Akhasheni bottles, but when I was weeding the garden by the side porch, I found half a dozen more. I lined them up on the rail of the porch, to join the other fifty, and shock passers-by till the rubbish is collected next Tuesday.
Feeling ready to receive visitors, I tried to call Sue. After numerous failed attempts and cancelled meetings, I finally managed to speak to her.
"HURSTVILLE?" she screamed. "Are you crazy? Why?"
"It's the most average suburb in Sydney," I patiently explained. "And I want to be the most average person."
"You''ll never be that, Dell. You're the most un-average person I know."
"Not Dell: Nimue. I long to be average. Being un-average in the past hasn't exactly been a bundle of joy."
"And I refuse to call you Nimue. If you want to be average, you should call yourself Jane."
"Come and visit me in my new home," I begged her. "I'll bake scones for you."
Sue's a sucker for scones.
"With cream and jam?" she whined. If she was a dog, she'd have been begging on her two back legs.
"Raspberry jam," I teased. I know her weak spots so well.
She came on Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately Aaron came with her. He was restless: he wouldn't sit down, he jiggled his keys all the time, and kept staring at my crotch.
"Aaron wants his underpants back," Sue explained.
"He's out of luck," I said. "I'm wearing them." (In fact, for a change, I wasn't.)
Sue was grudgingly impressed with Broceliande.
"This isn't too bad, for Hurstville," she said. "Actually, I've never been here before. I like the house, too: it has potential. Maybe this will be the next up-and-coming suburb. You've always been way ahead with taste, Dell."
"Nimue," I corrected.
"Stop jiggling the bloody keys, Aaron," she snapped. "Go and run around the block if you can't sit still."
For once we were in complete agreement. Aaron wandered outside, whistling tunelessly.
"He bought you this, to swap for the pants," she added. She handed me a tiny package wrapped in tissue paper. It was, I suppose, a loincloth - just like the one Sue had been wearing when I called at her house. It was batik: just a belt with a cluster of narrow fronds hanging down at the front. "This is Aaron's?" I said, puzzled. "A male one?"
"No, he bought it from me to give you."
"I'd never wear this," I said. "What's the point? No warmth, no modesty. "
"You wear it around the house when you get a man," she explained patiently. "It drives them wild."
"I have no intention whatever of getting a man," I said, equally patiently. "I told you this already."
"No, Dell, you are the type who needs a man."
It's a waste of time arguing with Sue. I changed the subject.
"Not Aaron," I said.
"I think he's gradually getting that message. Bit slow on the uptake, our Aaron. Bit full of himself."
"I'll say."
"But very handy in bed. Even though he can't stop farting."
We both giggled. Sue went to the window and looked out. Aaron was at the roadside, fiddling with something in the boot of his car.
"I know he's a bit of a sleazebucket," said Sue. "But are you aware of this fact: for every unattached heterosexual man in Sydney there are three unattached women? We have to take what we can find."
We sat in silence for a few seconds, absorbing the fact.
"Guess what?" she said casually. "Simon rang."
My blood froze. I tried to say something, but couldn't: I was paralysed by fear.
"Poor old Simon's not so bad," Sue continued. "He asked if I'd heard from you. I said no. That's what you want, isn't it?"
I made a frightened nod.
"He said he was concerned about you, that you were over-reacting, you were in some strange kind of mental state. I said if you did turn up, I'd ask you to ring him. OK, so I've asked you. Mission complete."
"I'm not going to ring him," I declared. "It's all over. And if I'm over-reacting, then there must be something to over-react to. Anyway, how did he get your number? I only had it in my address book, and I brought that with me."
"God knows," said Sue. "But he is in charge of the database, you said. Computers are amazing these days. I guess it wouldn't be too hard to find me, with just a few scraps of information."
I felt chilled. That's exactly what he'd have done. Probably with a little help from Alison. If Sue cracked, he'd find me. And in one short week her attitude to Simon had gone from "that shit" to "poor old Simon."
"Do you think he suspected that you did know where I was?" I asked.
"No way," Sue reassured me. "I'm a great little liar, when I put my mind to it."
That worried me even more.
On Monday morning there was a knock at the door. I applied an eye to the peephole. I saw Aaron.
"Go away," I commanded through the letter flap.
"Hey, don't be like that, babe," said Aaron.
"I'm not babe. I can't stand your fake American accent."
"What do you mean, fake? I'm from Vancouver, right? Even if I've been an Aussie citizen for years."
That was worse.
"Come on Nimue, open the door."
"Why?"
"Sue wants me to check up on you."
"I bet she doesn't know you're here," I said.
Footsteps outside: was he going away. I bent down to the peephole again. "What is it, mate?" Aaron asked somebody.
"Letter to be delivered," said my Indian postman, in his lovely sing-song voice.
I opened the door a crack, bracing it with my foot. Both men faced me. Aaron was carrying a black briefcase.
"The other gentleman..." said the postman, gesturing that Aaron had first turn.
"It's OK, I'll take the letter."
"Same again," said the postman. "Very old letter. Over standard size, insufficient postage, one dollar to pay. It would have been better to have sent it as a small packet."
"Is it for me?"
"Yes, to Mrs N. Rustavi."
He smiled gently at me. In the benevolent eyes of the Postal Service, I was now Mrs N. Rustavi. When I went to fetch the dollar, Aaron darted indoors after me.
"Get out!" I hissed.
"Calm it, babe," he said, and disappeared into the bedroom. He wouldn't find the spermy underpants - not without force. I was wearing them again.
When the postman left, wishing me well (I think he sensed I wasn't too keen on Aaron), I stayed on the front porch to open the letter. I didn't dare go back inside. At least Aaron wouldn't rape me in view of the street. I hoped.
This letter was an even more elaborate hoax than the other one. It purported to be from L'Hotel du Presq'ile, in Vannes, France, and was dated September 1927. Of course, it was in French, but I can read French after a fashion - I studied it at ten different high schools, scattered along the entire length of the Murray River.
But before I read the letter, I unfolded the scarf. A silk one, in an elegant art nouveau design. In suspiciously good condition, too, after a supposed 67 years in the envelope.
"Isn't that beautiful?" I breathed.
"Old," said Aaron.
It appeared that when M. and Mme Rustavi and their travelling companions M. and Mme Bazany had stayed at the Hotel du Presq'ile the previous week, the scarf had been left behind. The manager had noticed Mme Bazany wearing it, but as it had been found in Mme Rustavi's room, he was returning it to her. He trusted that if it should be the property of Mme Bazany, then Mme Rustavi would give it to her, as they both lived in Sydney. He realized that, because of their travels, the letter would not reach her for a long time, but surely it was better to receive it on their homecoming than to lose a such beautiful scarf.
I wondered if the letter was in code. Perhaps the second letter of every second word would, if read backwards, produce a message along the lines of "your package of heroin is now ready at..." wherever it was. Or perhaps the scarf was impregnated with some designer drug.
Aaron, still clutching his briefcase, read over my shoulder.
"What do you think?" I asked, handing it to him.
"First of all, babe, you're not Mrs Rustavi, right?"
"I might be," I said, colouring. "And what's wrong with reading a letter this old?"
"She'll know you've read it. You didn't even steam it open."
"I don't know how to."
"If you want my theory... " He paused. I shook my head.
He continued anyway. "Your husband's doing this, to drive you nuts."
"Why doesn't he address it to me, then?"
"Psychological. Probably knows you'd open somebody else's mail before your own. He knows you desperately want that scarf, but you don't dare to touch it."
"I'm sort of a caretaker for the Rustavis," I said defensively, wrapping the scarf around my neck and tucking the ends into my blouse. It felt wonderfully cool and soft.
"They're bad people, babe. Take it from me. Have nothing to do with them."
"I can hardly help it if I'm living in their house and their friends keep ringing up and dropping in. Anyway, how can you say they're bad when you don't know them?"
"I have evidence - " he began, folding my letter up and putting it in an inside pocket of his jacket.
Evidence? Suddenly I realized how stupid I'd been. I turned on him, furious. "Are you a cop or something? How dare you - "
"Take it easy, babe. Not exactly. I tell you, I'm trying to - "
"Bloody Simon!" I yelled. "If he's put a bloody detective onto me - "
"It's not like that," Aaron insisted. "Look, I'll show you - "
He bent down to open his briefcase. Like a flash, I grabbed one of the ever-present Akhasheni bottles, and whacked him on the head with it.
The bottle didn't break, but Aaron did. He made a funny little sound, and collapsed over his briefcase.
Shit! I thought. What have I done now?
"Aaron!" I said, shaking him. "Aaron. Are you OK?"
He didn't say a word.
I can't believe this: I knocked out a man on my front porch, in full view of the street. Perhaps I killed him.
I'm a terrible panicker when it comes to medical things. I turned Aaron's head, looking for blood. There wasn't any, but part of his head behind his ear seemed to be a bit soft and squishy. I put my hand in front of his mouth to see if he was breathing. I think he was, but it was a windy day, and hard to tell.
Charlie, the verminous bookie from over the road, came hobbling up at great speed.
"I saw yiz out the winder," he accused. "Great one. You done karate or sumfin? You donged him in exactly the right place to knock him cold."
"He was going to rape me," I babbled.
"Bloody dick," said the bookie. (I wasn't sure which variety of dick he meant.)
"What are we going to do?" I screamed softly.
"Out for an hour or two, I reckon," said the bookie in a low voice. "Gotta hand it to you, Nimooh. You're a tough one."
"Nimue," I corrected. "There's an E on the end."
"Nimooh for short," he said. "I can't do these fancy, these, um..."
"Polysyllabic? Is that what you're trying to say?" I teased.
He turned, and spat on the ground. A strange clicking sound came from Aaron.
"Wake up!" I implored, rubbing his head. I felt sorry for him now. He wasn't so bad. He was only trying to get off with me, and I was over-reacting like crazy. There was no evidence that he had any connection with Simon. Evidence: who needs it? I thought.
I put my hand tightly over his mouth and nose. Was he breathing? After what seemed an age, he gulped, and I felt air sucking in around my thumb. I was relieved to find him alive, but...
"Might be a vege," said the bookie, echoing my own thoughts.
"The poor guy!" I said, stroking his greasy brow.
"Don't waste your sympathy. He's just one of those bloody narks that are always trying to stop people from doing things."
This was by far the philosophical speech I'd heard Charlie give: I looked at him in amazement.
"Giz a hand," said Charlie. "Let's put him by his car, then I'll give the ambos a ring, say I seen him drop down on the road."
"But people on the street will see us."
"There's no buggers around. Anyways, they'd think he's shickered."
Before we hauled him away, I retrieved my ancient letter, and Charlie searched him unsuccessfully for a gun. I noticed that the heels of Aaron's shoes were dark blue and built up. I wouldn't be surprised if they're hollow, and he keeps drugs in there.
We each took a shoulder, dragged him down the path, and laid him on the verge beside his car - a seedy black BMW, with gold sheepskin seat-covers. Fortunately it was parked outside the house next door, which I'm almost certain is uninhabited. I don't think anybody saw us.
Charlie came back with me to my front door, and examined the porch for signs of bloodshed. There were none.
"I'll take this," he said, picking up the black briefcase.
"I wanted that," I complained. I was very curious now about what Aaron had been going to show me.
"You'd be implicated, though. No one will suspect me. Best if I have it. I'll get Edna to ring the ambo, I reckon you're too upset."
Charlie was so wise. I went overboard thanking him.
"You're a good lass, Nimooh," he said. "Don't feel sorry for what you done. That one's a right bastard."
I went out shopping. I needed music, to soothe my shattered nerves.
I'd carried the Rustavis' stereo in from the garage, and tried to plug all the parts together, but I couldn't get a sound from it. So I went to a big electrical store, and asked them to send somebody to make it work. But the cicada- faced salesman insisted on my filling in a form first. The form was very, very nosy. It wanted my full name, my address, and a lot of other details.
"Of course I'll give you the address," I told Cicada- Face, "but the rest is irrelevant. I'm paying cash."
A manager beetled up out of nowhere, sensing trouble.
"It's Bould's policy to require these details." he smarmed.
"Why?"
Puzzlement slowly spread, eventually covering his entire face. How was it even thinkable for a customer to question the store's "policy"?
"My policy is that my details remain confidential," I stated. That one was worthy of Simon.
Cicada- Face and Beetle- Back swapped vexed looks.
"It is a requirement of - "
"So the deal's off," I added, walking out, leaving them both open- mouthed. A customer with a policy!
But I was shaking so much I could hardly breathe.
As I marched home cross and musicless, I noticed a little shop with the stereo's brand name on the window. I went in, and found a a gnome- like Welshman. "That make's always a problem to set up," he said. "But I can fix it for you in no time."
Because he didn't ask my name, I volunteered it.
"Splendid name," said the Welshman. His accent reminded me of Bryn. "Very Arthurian."
I divide the world into people who've heard of Nimue and those who haven't. To the select few, I give special thanks.
I then took a train to the city, and bought a complete recording of Wagner's Ring. It cost a small fortune, but at this stage of my life, it's a necessity. Simon hates opera, so I've waited a long time for this.
When I returned home, there was no trace of Aaron or his car. The phone was ringing, as usual. I don't make many calls, but I sure receive plenty. It was Sue.
"You haven't seen Aaron, have you?" she asked. "He was going to pick me up at lunchtime today, but he said something about visiting you first."
"Why would he visit me?"
"He wanted to get something off you, I think."
"If it's my underpants, they're staying on."
We both laughed.
The gnome arrived, to get my stereo working. It only took him a minute, but he dallied, listening to the opening of Rheingold with a blissful smile on his face. I made him a cup of coffee.
"I've been here before," he commented. "A year or two ago. Strange Russian people. I sold them this very stereo."
"What was strange about them?" I asked casually.
He screwed up his face wondrously while he tried to remember. "In truth, I wasn't paying a lot of attention," he said. "It wasn't the sort of thing you could put your finger on, but they seemed a little removed from the here and now. Like yourself, for example. Please don't take any offence over this, but if you're one world removed, then they were two."
"What do you mean, one world removed?" I chuckled. "I think I'm very much here and now."
"But no," sang the gnome. "You're one of the lucky ones. I know, because I'm a bit like that too. Look at those pictures on your walls. Listen to this music you've bought. Your heart's not in this century, is it?"
"You could say that," I admitted.
"It's not in any century, is it?" he added, as he left.
When I went to water my seedlings tonight, I noticed that the side door to the garage wasn't properly closed. This was the second time in a few days.
After I broke the rusty chain, I had a locksmith come out and install a proper lock. But the door's swollen in its frame. There's a point where it catches, and you think it's locked, but it isn't. I take a lot of care to keep it locked, with all that precious junk furniture in there, as well as other things I have no interest in (like the Rustavis' huge TV set) and things that I have unseemly interest in (such as their locked filing cabinet).
I went inside, to check that everything was all right. The drawers of the filing cabinet were open.
It must have been Aaron, I realized. The first time that door wasn't shut was on Saturday after he'd come with Sue. He was wandering around with that bunch of keys. And today, he must have come back with a key for the filing cabinet. So he issome sort of cop or snooper. Now I feel a lot better about hitting him.
I crossed the road, and for the first time knocked on Charlie's door, number 84. A wizened old woman, with a face like a turnip, poked her head around the door. I assumed this was Edna. She'd have made a good match for the Welsh gnome. Between them, they could have produced children with absolutely unspeakable faces.
"Yes?" she said suspiciously.
"I'm checking on Charlie. Is he well?"
"Why do you want to know that?" she snapped.
Charlie appeared at the door, wearing his usual hat.
"Are you OK?" I demanded. "Do you realize that this is the first day you haven't knocked on the door demanding payment?"
He laughed. "Now I know I've got Buckley's chance of getting it from you. You'd bloody dong me one."
"I missed you. What was in the briefcase?"
His face darkened. "Bad stuff. Just proved he's a cop."
"Any of my books in there? I mean the Rustavi's books? One by Stephen Hawking? And one by J W Dunne?"
"By George!" he said. "I think you're right."
He shambled down the hall, and came back a minute later, holding the books.
"Some evidence," Charlie sneered, handing them back to me. "Can't prove nothing from books."
"I wouldn't want the Rustavis to think I'd taken them," I said. I was itching to ask more, but with Edna watching us warily, now was not the time.
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