by Gabrielle Blondell
Max was running the blade of the trimmer along the top of a hedge when the removal van came to a wheezy standstill in front of the house next door. He stood on his toes, still trimming away, but squinting through his safety glasses. Bruich Removals, it said, white lettering on black across the side of the van. A dark grey, sporty sedan came next and a man emerged from it. He strode up the path of the neighbouring house to the front door, jostling in his pocket and extracting a bunch of keys. “Sorry lads,” he called to the two brick-shaped men, who had climbed from the cab of the van. One was manoeuvring the tailgate loader with a remote control, while the other, who balanced on it, was levitated toward the rear roller door.
The man from the car strode the path again and took up one end of a sofa. He and the shorter of the removal guys walked the sofa into the house, tilting it this way and that to gain access through the front door. Max wondered if his new neighbour shouldn’t step back and let the removal guys get on with their job, but no. Another dining chair scraped over the tailgate. Max’s hedge-trimmer dipped in concert, taking a wedge-shaped slice out of the hedge. “Fuck!” Max yelped.
“Double-fuck,” the man said. He was perfectly framed in the mangled hedge.
Max ducked down under the guise of turning off the squealing hedge-trimmer. Sweat broke out on his brow, a combination of the humidity which had been escalating all day and his obvious voyeurism. He heard footsteps beyond the hedge. Now was the time to present himself. Max stuck an arm through the jagged hole. The newly-sawn branches scraped along his upper arm. Through the sting of it, he called out, “I’m Max, your neighbour.”
His hand was enveloped and shaken. “Hey man. I’m Evan.” Beads of blood showed through on Max’s shirt. Evan looked down at them, but didn’t comment. They released each other’s hands and Max skirted the boundary between them and stepped out onto the grassy verge.
Evan was lanky, loose-limbed in a WW2 kind of way, brown-skinned with a covering of blonde hair on his arms and legs. More blondness poked out from under his hat. “Bloody hot,” Evan said.
Max nodded. “Yup, they are predicting rain again. Lots of it.”
Both men sighed.
Evan took up position with his back against the side of the truck, his hips rocked forward and his ankles crossed. Max stood nearby, taking advantage of the shade cast by the vehicle. A not-too-uncomfortable silence swung between them.
Evan pushed himself away from the truck. “Got to get on, mate. Need to beat that rain, but nice to meet you, Max.”
They shook hands again. “Come over tomorrow night for dinner,” Max said. These words were so suddenly out of his mouth “Caro would love to meet you.”
Evan cocked an eyebrow. “Caro?”
“My wife, Caroline.”
“Right then. Thanks, I’ll be there.”
The lightening was continuous when Max returned home from his office. The jagged cut in the hedge showed itself like a broken tooth. Inside the house, he shook off droplets of rain from his jacket and hung it on a hook by the front door.
Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen. Caro was a good cook when she put her mind to it which was hardly ever. No amount of fine cook books could make her cook more than a couple of nights each week and, even then, she would wander off into the garden or upstairs to the retreat. He would find her, like a Roman Emperor, reading while dinner burned. Not so tonight. Caro was on song. He could hear her clashing and bashing the pans about and the rattle of the cutlery drawer.
“Darling! I have flowers,” Max called through to her. “I’ll find a vase, shall I?”
“Yes do and then come and keep Evan company while I finish dinner,” Caro answered.
Sure enough, Evan sat at the breakfast bar in amongst the fall-out from Caro’s cooking. He gave Max a small wave and stood for the customary handshake. “Sorry I’m so early, mate.”
Max hid his disappointment. He had wanted to tidy things. Do the table properly so it appeared they sat at it every night. “That’s ok,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Would you like to go into the lounge and relax?”
Evan glanced across at Caro, who was wrestling a large tray from the oven. “I’m happy here. Don’t want to leave Caro out.”
“Yes,” Max nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll just see to these.” Max placed the flowers on the tabletop and scouted for a vase in the corner cupboard.
Evan tilted his head toward the flowers. “You’re a good man. I should have done that more. I might still be married.”
Max felt the fizz of a success. The flowers had been a means to impress. He looked over to Caro, who was standing at the sink washing the peeled potatoes. She raised an eyebrow at him and he back at her. If she was the grand cook tonight, he could be the romantic.
The dinner was good, but confusing. It was some kind of eggplant thing pretending to be lasagne. “Evan’s a vegetarian,” Caro said.
“Oh?”
“I popped over this afternoon to see if there was anything he didn’t like or couldn’t eat.”
Evan nodded in agreement. “Caro and I got to talking,” he said, “and so here I am.”
Max nodded along to the bounce of Evan’s head. Without his hat, their neighbour’s hair was exactly golden, not white, not yellow. Rare in men, Max decided.
After dinner, they stayed at the table. “Nice wine,” Max said to Evan, who had supplied it.
“Yeah, I did a stint at a winery when I was on the Peninsula,” he replied.
“Mornington Peninsula,” Caro clarified, smiling across the table at Evan.
Max took in the smile, the particular slant of the eyes, the lips partially open. “Oh right. Did you make wine?” he asked.
Evan laughed. “No. No. I served it.”
“Right, so what do you do now?”
“Evan sells surfboards,” his wife said. “Isn’t that exciting, Max? He travels all over the world doing it.”
“Yes, that is exciting.” Max was nodding again.
“So what do you do?” Evan asked him.
“Max is a financial advisor,” Caro said.
“I hear they came down on you guys pretty hard after the GFC,” Evan said.
“Oh, Max is no cowboy,” Caro said. “He’s safe. Very safe.”
“I’m as safe as I need to be and still make my clients money,” Max sniffed. Caro was starting to annoy him. “It’s all about individual risk tolerances. Not many people understand that,” he added.
“Really?” Evan said.
“Yes. It’s true,” Max said. “For example, an elderly client of mine requested a change in his portfolio last week which is outside what we have determined as his personal parameters, so I am meeting with him for a new assessment.”
“Oh right,” Evan said.
But Max had already lost him. Evan was smiling at Caro. Caro’s tongue flicked at the inside of her lower lip.
The city was sodden. Water gushed down hills and overwhelmed stormwater drains. It rose half way up the wheels of parked cars. Max stepped gingerly along the sidewalk under his umbrella, while the heavy raindrops bounced off the pavement drenching his shoes. He leapt over a flooding gutter at the intersection to Merriwether and Grey Streets. A horn blasted him and he hurried on to the safety of the opposite sidewalk. Ahead of him, the river swelled, swirling and heaving and brown with mud. Max turned into a side street and knocked on the door to his client’s weatherboard house.
“My dear Max. What brings you here on such a day?” Mr Czanowski stood bent-backed in the small wooden portico.
“We had an appointment. Did it slip your mind?” Max asked.
“No, not in the least, but it’s raining cats and dogs, my man. Cats and dogs!”
Mr Czanowski ushered Max through to his living room. “Let me make you a cup of tea for your trouble,” he said. “I have an Assam. It’s very hearty.” Before Max could respond, his client had disappeared.
The room was lined with heavy dark furniture. Max perched on the edge of a chair upholstered in a tapestry-like material with his briefcase resting against the outside of his leg. Now and again there was a chink of crockery and the ting of a spoon. Apart from that, the silence was disturbed only by the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. It was as if the room was impervious to the buffeting of the wind and the coursing of the floodwaters outside. Max thought a room such as this could exist anywhere and nowhere.
A carved wooden mantlepiece topped the fireplace across from him. On it rested a photograph of a woman under a jacaranda tree. Max could see the straight line of her mouth and the directness of her gaze from where he sat. He crossed the room for a closer look.
The same woman was in a number of group photos of travellers posing in front of Uluru and again in what appeared to be a snapshot of three siblings. A young boy sat in a wooden boat with his hands resting on the oars. He was looking out beyond the photographer, his mouth in the same straight line. Toward the bow of the boat was another young woman, older than the other two. On her, the mouth seemed critical. In the foreground of the picture was a much younger version of the woman from the other photographs. She sat on the edge of the boat with her toes dipping into the water, looking directly at the camera. The same straight mouth, the same singular gaze.
“My wife Adina.”
Max started in the quiet room.
“She loved this country,” the old man said, “but me not-so-much. I am one for the traditions.” Mr Czanowski handed Max a cup of tea. “In our little town, we could trace our ancestors back over seven hundred years. There is something to be said for that.”
“Why did you leave Poland?” Max asked.
“For love, Max. Adina would never have stayed. Her family suffered much during the last war. She could not look back.”
“Why did you stay after…..?” Immediately, Max blushed over his insensitivity.
Mr Czanowski smiled sadly. “You mean after my wife died?”
Max nodded.
“I had nothing to go home to. My nieces and nephews did not know me and I’m an old man. At least here, I have some friends.” The spirit of Mr Czanowski seemed to leave the room and float back in time.
Max sat very still while the clock ticked on in the corner. He too sent his mind across borders to a land he had not visited. He saw the sea rushing beneath him, the sky cooling, the earth forested and Adina sitting on the edge of the boat pinning him with her gaze. Max’s heart swelled. He could feel his own pulse beat in his neck.
With a sigh, Mr Czanowski shook off his memories and returned to the room.
Max returned as well. He felt the tapestry-covered chair beneath him and rubbed the pattern with his thumb to be sure of it.
Mr Czanowski took up his tea cup and sipped from it. “I have had a good life, Max. All love is a risk, is it not?”
Max found himself nodding again. He was unsure why.
Outside the wind was stronger. The low black clouds churned above Max’s head as he made his way back onto Merriwether Street. All love is a risk. Instead of turning left to go back to the office, he walked toward the river. Whitewater, like the bow waves of miniature ships, rushed around the pylons under the ferry landing. A tree the height of a three storey building sailed by on the muddy waters. Max saw Caro smile across the table at Evan. He felt nothing. A gust, unimpeded by the river, grabbed at his umbrella. It yawed above his head and he was quick to close it. Normally, a happy, touristy place, Max was the only person on the length of the boardwalk. Still he walked on, careless of his suit. He kept his eyes on the solid planks before his feet as the river rushed by and he felt nothing. A rogue wave hit the timbers of the boardwalk and sprayed over him. Caro’s tongue flicked her lower lip.
Up ahead Max could make out a square of light in the surfeit of grey. The light became a beacon to him drawing him forward against the wind and rain. Finally, it resolved itself into a fluorescing noodle bar with white characterless chairs and tables.
Max stood dripping at he counter. A dollop of sauce, long-since baked on, had formed a crust on the inside of the food warmer. “
“What would you like?” a woman asked him.
“I was wanting to get out of the storm,” Max said.
A sly look came over her face. “If you want shelter, you must eat.”
“Right then.” He consulted the menu again. “What do you recommend?”
“Pick your noodle, pick your meat, pick your sauce,” she chanted.
Max chose a chair facing the window overlooking the sidewalk. The noodles were thick like the intestines of a small animal. He stirred at them absently. The day had become unnaturally gloomy, while he was bathed in light. He felt this contrast keenly. The sensation he experienced in Mr Czanowski’s lounge room returned. The noodle bar was everywhere and nowhere.
Chairs scraped behind him.
“So what is it then?” A woman’s voice was impatient.
“I have something I need to tell you, Freda. That is why I called,” a man cajoled.
Max stirred at his noodles.
“If you must, you must,” the woman said.
Max could tell her chair was directly behind his. If he were to throw an arm back, they would touch.
“Just get on with it,” the woman called Freda added.
“It’s about Richard,” the man said.
“What?”
“Your boyfriend, Richard.”
Max took a bite of his noodles. They were slick with grease.
The man gave off a nervous cough. “Richard has been seeing my cousin, Elizabeth.”
Max felt queasy. The sauce had congealed.
“Why are you telling me this?” Freda’s voice was cold, the syllables clipped.
“Well, we are friends, I thought.”
“We have never been friends,” Freda hissed.
Max heard the scrape of a chair and heavy footsteps moving away. Through the window, he caught sight of a man as he ducked across the street and disappeared into the heavy rain.
Max sat very still in his chair. He was prepared to wait as long as was necessary for the woman to leave. He chewed stoically and without pleasure. Even when the woman’s chair shunted into his own and he heard her move away, he continued to sit. First he imagined himself as the man, the breaker of bad news in hope of a sympathetic fuck. Then he cast himself as victim and Caro as the unfaithful. He saw she and Evan jostling under bed covers, the flash of a breast or a bum. The image faded and after a while Max stood to leave. His damp suit jacket hung from him, it’s structure gone.
The obstacle was immediately discernible when he opened the door onto the street. He could not say how he knew it to be Freda at all, except she looked like someone who might speak as this woman had. She stood outside on the footpath, her mouth slightly open and her hands hanging at her sides. People jostled around her to get by. One man gave her an impatient shove which pushed her further into the heavy rain. Max reached out for her elbow and opened his umbrella. She tilted her face toward him and Max saw her blank eyes. He felt her fingers curl around his forearm and hold him there. But they couldn’t stand in place for long. The foot traffic was too strong. Without a word, it carried them along.
Max was viscerally aware of Freda’s grip. It was as if all else initiated there. He felt her trembling transmitted to him and his vital role was to draw the trembling from her. On Merriwether Street, he enquired as to where she wished to go, but she didn’t answer and they walked on.
At first they were as stiff as strangers, but then they found a rhythm. It was not quite a promenade. The steps were not as far-reaching. When Max was not watching for traffic, he was waiting for the tip of her shoe to appear ahead of her long wine-coloured skirt.
They passed the train station on their right and the footpath descended down toward the river to meet with the large footbridge which traversed it. They walked on. The bridge inclined steeply over the water. Lines were marked on it for foot traffic and bicycles. A single cyclist shared the bridge, her red rain jacket billowing outward as it caught the breeze at the top in the very middle of the bridge and it was as if she might fly.
The further Max and Freda walked the stronger the wind became. Max’s umbrella was pulled up and then sideways. He could not hold it with Freda’s hand on his free arm and he would not brush her aside. Then the umbrella was gone from them. They stopped and watched it sailed into the sky. They watched it until it was a bright pixel against the dark clouds, while the rain fell on them.
“It’s gone,” Freda said. She had released his arm and was standing quite separate from him.
“Yes,” said Max. He could see her properly now. Her eyes were a very pale blue like water. Her nose was long, narrow and freckled. The wine-coloured skirt was held up with a black leather belt and her hands, one of which had held him, were small and slender.
“I should go,” she said. She pointed over the apex of the bridge toward the city centre ahead of them.
Max nodded. “Will you be alright?” he asked.
She looked into him, not at his clothes, his arms or legs or body, but in his face. “I think so,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Max said, shooting for nonchalance, but it was a stupid thing to say.
Freda’s forehead creased and he knew he had lost any chance to … chance to what? Have a kind of meaningful exchange with a woman who wasn’t Caro? He stood still and watched her move off.
She reached the highest point of the footbridge and he would soon lose sight of her.
He wanted to shout to her. Ask her something like, “Did you love him?”, but he knew the answer to that. He had felt it through her trembling hand. Maybe he needed to know whether she would try to love someone new. Would she would risk it? He raised his arm to signal her and shout his question, but she had passed over the highpoint and disappeared down the other side.
The End