GONE: NO ADDRESS
Home page | Floaters | Previous chapter | Next chapter I lunched with Sue, in an outdoor cafe near her office in North Sydney. The wind, fanned by skyscrapers, howled around us, and we had to hold onto our salad to stop it blowing away.
"Are you here for the cocktail party, or the ball?" Sue asked, fingering my gauzy purple-blue dress, as it billowed out like a sail. I must have looked puzzled. "I'd say this is an evening dress," she added.
"Nimue wore one like this when she was beguiling Merlin in the Burne-Jones painting," I said. "And that was by daylight." I'd just bought it, and couldn't wait. I'd worn it out of the shop.
"But loose ankle-length dresses are so impractical. Nobody wears them these days."
"Except me. I'm setting a new trend. That's why I'm wearing it in this fashionable cafe."
That had Sue worried. For some reason, she thinks I'm a trendsetter. If I wasn't careful, she said, I could be forcing thousands of women to wear such clothes next year.
"Fine," I said. "If that happens, I'll be average again."
"Speaking of average," she added, "I'm worried about Aaron. I haven't seen him since I rang you last week."
"I haven't heard anything," I said, getting in first. "Tell me, what does he do for a living?"
"He claims he's a yacht broker, but I don't think he knows the first thing about yachts. I reckon that's just cover."
"For what?"
"Coke dealer, I'd say. He always seems to have plenty."
"Have you ever smoked that?" I asked.
She laughed, and patted me on the head patronizingly. "You're a scream, Dell. Sorry: you're a scream, Nimue."
She was improving.
"Want me to get you some?" she added.
I shook my head vigorously. "No, I'm not into drugs. Do you remember, I smoked a reefer once, and it made my head spin for days."
"A reefer!" she laughed.
I was never very good at keeping up with the latest jargon.
"I've started on a new series of drawings," I told her, trying to change the subject
"God, you're so lucky, you've got all that time. All I ever seem to do is design cereal packets. I'm working till after eight, most nights."
I figure the best way to put the past behind me is to freeze it. So I've started on my own book of hours, the a.m. series: 12 drawings of turning points in my life, done in a style which will be a mixture of Books of Hours, Ivan Bilibin, and stained-glass church windows, all done with coloured inks. I tried to tell her this, but she didn't want to listen. For half an hour she told me about her problems at work, then had to get back to the office.
"You've always been such a good listener, Dell," she told me, as she went into her building.
"Nimue," I tried to say; but the wind was blowing too hard.
I caught the train to Hurstville, bought a few things in the supermarket, and trudged the length of Boongarre Street. Instead of going in my front door, I went around the back, to check on my seedlings, hoping the wind hadn't dried them out too much. They turned out to be at wilting point, so I decided to give them a drink.
When I went over to the house to turn the tap on, I had a big surprise. A teenage girl was sitting on the back doorstep, hands over her face.
"What are you doing here?" I snapped, annoyed at my private backyard being intruded on.
She slowly removed the her hands from her face, revealing red eyes. She'd been crying. She had thick blonde hair, and a face straight out of Botticelli.
"Are you living here now?" she asked in a rush.
I nodded. "Are you OK?" I asked, more sympathetically.
"No! I'm not!"
"What's wrong?" I let go of the hose, and came over to her. Next thing, she was holding onto my legs and sobbing, soaking my new dress. Feeling awkward, I patted her on the head, as if she were a dog. She looked up at me, smiling through her rainbow of tears.
"Sorry," she said. "My best friends used to live here. "They promised to take me with them, but they went away and left me. I'm so lonely now."
"The Rustavis?"
She looked surprised. "You know them?"
"I feel as if I do. I'm always getting letters and phone calls for them."
I took her inside, and made her a cool drink. Her name was Masha. She lived with her mother in nearby Oatley - when she wasn't running away from home. She was seventeen, about to finish her second-last year of high school, and adamant that she wasn't going back.
Say nothing, I instructed myself: you're not a teacher now.
While I fed her endless drinks, and we stood in the kitchen, I pumped her about the Rustavis. How did she get to know them, for example?
Her father's yacht was moored next to the Rustavis'. He seldom used it, and sometimes after Masha had an argument with her mother, she'd go to it, and stay there overnight. The Rustavis' yacht was old and decrepit; nevertheless, they were doing "weird things" with it.
"What sort of weird things?" I asked, intrigued.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
I was even more intrigued, and hazarded a few wild guesses: "For example, were they milking it, like a cow? Teaching it to fly? Converting it into an opera house?"
That made her laugh. "You're crazy," she said. "But actually weirder than that. I'm not allowed to tell anybody."
While I tried to find out more about the Rustavis, she asked about me. I told her I was discarding my past, like a worn-out snakeskin, and starting again with a new name.
"Nimue," she said, trying it on her tongue a few times. "I adore that name. I'd love to be called that."
"Masha's rather nice too. Is it short for something in Russian?"
She laughed. "Ask Martin," she said. "He christened me that."
"Is he Russian? Is Natasha?"
She laughed again. "Sometimes. But when there are Russians around, they're Georgian."
"What do you do for a living?" she asked.
"I'm unemployed."
"I've never seen an unemployed person in such an expensive- looking dress."
"It wasn't that expensive." (Actually, it's the most expensive dress I've ever bought. But Adele always wore cheap clothes.)
Just as Sue had, Masha fingered the cloth. "This is just so beautiful," she gushed. "Is it shot silk? Can I try it on?"
I was afraid she'd split it, but couldn't think of a way to say no. I stood there and said nothing.
"God, you're possessive," Masha said.
"I only bought it this morning. And I don't know if it would fit you. It might be a bit tight..."
It was very loose on me.
"OK, I get the message. I'm going." She stood up, and walked into the studio (which is what I now call the laundry). On the way to the back door, she saw my drawing table. A towel over it protects my work from the morning sun. Through the kitchen door, I saw Masha go over to it, and lift the towel.
"Wow!" she said. "This is great! Did you draw this?"
I nodded.
"Fantastic! It looks like something out of a space comic."
I thought it had a distinctly medieval look.
Masha had found my first drawing: a vivid dream I had when I was seven. I was flying in my nightgown (I suddenly had wings like an angel) above a deep green forest. In the forest was a lake. In the lake was an island. In the island was a cave, from which three animalish faces peered out. Very Arthurian. After a week's work, I'd finished inking in the bottom half, but the top half, including myself as an angel, was still a pencil outline. Without a real angel to pose for me, I was having trouble getting the wings to look right.
"You should be a cartoonist," said the awed Masha, coming back inside. "I need a pee," she added, heading for the bathroom. But instead of turning right she went straight on, into my bedroom.
"Back again!" she accused, jumping on the bed.
"Not you," groaned Onuphrius, stretching out his neck to be tickled.
"Got a visitor?" she called.
"He thinks he lives here," I said, coming in.
"He used to hang around all the time, and Natasha kept chasing him away with a broom. She hates cats."
Onuphrius decided it was time for his umpteenth snack of the day.
"Get me some milk, baggage," he commanded, lazily jumping down. I went to check the fridge.
"There was one animal that Natasha could never get rid of, though," said Masha, still pulling up her leggings as she came out of the bathroom. "Have you met Walter yet?"
"Walter who?"
"The bull ant."
"Yes!" I said. "The one who climbs down the curtain every night. So that's his name!"
"He only wants a breadcrumb," she volunteered.
We smiled at each other.
The phone rang. Masha stretched out an arm and picked it up. I could hear a shrill voice.
"OK, Mum," said Masha. "Don't worry, I'll be there."
The voice at the other end started up again, and Masha hung up on it in mid-sentence.
"You don't know what it is, to have a mother like mine," she sighed. "She said she'll kill me if I'm late for tea again. Gotta go."
At the back door, she turned suddenly, grabbed my head in both hands, and kissed my nose. She's a lot bigger than I am.
"You're nice, Nimue," she said. "In fact, you're nearly as nice as Natasha. I might drop in again, OK?"
I went into the living room and put the stereo on, continuing my third journey through the Ring of the Nibelungs. After Masha's emotionally hectic visit, Die Walkure seemed mild and soothing.
As I listened to Wagner, I took another look at the postcard that came yesterday. It might make more sense, I thought, in the light of what Masha had said this afternoon. I'd meant to tell Sue about this at lunch today, but didn't get a chance.
Rajiv knocked on the door this morning. We've been meeting so often that we're on first-name terms now, and I recognize his special knock: three groups of two. I wrapped my kimono around me, hunted around for a dollar (which is what underpaid postage seems to cost) and opened the front door with the coin already in my hand.
Rajiv was beaming.
"Another ancient letter. Nothing to pay today, Mrs Rustavi. But I need to deliver this with an apology. I think it's from your husband."
I looked at him, alarmed. Surely Simon couldn't have found me.
Rajiv handed over an ancient postcard. It was so old that it wasn't even in colour: a sepia photo of Mauna Loa erupting in 1896.
It was addressed to Mrs N Rustavi. I gave an audible sigh of relief.
Dear Tash,Above the Hawaiian stamp and the unreadable postmark, Martin had written HOLD TILL 1/10/94. That was all. No return address.
If you get this, it works.Love,
Martin"How come there's nothing to pay?" I asked. "Has the Postal Service taken pity on a poor unemployed woman?"
Rajiv laughed, using all his white teeth.
"Very simple," he pointed out. "It has a valid postmark, so even though the Hawaiian postal service no longer exists, you must pay nothing extra. May I apologize on behalf of the Postal Service that it has arrived late."
"What's this bit about holding till the first of October?" I asked.
"Exactly what I am referring to, as it is now November."
"So where's it been for the last 98 years?" I asked suspiciously.
"We have been holding it, naturally, as requested by the sender. Of course, at Rockdale where I am based, the holding service dates back only to the 1920s, so for the first thirty or so years this card must have been held at the GPO."
I didn't quite get this. "What is this holding service?" I asked. "I've never heard of that?"
"We do not publicize our holding service, because all it consists of is a tallboy. What is more, it is practically full."
"And how long do you hold the letters for?"
"They range from the present day to 1999. After that, we have no space."
"But why would people want mail delivered years later?"
"It is normally only a week or two, in the case of birthday cards, Now, Tash - that is you: am I correct?"
Did he suspect I wasn't Tash?
"Tash?" he repeated.
I nodded, my agitated fingers stroking my silken belt. "A nickname," I muttered.
"Your husband is overseas?" he inquired in his soft voice.
"For a hundred years."
"In that case," said Rajiv gravely, "you must be a lot older than you look."
We both laughed nervously.
"And you?" I asked. "Are you married, Rajiv? Do you have children?"
He looked worried. "In a - " he began. Darkness spread over his face: it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. "I am extremely busy," he said. "No time for private discussions." He rushed away.
After he'd left, I realized that the address side of the postcard referred to Mrs N. Rustavi; the reference to Tash was on the left side, and part of the message. It was hardly surprising that Rajiv had read the message to Tash, but somehow it didn't seem proper for him to refer to me that way.
Thinking about this as I listened to Wagner, I concluded that I'm in danger of forming an undue attachment to Rajiv - who anyway is probably married, gay, or both. The solution is to have more human company. But in Sydney, with three or four million people, that's easier said than done. Everybody's too busy. I'm lucky if I manage an hour a week with Sue, and I never see the neighbours, because they're always at work.
In a city art gallery the other day, I saw an interesting-looking woman, with funny hair and paint-spattered jeans. She looked as if she could become a friend. I tried to strike up a conversation, but she turned away in a huddle, shielding her ears with her hands, as if the sound of my voice would pollute her.
I spend more time talking to Onuphrius than to any human - but his attitude can be very condescending, and his main topic of conversation is meat.
Sue's invited me to several of her parties, but I hate parties, specially ones where I don't know anybody. I prefer to meet people by themselves, not in groups.
So I've decided to look for a job. It will have to be part-time, and very unofficial: I need to be paid in cash, because I can't have a bank account. I'm willing to be anything, except an art teacher.
This morning, I went out and bought the Herald. On the way home I met Charlie, wheezing to the shops with the wind against him. I stopped to say hello; he stopped to catch his breath. In his hand was Aaron's black leather briefcase, with the very appropriate initials A.R.S. in gold leaf.
"That should be mine," I said. "I knocked him out."
"I helped yiz. Anyways, I needed it. Me old one broke."
"It wasn't really the briefcase I was interested in; it was what was inside it."
"Just papers and stuff. No money."
"Did you throw them out, or ransom them, or what?"
Charlie gave me one of his beady-eyed looks. It meant You Are Asking Too Many Questions For Your Own Good.
"I'm keeping 'em till he asks for 'em back. Could be worth a bob or two."
"God, you're a shrewd one, Charlie," I said.
He actually smiled, before battling on his way.
Back at home, I read through the Positions Vacant. I skipped the big ads, and went straight for the small print: two- line ads from hole- in- the- wall companies. Many of them wanted people with rare combinations of skills, such as an Urdu- speaking cook with a helicopter licence. A lot of others were for scurrilous and abominable things like telemarketing. I loathe telemarketing.
By the time I'd ruled out the rare skills, the telemarketing, and the places that would take half the day to reach by public transport, nothing was left. I decided to wait till Wednesday, when the local free paper comes out. Maybe there will be something in that.
Later, sitting on the toilet, I remembered the ad that somebody had sent to Natasha. I went and hauled it out from the bottom of my box of Rustavi mail. The letter, scrawled on a plain sheet of paper, said simply:
N.Sticky-taped to the foot of the page was an ad, probably from the local paper.
Why don't you give this a go?
Give me a ring - maybe I can help.
L."CONSULTANTS," it was headed. (Of course: everybody's a consultant these days.)
It continued: "We need smart, sympathetic people to help our donors solve their problems. Flexible hours. No selling involved." It sounded like a body-part bank. I imagined people donating their right arms for some cause, and me helping them to use their new rubber ones.
The last line was the one that attracted me, even though all it had was the phone number and a one-word address. The word was Rockdale: just a few stations up the line from Hurstville.
Obviously the company wasn't giving much away, such as its name, its address, or its type of business. This was beginning to sound just like the dodgy sort of organization I could work for.
The only problem was that the letter must have been a month or two old. Too bad, I thought. I'll ring them anyway. It did say consultants, plural. Maybe their turnover was huge.
The number rang and rang, but at last it was answered.
"Found it!" said a deep-voiced woman, laughing. "Why does he always hide his phone under heaps of paper? Hello, Mercury."
I gathered that somebody else was with her, and only the last two words were addressed to me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not Mercury. But you were advertising a job ... looking for consultants..."
"Again?" she said, incredulous. "Look, you'd better talk to JB. Sometimes he places ads without telling us. Here he is now. JB, are we advertising for staff again?"
I glued my ear to the phone, listening to the conversation in the background. A man's voice came in.
"I don't sink so, Mathilde," he said, in an attractive accent which somehow reminded me of Rajiv's. It wasn't Indian, though.
"We are," said a second woman, with a lighter voice. "It must be in the local rag again. We've already had half a dozen calls."
"Damnation!" said JB. "However could this happen? Surely I didn't send the wrong fax again. Now they'll be ringing up all day. And it's my number in the ad?"
"That's the one this call's come to," said Mathilde.
"I don't want this," said JB. "I'm expecting important calls today. Look, Joanna, unplug this phone, and put on the old answering machine. Make a message to say it was a mistake, and we're sorry, and leave your name and number and we'll get back to you next time we need somebody. Then switch line 6 across to this phone."
"Before we swap phones, there's somebody on the line now," Joanna pointed out.
"I'd better see who it is," JB sighed. "Hello?"
I finally realized he was talking to me.
"Are you there?" he asked.
"I'm really sorry to bother you, but my name is Nimue, and - " I began, desperately trying to sound business- like.
"Nimue!" he exclaimed. "Marvellous! At last! I've been waiting to meet you all my life."
This was not exactly what I expected to hear when applying for a job. I couldn't think what to answer.
"Are you still there, Nimue?" he asked. "Don't go away."
"I'm not going away," I assured him.
"You are planning to imprison me in an oak tree first?"
I could imagine Joanna and Mathilde exchanging puzzled glances.
"Only after I've beguiled you," I said, catching on. "But I'm actually planning a hawthorn tree. If you're lucky, I might put you in the tower. Or maybe seal you in the tomb in the cave."
"But if I don't teach you my spells, you won't be able to." JB had a very rounded sort of voice, almost sing-song.
"That's why I'm ringing. I want to learn your spells." It seemed better not to mention the ad. "To be a consultant."
"Don't come till tomorrow morning," he said. "It's bedlam today."
"What time, Merlin?" I asked cheekily.
"It doesn't matter. After nine," he said vaguely. "Well after nine, in fact. It's always chaos here, first sing in the morning."
As soon as I hung up, I realized something was wrong. The ad had been placed by mistake, so he wouldn't want to interview me. I'd be shown the door after five minutes. Still, Rockdale was close, and I was interested to see a man who'd been waiting all his life to meet Nimue.
So I didn't wear normal interview clothes. Instead I wore my new purple-blue dress: the one that Nimue wore when beguiling Merlin. But I didn't bother putting snakes in my hair: it was only Tuesday.
The address JB had given me turned out to be a grim two-storey building: a rectangular lump of concrete. The street frontage had forbidding roller doors, and a sign that had once said ROCKDALE PEUGEOT. Below that was a yellowing sheet of paper with the new address for Rockdale Peugeot.
I thought I had the address wrong, till I found a recessed door at the side of the building, with a small sign saying MERCURY FOUNDATION. Foundation! I thought. Aha! A dodgy charity.
I knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door, and found a staircase leading up. Grubby fawn carpet covered the stairs. At the top, a door was open and phones were ringing.
One big room occupied most of the top floor. Along one wall were half a dozen desks with computers; on the opposite wall were several doors. I couldn't see much else, because there were heaps of cardboard boxes everywhere. As I stood at the top of the stairs looking around, another phone started ringing.
A woman appeared from behind a pile of boxes, noticed me, and rushed to answer it. She seemed to be taking an order, and was writing something down. "It may take a while," she said cautiously. "We've never been asked for those before, so we don't have any sources yet."
Joanna. I recognized the voice.
She put the phone down, and came over to me. She was quite fat, about my height (in other words, short) and my age. She had long blonde hair, worn loose, and looked jolly. I liked her instantly.
"Are you a donor?" she asked. "Or a supplier? We don't usually encourage people to come here."
"Neither, but JB asked me to come in this morning."
"Have a seat," she said, waving at a pile of cardboard cartons. I'll tell him you're here. He's on the phone, as usual. This place is a madhouse." She rushed off, through one of the doors on the far side of the big room.
I sat awkwardly on a carton, realizing I'd forgotten to give her my name. I could hear a different woman on the phone in another room; she could have been Mathilde.
The phone started ringing again. "Can somebody get Line 5?" the woman shouted.
Does she mean me? I wondered. I went over to it, and gingerly lifted the receiver. It kept ringing, then I remembered you had to press the flashing button; this was the same type of phone as at Downer High School.
"Mercury Foundation," I said politely. "Can I help you?"
"Gidday, mate," said a rough male voice. "That you, Helen?"
"No, it's Nimue. I'm not working here, just answering the phone."
"That's what they all reckon," he chuckled. "Look, it's Macko here from Boulder. I got some mates from the Curry coming over for a piss-up on Saturday, and they got a real thirst for Fourex. Course you can't buy it here. Can you send us some? Don't care what it costs."
"I'm not - "
"We build up quite a thirst over here. Make it about 20 slabs, OK?"
I looked around desperately for Joanna - or anybody.
"Gotta go," said Macko. "Bloody mine inspector's just turning up, and I got a few things I don't want him to see. You'll get us that Fourex won't you, Nimue? Gotta be here by Saturday arvo. Seeya."
What could I do? Impressed that Macko had registered my name, I found a pen and paper on the desk, and wrote a note:
Macko from Boulder needs 20 slabs of Fourex by Saturday afternoon.Maybe this place was a beer wholesaler, not a charity after all. And I failed to see how donors fitted into this.
"Nimue," said JB's voice from behind me. I jumped, and looked around. JB turned out to be slim and fortyish; he had curly black hair, a puckish face, a small beard, a quizzical smile, and was dressed all in black.
"You're not admitting it?" he teased. "The Pre-Raphaelite dress makes it obvious, you know."
"I'm sorry," I said. "You surprised me." In fact he'd surprised me twice: I don't expect the managers of dodgy companies to know anything about art.
"I'm glad to see you're getting stuck in already," he said, taking my hand and shaking it softly, with an almost feminine grace. "Two of our staff are sick today, so it's a madhouse."
A phone was ringing in the distance.
"JB!" called Joanna. "It's Timlong, returning your call."
At the same time, the phone next to me started ringing.
"You'll be fine," said JB. "Just take the orders on paper for now. We'll show you how to work the computer later." He disappeared.
I picked up my phone. "Mercury Foundation," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Oh, Helen," said a woman dramatically. "I'm in such trouble. May Kwong, by the way, from Darwin. Look, we urgently need, this sounds really stupid, but I desperately need eight thousand condoms."
"Any special type?" I tried to keep a straight face. Had eight thousand men donated their penises for a charitable cause?
"Assorted, provided the average price is no more than half as much again as the cheapest. I'll want a quote, in Pacific francs, the same as last time."
My mind reeled, as I tried to absorb this. "When do you need them?"
"The weekend. Leave a message on my machine if I'm not there when you call back. And thanks so much for not asking why I need the condoms."
"I was assuming you have a hectic weekend coming up."
She laughed, and rang off.
Half an hour later, I'd taken a lot more calls, and sort of figured out how to use the computer. But I still didn't understand what the business was: some people wanted to buy strange objects, others wanted to check their balances, and others were complaining that their orders hadn't arrived. It didn't sound a bit like a foundation, as I understand the term. At one stage I went to JB's office to ask what was going on, but the phone rang when I was halfway there.
At last Joanna came over to see how I was doing.
"What's going on? I asked her. "I came for a chat about Merlin, and here I am answering your phone."
Her jaw dropped. "Who told you about Merlin?"
"JB. But of course I've known about him for years."
That threw her. She rushed straight into JB's office; I followed her, but she was so worried that she didn't notice me. (I've told you, nobody notices me.) JB was on the phone, but put a hand over the receiver when we came in. His office, furnished in an antique Dutch style, with a carved chair and desk and green carpet, was totally at odds with the spartan surroundings in the main room. I checked out the books in his glass-fronted bookcase: mostly thick tomes on marketing, in English and French.
"She knows about Merlin! She says you told her!" Joanna squawked.
"In so far as I am Merlin," said JB. Actually, it's Jacques. I'd noticed the nameplate on the door: Jacques Bertrany, Managing Director. He grinned at me, over her head.
"Merlin represents a problem we are facing," he explained. "Very secret, though I should have guessed you'd know about it. But welcome to Mercury. I hope you enjoy your employment with us."
"How can I be working," I asked, "when you haven't even interviewed me?"
"Oh, but I did," said Jacques. "On the phone, yesterday."
"That wasn't a proper interview. You didn't ask about my qualifications, or anything."
"Qualifications!" he laughed. "Malory tells us that you are fated to become my apprentice. When you can imprison me in a castle of air, that will be your qualification. If I want qualifications, I can find them at my weekly lectures. I have marketing students coming out of my ears, you know."
I studied his nearest ear. Was that the head of a very small marketing student, about to be born? A well-coiled ear, I thought.
"You didn't even know what I look like," I added.
"Sometimes it's a pleasant surprise to see what people look like, but it's not important. Everysing's done on the phone. The voice is all that matters here."
"But you said yesterday the ad was a mistake, that you didn't need anybody."
"That was yesterday. Today, as you have seen, we do need somebody. Mercury is growing extremely fast. Excuse me a moment."
While he finished a phone conversation on high finance, I looked out the window. His office was on the corner of the building, and had a view over the neighbouring buildings, extending from Botany Bay on the right to a hill on the left.
He finished his conversation, stood up, and came over to me. "Nice view, isn't it?" he said. "See that big house on top of the hill, with the little dormer window between two chimneys?"
"No."
He came around beside me, and pointed it out.
"Christina Stead lived there," he said proudly. "That's why this foundation is in Rockdale."
"Is she the owner?"
He laughed. "Nimue, you don't know your own literature - just like most Australians. Do you know why I am here today, and not in Brittany?"
He looked into my eyes, waiting for me to guess. I didn't dare.
"Because years ago I read House of All Nations. An incredible book. Though it's about Paris, it's by an Australian Balzac - who lived in that house - and it suggested to me that, in Sydney, everysing is possible. What's more, one of the characters shares my initials. Many years later, I married an Australian woman, and here I am. If House of All Nations had not been written, Mercury would not exist."
"But what is this Mercury? It's called a foundation, but to me it seems like a sort of wholesaler that sells over the phone."
"No, you misunderstand. That is telemarketing. I despise telemarketing. I spit on telemarketing! That is not marketing at all. Mercury is true marketing."
"But," I said (stepping back quickly, in case he decided to spit on telemarketing) "I thought a foundation gave money to deserving people."
"That's exactly what we do, except that we give them goods and services instead of money. And what makes them deserving? Well, first of all, they give us money. Have you heard the saying 'Charity begins at home?' We return our charity to our donors, less a small standing charge of sixty dollars a month."
"Why don't they just buy the stuff, instead of pretending it's a charity?" I asked.
"But then there would be no tax advantages. As a charity, it's tax-free. As a company, our costs would be far higher, and we'd fall under strict fiduciary regulations because we hold the donors' funds in our account. Instead of paying interest, which donors would have to pay tax on, we offer discounts."
I was sort of was beginning to understand: it was a tax dodge. "But is this legal?" I asked.
"Perfectly. We had it thoroughly checked out. But we lie low. We only advertise on country radio stations, and classified ads in obscure magazines. If we were to advertise in newspapers or television, that might encourage competitors. Then the government might change the law."
"I'm lying low too," I volunteered quietly.
JB explained how Mercury would work, when it got going properly - it was only a few months old. There would be the Funding department (which signed up new donors), the Grants department (taking orders, as I'd been doing), and the Fulfilment department (which bought what the customers asked for). As he spoke to me, he remembered an idea he'd had for an International department, which would extract various concessions flowing to charities involved in overseas aid; he paused to jot some notes on a scrap of paper.
Most of the donors, he said (after another phone call) were isolated people, in one way or another. The Sydney customers were mostly people who couldn't or didn't want to go to shops, because they were disabled, too busy, or famous. Most of the other donors lived in far-flung parts of Australia where they couldn't easily buy the obscure things they wanted.
As he excitedly told me how new it all was, and how it epitomized the spirit of marketing (whatever that was), I reflected that it was simply a telephone equivalent of an old general store.
"I'm afraid we only pay fifteen dollars an hour," he said, fiddling with the computer mouse on his desk. He looked at me a little sadly, as if he expected me to walk out on the spot.
That's about half what I earned as a teacher.
"I suspected from the tiny ad that it wouldn't be much," I said. "But I'm not really looking for money."
At this point, Sue would have said "You're crazy, Dell." Jacques simply nodded. I explained that I was new to Sydney, didn't know many people, and had time to spare.
"But how can you afford to live?" he asked. "Are you on the dole? I'll pay you under the table, if you prefer."
This was the sort of man, I realized, who you could say anything to, and he wouldn't bat an eyelid. I decided to test him.
"I have a private income," I admitted. "Money laundering, petty crime, that sort of thing. And my prospects from forgery are looking good, in the longer term."
"I can see why you're lying low," he said, keeping a straight face.
I explained to Jacques about my ex-husband, and how important it was that my employment details shouldn't go on anything the government would ever see. He was sympathetic, and mentioned his ex-wife, who he says is bleeding him dry, and doesn't need the money.
I agreed to work the afternoon shift, from 1pm to 8pm, four days on and four days off, starting tomorrow. I'll be paid in cash, with no paperwork, and Canberra won't know I exist.
I left Rockdale at midday, walking on air. Nimue is so capable! I thought. She lands the first job she applies for, even when there was no vacancy. There's nothing she cannot do.
When I got off the train a few minutes later at Hurstville, I called in at the local bookshop, to see if I could get a copy of this amazing book, House of All Nations. They'd never heard of it, and weren't interested in seeing if they could get it. I'll try one of the big bookshops in the city, next time I go there.
It occurs to me I shan't be going there very often, working all that time. That's a lot of hours out of my week.
I told you before that I'm invisible, that nobody notices me. But that's not quite true: I am all too visible to nuts and cranks. They single me out every time. For example, if there's a religious fanatic raving on about salvation, and a thousand people are walking past, guess who he chooses to try and hand a pamphlet to. Sydney's full of such people, usually standing outside railway stations, peddling their very own end of the world. A Chinese-looking fanatic approached me as I came out of the subway at Hurstville station today. He had a tiny moustache.
"End of the world!" he declaimed, in a thick accent.
"You're too late," I told him. "It's already happened."
For a split-second he was mystified. While he was working out which answer to select from his stock repertoire, I escaped.
As soon as I reached home, I rang Sue at her work, to tell her my news. For once, I reached her, instead of a machine.
"Telemarketing," she said doubtfully.
"Not really," I said, and repeated what Jacques had told me.
She laughed. "Donors! It's amazing what new labels those marketing people can dream up. What a con!"
"It's a useful service for isolated people," I said.
"Come on, Dell, it's a rip-off. It's even worse than a bank. You've just told me these people are paying sixty dollars a month, and what do they get for it? A few soothing words, and no guarantee they'll actually get any bargains."
"Nobody said it was cheap," I pointed out. (I can be very loyal.) "Sometimes we can't buy at wholesale, so we have to charge them more than the normal retail price. Plus freight."
"You could talk anybody into anything, Dell - I can see why they took you on. But don't delude yourself: it's all a big con."
That's another thing about Sydney people: they're so keen to see sharp practices that sometimes they're suspicious of things that are quite above board.
"The boss is fairly sweet," I said. "He'd actually heard of Nimue. And the Pre-Raphaelites. He fancies himself as Merlin. He's from Brittany, too."
All this went straight over Sue's head. In her quintessential Sydney way, she struck at the guts of it. "But Dell, is he sexy? Is he rich? Is he married? What's his name?"
"To answer your questions in order: (A) I refuse to think about it; I've give up on men. But his accent's fairly swoonish. (B) He says his ex-wife's bleeding him dry - but who knows? And his name is Jacques Bertrany."
Sue laughed loud and long.
"I might have guessed," she said in the end. "That guy's one of the biggest con-men in the Sydney marketing world, and believe me, there are plenty. He ran an ad agency once, which went bust in a big way. Another time he disappeared overseas without warning, and didn't come back for a couple of years. He's run outrageously expensive seminars. Whatever he thinks will make a lot of money, fast."
"Have you met him?"
"No, but everybody knows him. Everybody in North Sydney, that is. The rest of the world doesn't count. Rockdale, eh? What a come- down."
"Have you ever heard of Christina Stead?"
"Yeah. The Wyeth painting of the girl sitting on the grass. Why?"
I couldn't be bothered correcting her. "Jacques is crazy about her, and that's why the office is at Rockdale."
She laughed cynically. "Cheap rent, that's my theory. I've got to go now, Dell, but keep me posted. Let me know when you entice him into bed."
"I'm not going to, Sue. I've had it up to here with men in bed. Besides, I suspect he's gay."
She's always laughing at me.
But last night I dreamed of a man in bed with me: a synthetic one, with Jacques' accent and Rajiv's teeth. When I woke up, I was clutching the pillow fiercely, and wet between my legs. I made wild love to myself, imagining my fingers were his, and I cried out at the end. It was the best sex I've had for a long time.
To be honest (as Sue says when she's about to be dishonest) it was the only sex I've had for a long time. While I lay there wondering what was wrong with me, the phone rang. I staggered out to it, naked and sweaty with emotion.
"Natasha?" a man asked. He sounded English.
"Yes. Who is it?"
"Vince, dummy. I wasn't sure if it was you. You sounded a bit different."
I tried to add a touch of Russian accent. "I tink I haf a leetle cold."
"Kozulov said you'd disappeared, and some land agent had thrown him out. But I told him you wouldn't do that."
I was hoping Vince didn't speak Russian. I only know one word (dosvedanya) but I can't remember if it means hello, goodbye, or thank you.
"Martin's gone, though," I offered.
"By himself?"
"No, a yacht needs quite a few people." (I hoped that was true.) "He's in Hawaii - I had a postcard from him the other day."
"Has he been crossing the Date Line? In that wreck?"
"I presumed so. But he sent the postcard in 1896."
"Wow! He's actually done it, then."
"Done what?" would have been the appropriate thing to say at this point, but Natasha would have known about the It. I decided to take a different approach. "Where are you ringing from, Vince?"
"I'm at work. Got here early this morning to make a few calls. In fact, I rang you yesterday, but nobody answered."
"I was out. I've got a new job, you know."
"I guess without Martin to bring home the bacon. You weren't making much at that pathology lab, were you? Hours being cut back, right? What are you doing now?"
"I'm starting this afternoon," I told him, realizing I'd been forgetting to put on the accent. I explained that it was a telephone equivalent of an old-fashioned general store, mainly for people who lived way out in the country, or those who were too busy to shop.
"Great idea," said Vince. "I could use that myself. Want to sign me up?"
"You have to deposit money into an account, and there's a standing charge of sixty dollars a month."
"Peanuts. If it saves me five minutes a week, it'll pay for itself."
I tried to calculate his hourly pay rate: if it's true that he earns in five minutes what I'll earn in an hour, he could be a valuable person to know. Stop it! I ordered myself. Stop thinking like a Sydneyite! People's value is unrelated to what they earn.
"Tell you what, Vince, I'll ring you when I get to work this afternoon and give you all the details. What's your work number, again? I can't find the address book - I think Martin must have taken it with him."
"Presumably to send ancient letters to all and sundry. Perhaps I'll get one too."
"Will you let me know if you get one, please?"
"Of course," said the obliging Vince.
I felt jubilant, and danced around the dining room naked. Nimue triumphs again! I said to myself, while I put the bath and the kettle on. As I went into the sitting room to play my wake-up Wagner, I kissed Merlin in the print.
At work, I lost no time telling Jacques I'd already found a new customer.
"Where does he live?" Jacques asked, probably expecting me to say Bullamakanka.
"He works in North Sydney," I said proudly. Where the big spenders hang out.
Jacques' face darkened.
"What's his name?" he demanded. I remembered what Sue had said, about everybody in the advertising industry knowing Jacques. Somehow, Vince didn't sound like he was in the advertising industry. He was too blunt. An engineer, I'd guess.
"Vince somebody. I've never heard of him before. He rang up this morning. A wrong number." I couldn't be bothered explaining in more detail.
"Nimue, you are a born saleswoman," said Jacques, patting me on the shoulder. "To convert a wrong number into a hot prospect. Perhaps you should go into our Subscriptions department, not the Orders department which I had in mind."
"I'll give them all a go," I said. "What if I start by ringing this guy Vince and getting his details?"
"Very smart," said Jacques. "Smart" is one of his highest accolades, judging from the number of times he says it.
So Joanna showed me how to take subscriptions on the computer, and I found out a little more about Vince - but not the things that interested me most: who he lived with, how he knew the Rustavis, and so on. They weren't on the computer questionnaire, so I could hardly ask them with Joanna sitting next to me.
It was tricky when I had to ask his surname. "My supervisor's listening in," I explained. "I have to follow the proper procedure."
"Oooooh Kaaay," he sighed. "Spelling champions of the world, are you ready for this? Do you have your pencils in your sweaty little hands? Here it comes now: H - I - L - L."
I carefully typed it in.
As the afternoon progressed, the phones ran hotter and hotter, and the donors' demands became more and more exotic. They weren't buying pedestrian things like the week's groceries: no, they were after drums of chemicals, bales of cotton, conveyor belts, flower arrangements to fill 80 urns, and so on. They thought big. They thought industrial. It wasn't at all like a general store. A young woman wanted twenty-two Friesian calves. A murky- sounding man wanted another four- wheel- drive, to replace the one that sank in a swamp last week, but this time dark metallic blue.
"Coming with us?" said Joanna in my ear at five o'clock. It turned out that this place has overlapping shifts. A young guy called Terry was waiting behind me to take my place (his lucky seat, he said), and I now had a half-hour break. Joanna and two others took me to a nearby pub, where they go every night, to get away from the phones. Over a carafe of red wine, they regaled each other with stories about JB, as they all call him. Joanna's been his secretary for years, following him through "a dozen hare- brained ventures" (as she put it). But she was fiercely loyal to him, defending him when the others ridiculed him.
"If he's so brilliant, how come he's not filthy rich?" asked Will, a softly- spoken young man with a ring through his nose.
"He's too soft," said Joanna. "He doesn't like to let people go. And getting rich isn't his number one interest in life?"
"What is?" asked a woman. "Changing things around? Going off at a tangent?"
The others laughed.
"Having an interesting life," Joanna said. "But be patient. I feel in my bones that Mercury's going to take off like a rocket. We're adding six more phones next week, to keep up with the demand."
The others thought this was a great joke. They are all a lot younger than me, except Joanna and Mathilde (who wasn't with us - she never leaves her desk).
After our break had more than run its time, Joanna went home to her family, and the rest of us, a little merry, went back to work. Sue's right, I suppose: it is telemarketing, and it could get very boring after a while, but the atmosphere at Mercury is a lot less bitchy than the staffroom of Downer High School.
I've been thinking about the "ancient" letters that have been arriving, and I've concluded that somebody with graphic design skills is having a joke on the Rustavis. To test my hypothesis, I've decided to join in.
So today I amused myself preparing a postcard for Vince. I took a train to Central station, found a place called the Postal History Shop, and bought an ancient postcard. I chose a blurry one of the waterfront at Colombo in 1927, because the year matched my scarf. My next stop was the shop next door, which sold old stamps. The shopkeeper was small and grey: he reminded me of a retired postmaster. When I tried to buy a Ceylonese stamp from 1927, he thought I was crazy.
"Are you buying this for philatelic purposes?" he asked sternly, holding the stamp out of my reach.
"No, I'm going to post a letter with it," I said cheekily.
"I thought so! Well, you can't."
"You're quite right. For a start, I'm not in Ceylon," I said, taking his side to confuse him. (This is a specialty of mine.)
"No!" He waggled a forefinger.
"Noooo!" I agreed, waggling my own.
"I'm referring to the fact that the currency has changed. That stamp would not be valid today."
"But I shan't be sending it today. I'll be sending it in 1927."
He gave me a funny sort of look. I felt like showing him my postcard, to prove this, but I didn't want to reveal my hand too much.
As I left the shop, he called out. "Excuse me madam, but you won't be able to post a letter with that stamp. It's used."
"Won't I just?" I said, dashing out before he could stop me.
While I was in the city, I visited the two biggest bookshops, trying to buy House of All Nations. "Long out of print," they said at the second one.
So I went home, studied the postcard from Martin to Natasha and practised his writing, in my brown ink. The message is exactly the same on Vince's postcard, except that instead of "Dear Tash," it says "Dear Vince."
I had a lot of fun faking the other half of the postmark, too: a nice piece of graphic art. I did it with an indelible pencil, which can create an excellent imitation of patchily stamped ink. Then I went and mailed it. A man seemed to be watching me when I took the postcard from my handbag, and nonchalantly dropped it in the slot.
In case he was a spy from the Postal Service, I had an explanation prepared. I didn't dare to look back as I left, but I ducked into the nearest shop and pretended to look at tennis racquets. The man didn't follow me. Nimue triumphs again!
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