‘Will you have another beer?’ he asks, pro forma.
‘No, I must go.’
Jokić must go. He must go. Where must they go, the two of them? The one, to an empty bed in Munno Para; the other, to an empty bed on Coniston Terrace, where he can lie awake all night, if he likes, listening to the ticking of the clock from the living-room. They might as well set up house together. Mutt and Jeff.
Twenty
It takes him the best part of an hour, stumping hither and thither across parkland, to track down Elizabeth Costello. In the end he finds her by the riverside, sitting on a bench, clustered around by ducks that she seems to be feeding. As he approaches, the ducks scatter in alarm and slide clamorously back into the water.
He props himself on the grass before her. Past six, but he can still feel the weight of the summer sun. ‘I am looking for Drago,’ he says. ‘Do you know where he can be found?’
‘Drago? No idea. I thought he was staying with you. Aren’t you going to ask about me? Are you not curious to hear how I spent the night after you so rudely turned me out?’
He ignores the question. ‘I have just had a meeting with Marijana’s husband.’
‘Miroslav. Yes, poor fellow, he feels so humiliated. First by his own jealousy, and now to discover what sort of man his rival is. What did you say to him?’
‘I asked him to think again. I asked him to put Drago’s interests first. I repeated that there were no strings attached to my offer.’
‘No visible strings, you mean.’
‘No strings at all.’
‘What about heartstrings, Paul, strings of affection?’
‘Strings of affection are beside the point. The money is for Drago’s education. It is absurd to suggest that I am trying to buy his mother.’
‘Absurd? We should ask Marijana about that. She might have a different view. Tit for tat, she might say. For every tat there is a tit. You have offered that tat. Now the onus is on her to come up with the right tit, the appropriate tit.’
‘Don’t be obscene.’
‘Well, I confess I have yet to appreciate what you see in your Balkan lady. To my eye she is somewhat tubby and rather the worse for wear. I would not have thought you liked your women that way. Tall man and stout woman: a bit of a comedy team. A fellow like you could do better. But chacun ses goûts, I suppose.
‘My own opinion, for what it is worth, is that if it is requital you are after, requited love, you should give up on Mrs Jokić. She is not for you. Your best option remains Marianna, Marianna of the two ns. An arrangement with Marianna, or someone like her, would work very well. For a single gentleman of your age, not keen because of his disability to appear in public, it would be quite appropriate to entertain in his home, one afternoon a week, a discreet woman friend like Marianna, someone who in return for favours granted would now and again consent to accept a nice little present.
‘Yes, Paul, present, gifts. You must become accustomed to paying. No more free love.’
‘I may not love whom I choose?’
‘Of course you may love whom you choose. But maybe from now on you should keep your love to yourself, as one keeps a head cold to oneself, or an attack of herpes, out of consideration for one’s neighbours.
‘However, if your verdict is that Marianna does not fit the bill, who am I to demur? In that case, why not telephone Mrs Putts? Tell her you are in the market for a new nurse. Say you want someone not too young though not too old, with nice breasts and a well-turned calf, unattached, children no obstacle, preferably a non-smoker. What else? Of an eager temperament, eager and easily pleased.
‘Or why bother with Mrs Putts? Why submit to the rigmarole of hiring nurses and falling in love with them? Put an ad in the Advertiser. “Gent, sixtyish, childless, vigorous though of limited mobility, seeks lady, 35–45, with view to love, mystical parenthood. Nice breasts, et cetera. No chancers.”
‘Don’t glare, Paul. I’m just joking, just keeping the conversation going. Be assured, I have learned my lesson. No more matchmaking, I promise. If you have made up your mind that no one can replace Marijana in your affections, that it has to be Marijana or nothing, I yield, I accept. I should inform you, however, that Marianna, poor Marianna, the other one, is deeply hurt at the way she has been treated. Sobs into her handkerchief. Be of good heart, I tell her, there are plenty of fish in the ocean. But she will not be consoled. After what she put herself through for your sake, her pride has taken quite a knock. He finds me too fat! she wails. Nonsense, I say – his heart is elsewhere, that is all.
‘But perhaps I misinterpret you entirely. Perhaps it is not requital of love that you are after. Or perhaps your quest for love disguises a quest for something quite different. How much love does someone like you need, after all, Paul, objectively speaking? Or someone like me? None. None at all. We do not need love, old people like us. What we need is care: someone to hold our hand now and then when we get trembly, to make a cup of tea for us, help us down the stairs. Someone to close our eyes for us when the time comes. Care is not love. Care is a service that any nurse worth her salt can provide, as long as we don’t ask her for more.’
She pauses for a breath; at last he has a chance to speak. ‘I came here looking for Drago,’ he says, ‘not to listen to you sharpening your wit upon me. I understand perfectly well the difference between love and care. I have never expected Marijana to love me. My hope, as a sixtyish gent, is simply to do what good I can for her and her children. As for my feelings, my feelings are my own business. I will certainly not thrust them on Marijana again.
‘One word more, since you are determined to be sceptical. Don’t underestimate the desire in each of us, the human desire, to extend a protective wing.’
‘In each of us?’
‘Yes, in each of us. Even in you. If you are human.’
Enough talk. His arms are aching, he is feeling the heat, he would like to sit. But if he were to settle down beside Mrs Costello, they would look too much like what they are not: an old married couple taking a breather. And there is, after all, one more thing to be said.
‘Why pour all this effort into me, Mrs Costello? I am such a small fish, really. Have you never asked yourself whether taking me up might not have been a mistake – whether I might not be a mistake from beginning to end?’
A young couple in a pedal-boat in the shape of a giant swan pass by, smiling cheerily.
‘Of course I have asked myself that, Paul. Many times. And of course, by some standards, you are a small fish. The question is, by what standards? The question is, how small? Patience, I tell myself: perhaps there is something yet to be squeezed out of him, like a last drop of juice out of a lemon, or like blood out of a stone. But yes, you may be right, you may indeed be a mistake, I will concede that. If you were not a mistake I would probably not still be here in Adelaide. I stay on because I don’t know what to do about you.
‘Should I therefore concede? Should I abandon you and start anew somewhere else? I am sure that would make you happy. But I can’t. Too much of a blow to my pride. No, I have to press on to the end.’
‘To the end?’
‘Yes, to the bitter end.’
He hopes to hear more. He hopes to hear what the end will be. But her mouth has snapped shut, she stares away from him.
‘Anyway,’ he pursues, ‘in the course of trying to understand what you are doing in my life, I have come up with one hypothesis after another. I won’t rehearse them all, though I will say that none is very flattering to you. The first, and still the most plausible, is that you want me as a model for a character in a book. In that case, let me repeat what I was saying a moment ago, and what you seem to have trouble accepting. Ever since the day of my accident, ever since I could have died but seem to have been spared, I have been haunted by the idea of doing good. Before it is too late I would like to perform some act that will be – exc
use the word – a blessing, however modest, on the lives of others. Why, you ask? Ultimately, because I have no child of my own to bless as a father does. Having no child was the great mistake of my life, I will tell you that. For that my heart bleeds all the time. For that there is a blessure in my heart.
‘Smile if you wish, Mrs Costello. But let me remind you, once upon a time I was a pukkah little Catholic boy. Before the Dutchman uprooted us and brought us to the ends of the earth I had my schooling from the good sisters of Lourdes. And as soon as we arrived in Ballarat I was committed to the care of the Christian Brothers. Why would you want to do that, boy? Why would you want to commit a sin? Can you not see how Our Lord’s heart bleeds for your sin? Jesus and his bleeding heart have never faded from memory, even though I have long since put the Church behind me. Why do I mention this? Because I don’t want to hurt Jesus any more by my actions. I don’t want to make his heart bleed. If you want to be my chronicler, you will need to understand that.’
‘A pukkah little Catholic boy. I can see that, Paul. I can see it all too clearly. Don’t forget, I am a proper Irish Catholic girl myself, a Costello from Northcote in Melbourne. But go on, go on, I find this rich, I find this fascinating.’
‘In my earlier life I did not speak as freely about myself as I do today, Mrs Costello. Decency held me back, decency or shame. But you are a professional, I remind myself, in the business of confidences, like a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant.’
‘Or a priest. Don’t forget the priests, Paul.’
‘Or a priest. Anyhow, since my accident I have begun to let some of that reticence slip. If you don’t speak now, I say to myself, when will you speak? So: Would Jesus approve? That is the question I put to myself nowadays, continually. That is the standard I try to meet. Not as scrupulously as I should, I must admit. Forgiveness, for instance: I have no intention of forgiving the boy who drove his car into me, no matter what Jesus may say. But Marijana and her children – I want to extend a protective hand over them, I want to bless them and make them thrive. That is something you ought to take account of in me, and I don’t think you do.’
What he has said about discarding reticence, about speaking his heart, is not, strictly speaking, true. Even to Marijana he has not really opened his heart. Why then does he lay himself bare before the Costello woman, who is surely no friend to him? There can be only one answer: because she has worn him down. A thoroughly professional performance on her part. One takes up position beside one’s prey, and waits, and eventually one’s prey yields. The sort of thing every priest knows. Or every vulture. Vulture lore.
‘Sit, Paul,’ she says. ‘I can’t keep on squinting up at you.’
He flops down heavily beside her.
‘Your bleeding heart,’ she murmurs. The declining sun glances so piercingly off the surface of the water that she has to shade her eyes. The duck family, more than a family, the duck clan, is gathering for another assault on the land. Evidently he, the intruder, has been assessed and found harmless.
‘Yes, my bleeding heart.’
‘The heart can be a mysterious organ, the heart and its movements. Dark, the Spanish call it. The dark heart, el oscuro corazón. Are you sure you are not just a little dark-hearted, Paul, despite your many good intentions?’
He had thought he would make a peace overture; he had thought of offering the woman, if not a roof for the night, then at least an air ticket back to Melbourne. But now the old irritation comes flooding back. ‘And are you sure,’ he replies icily, ‘that you are not seeing complications where they do not exist, for the sake of those dreary stories you write?’
Mrs Costello reaches into the plastic bag on her lap, crumbles a bread roll, and tosses it towards the ducks. There is huge commotion as they converge on their blessing.
‘We would all like to be simpler, Paul,’ she says, ‘every one of us. Particularly as we near the end. But we are complicated creatures, we human beings. That is our nature. You want me to be simpler. You want to be simpler yourself, more naked. Well, I gaze in wonderment, believe me, upon your efforts to strip yourself down. But it comes at a cost, the simple heart you so desire, the simple way of seeing the world. Look at me. What do you see?’
He is silent.
‘Let me tell you what you see, or what you tell yourself you are seeing. An old woman by the side of the River Torrens feeding the ducks. An old woman who happens to be running out of clean underwear. An old woman who irritates you with what you think of as her sly innuendoes.
‘But the reality is more complicated than that, Paul. In reality you see a great deal more – see it and then block it out. Light of a certain stridency, for instance. A figure trapped by that light beside the softly fluent water. Lances of light that stab at her, threaten to pierce her through.
‘Unnecessary complication? I don’t think so. An expansion. Like breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Expand, contract. The rhythm of life. You have it in you to be a fuller person, Paul, larger and more expansive, but you won’t allow it. I urge you: don’t cut short these thought-trains of yours. Follow them through to their end. Your thoughts and your feelings. Follow them through and you will grow with them. What was it that the American poet fellow said? There weaves always a fictive covering from something to something. My memory is going. I become vaguer with each passing day. A pity. Hence this little lesson I am trying to teach you. He finds her by the riverside, sitting on a bench, clustered around by ducks that she seems to be feeding – it may be simple, as an account, its simplicity may even beguile one, but it is not good enough. It does not bring me to life. Bringing me to life may not be important to you, but it has the drawback of not bringing you to life either. Or the ducks, for that matter, if you prefer not to have me at the centre of the picture. Bring these humble ducks to life and they will bring you to life, I promise. Bring Marijana to life, if it must be Marijana, and she will bring you to life. It is as elementary as that. But please, as a favour to me, please stop dithering. I do not know how much longer I can support my present mode of existence.’
‘What mode of existence are you referring to?’
‘Life in public. Life on the public squares, relying on public amenities. Life in the company of drunks and homeless people, what we used to call hoboes. Do you not recall? I warned you I had nowhere to go.’
‘You are talking nonsense. You can take a room in a hotel. You can catch a plane back to Melbourne or wherever else you want to go. I will lend you the money.’
‘Yes, you could do that. Just as you could get rid of the troublesome, volatile Jokićs and sell your flat and move into a well-regulated retreat for old people. But you don’t. We are who we are, Paul. This, for the time being, is the life we are given to live, and we must live it. When I am with you I am at home; when I am not with you I am homeless. That is how the dice have fallen. Are you surprised to hear me say so? You should not be. But do not castigate yourself. I have become surprisingly good at this new life. Looking at me, you would not say that I live out of a suitcase, would you? Or that I have not eaten in days. Aside from a grape or two.’
He is silent.
‘Anyway, that is enough about me. As I keep telling myself, Have patience, Paul Rayment did not ask you to descend upon his shoulders. Nevertheless, it would be a great help if Paul Rayment would hurry up. As I mentioned, I may be nearing my limit. I can’t begin to tell you how tired I am. And not with the kind of tiredness that can be fixed by a good night’s sleep in a proper bed. The tiredness I refer to has become part of my being. It is like a dye that has begun to seep into everything I do, everything I say. I feel, to use Homer’s word, unstrung. A word with which you are familiar, I seem to remember. No more tensile strength. The bowstring that used to be taut has gone as slack and dry as a strand of cotton. And not just the bodily self. The mind too: slack, ready for easeful sleep.’
He has not looked at Elizabeth Costello in a long wh
ile, not properly. In part that is because she comes to him through a haze of irritation, in part because he finds her so colourless, so featureless, just as he finds her clothes so utterly without distinction. But now he gives her his full, deliberate attention, and indeed it is as she says: she has lost weight, the flesh on her arms hangs, her face is pallid, her nose peaked.
‘If you had only asked,’ he says, ‘I would have helped, in practical respects. I am ready to help you now. But for the rest’ – he shrugs – ‘I am not dithering, at least not in my own eyes. I am acting at a pace that comes naturally to me. I am not an exceptional person, Mrs Costello, and I cannot make myself exceptional just for your sake. I am sorry.’
He will help her. He means it. He will buy her a meal. He will buy her the ticket, go with her to the airport, wave her goodbye.
‘You cold man,’ she says. She speaks the condemnatory word with lightness, with a smile. ‘You poor, cold man. I have tried my best to explain, but you understand nothing. You were sent to me, I was sent to you. Why that should be, God alone knows. Now you must cure yourself as best you can. I will try not to hurry you on any more.’
She gets to her feet, not without difficulty, folds the empty bag. ‘Goodbye,’ she says.
For a long time after she has left he stays on, squinting out over the river, shaken. The ducks, used to being fed, encouraged by his stillness, come almost to his feet, but he pays them no attention.
Cold: is that really how he seems to outsiders? He wants to protest. He wishes well. His friends will attest to it – people who know him far better than the Costello woman does. Even the woman who used to be his wife will concede it: he wishes well, he wishes the best. How can someone be called cold who from his heart wishes well, who when he acts acts from the heart?