At that moment, the door opens and Ranald enters, paler than usual, his short hair standing on end. He almost trips over in his haste to get inside, tightening his grip on his computer bag convulsively, as if it is an extension of his body that requires special protection.
And I go cold. I’d forgotten about Ranald altogether, and that stupid dinner date he’d startled out of me at an unguarded moment.
Mr Dymosvsky, back at his usual post behind the till, looks at him, looks at his watch, looks at the clock above us, which says 7.12 am, and I know that he’s thinking the same thing we all are.
Ranald’s over three hours early for his first coffee, but already he seems agitated, buzzy, as if he’s been pulling all-nighters for a week and is surviving on nerves and caffeine alone.
He sets up his laptop at the table closest to the counter. Today, strangely, he does not bring forth a multitude of doodads. Just the machine itself and a single device: small, grey, flat, the size of my thumb maybe. It has a cap, but he leaves that on. Turns the device around in his hands a few times, as if he’s studying it with fresh eyes, or seeing it for the first time.
He lines up the laptop precisely with the edges of the table, lays the small device beside it, exactly parallel to the side of the machine. Still, he does not remove the cap.
After snapping his fingers imperiously at Reggie, at Cecilia, calling for his usual coffee, he turns the laptop on. I see that the screen bhind the usual gaggle of icons is pitch black. On it is written, in brilliant white, the words: Dies Irae.
And I feel the world tilt, for a moment, on its axis, hear a brilliant snatch of music, a requiem for the dead that I cannot name nor keep in my memory. Then the music is gone and the world telescopes, narrows, grows flat, becomes less than the sum of its parts again. But those words, they were the words set to that music. The music of genius, of madness, of death. And they mean, literally, the day of wrath.
Some would prefer the more common translation, I suppose, which is: Judgment Day.
Hours crawl by in which I am called on to make endless ham, cheese and tomato toasties, a Vegemite and cheese sandwich to go, nine more eat-in bacon and egg breakfast specials, and to cut up the ‘cake of the day’, which is to say, the cake of yesterday served with a generous side of canned cream. I am also instructed to take out three loads of garbage, help unload the industrial dishwasher twice, scrub the toilets, paying special attention to wiping down the sink areas, rearrange the contents of the ancient drinks fridges, and place the day’s salad special — tuna pasta studded with olives and cherry tomatoes — into a sea of takeout containers for the women workers in runners who come in looking for a lighter lunch option.
Jobs done, and conscious of Ranald’s glowering, agitated presence as he pounds away at his laptop, checking his email inbox incessantly, I collar Mr Dymovsky in his office and ask him quietly if I can leave as soon as my friend arrives to take me home this morning.
‘I don’t think Mum is going to see out the day,’ I say, and Mr Dymovsky can tell from the expression on my face — unfeigned and genuinely sorrowful — that I speak the truth.
‘But of course you may go!’ he exclaims. ‘Go now, go whenever you wish.’
‘As soon as he arrives,’ I repeat. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, uh, let Ranald know of my plans? We were supposed to go out for dinner tonight — he talked me into it, and I regretted it instantly — but that’s not going to happen now.’
Or ever, says evil me.
‘I’m taking the coward’s way out,’ I add. ‘I’m going to slip out of here and hope he doesn’t notice. He’ll call again for me after five, but I’ll be long gone.’
It’s my fault — anticipation has made me careless. I just hadn’t factored Ranald’s stupid morning coffee ritual into my plans for today. Maybe part of me had been hoping that Ryan and I would’ve left already by the time Ranald arrived with his laptop bag. All I know is that he can’t see Ryan and me together. I don’t want to deal with the fallout. Not now. Not today. It’s kinder, in a way, if Ranald just never sees me again.
Mr Dymovsky nods understandingly. ‘He is a strange fish that one. Stranger than usual today, I think. We have a saying: Ne boysya sobaki, shto layet, a bosya toy, shto molchit, da khvostom vilyayet.’ He laughs at the confusion on my face. ‘It means, watch the quet ones. The dogs who are silent and wag their tails, you know?’
‘Uh, okay,’ I say. I’ve got one more thing to drop into the conversational mix. ‘After Mum, uh, you know, well, I might need some time off. To reassess things. Sort out our affairs. So don’t expect me back straightaway . . .’
He frowns at that. ‘I understand, Lela, I am not the hard-hearted man. But if you could let me know how long? We are always busy, and Reggie — well, she is not the most even-tempered or reliable —’
‘Justine could fill in for me,’ I say quickly. ‘She said so this morning. If you were serious about what you said to her, that is . . .’
Mr Dymovsky freezes for a moment at his desk piled high with papers in English and his native, ornate Cyrillic script that I can’t understand. ‘That dancer?’ he says incredulously. ‘She really would like to work in my little coffee shop? I would not have thought . . .’
I nod. ‘She’s a good person, she really is. And she can’t keep doing what she does. It will kill her. One way or another.’
His face is grim as he recalls the scene outside the café yesterday. ‘God protect us from such people,’ he mutters. ‘God and Sulaiman will keep us safe. I know I was right to hire that man.’
I push my point. ‘And she’s aware of the uniform policy around here. Black. No sequins.’ I grin.
Mr Dymovsky smiles back tiredly. Today he seems more seventy-five than fifty-five as he shuffles documents from place to place with his big hands.
After a while, he says, ‘You tell Justine to come and talk to me, and we shall determine if a coffee shop is where she belongs.’
Satisfied that I’ve put a few things out there that will make it easier for Lela’s work colleagues to rationalise her sudden disappearance, I am turning away when I remember something.
I ask Mr Dymovsky for a blank piece of paper. On it I write:
I, Lela Neill, of 19 Highfield Street, Bright Meadows, leave all my worldly possessions, both present and future, to Justine Hennessy, dancer, also of Bright Meadows.
I sign it with an indistinct, made-up signature, print Lela’s name beneath it, and push the paper under Mr Dymovsky’s nose and ask him to sign it, too. And date it for good measure.
‘Put in the time, too,’ I say. ‘So there’s no uncertainty about when it was written.’
Mr Dymovsky does what I ask without question, but hesitates before he pushes the piece of paper back towards me.
‘Are you sure you know what you are doing, Lela?’ he says, his expression deeply troubled.
I nod and fold the paper over. ‘I’m sane, and I know what I’m doing, Mr Dymovsky. No one forced mto do this. Remember I said that. It’s an insurance policy, of sorts.’
For Justine, I think. For Justine.
He shakes his head at me uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s been a privilege working for you,’ I add. ‘Like balm for the soul. You’re a good man. Decent. I couldn’t have hoped for a better boss. And I wish you . . .’
For a moment, I am lost for words. The Latin is at my fingertips, but not its English counterpart, and the phrase tumbles out before I can catch myself.
‘Bona fortuna,’ I say. ‘That is what I wish for you.’
Mr Dymovsky’s answering smile is surprised.
‘Good chance, good fortune,’ he replies. ‘And to you, Lela. But you speak as if we will never meet again and that is not the case?’
I shake my head quickly and leave his office, not trusting myself to say any more.
Chapter 18
Ryan, I think, as I stand by the service area surveying the dining room, where are you?
I wonder
if he looks the same. I wonder if he’ll recognise Lela, recognise me. If he’ll be able to adjust to the new face and form I’m wearing. I need to get to him before Ranald sees him. He can’t see us together.
It’s 10.53 am and there’s no one in here except Cecilia, Reggie, Sulaiman, and Ranald.
He looks up at me sharply when I slide back behind the counter to place the folded piece of paper into Lela’s rucksack for safekeeping, intending to hand it to Justine at the appropriate moment.
‘Do you want to check your messages?’ he says curtly. ‘There’s still time.’
Without waiting for my reply, he sets it all up for me, gesturing brusquely for me to sit as he gets up and heads to the bathroom. Given that he’s on his third double espresso for the morning, it’s a wonder neither Ronald’s bladder nor his heart have exploded yet.
I slide into the seat, made warm by his body heat, and there’s Lela’s profile page.
There’s a single comment posted on the wall beneath her photo and her name.
Lauren can’t wait to see you, and neither can I. They’re calling me to the plane right now. All that separates us is one day, Mercy. A day. Can you believe it? I’ll be there soon.
It was posted yesterday morning, and I think of Ryan taking the time to reach out to me at some anonymous airport computer termior safekend feel almost giddy.
Then there’s a flurry of movement outside — as if, by thinking it, I willed it into being — and the door opens. And Ryan’s standing there, a duffel bag in one hand. Wearing that beat-up leather jacket over layered tees, one blue, one grey, indigo jeans, scuffed boots. His dark hair is longer than I remember it. I suppose he hasn’t cut it since the last time I saw him.
He’s still lean, broad-shouldered, heartbreakingly beautiful; all the more so because it’s not what he’s about. There’s no vanity in him, just an instinctive athlete’s grace. His dark eyes darken further as they fall on me.
He’s dressed too warmly for the day, and he’s flown for hours just to get to me. His face is so pale with weariness that I move towards him instinctively, fingers outstretched, as if the touch of my hand might banish his fatigue. That familiar fringe of black hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up and brush it back as he looks down into Lela’s face and says softly, ‘Well, there you are.’
He seems so tall, taller than I remember him, even though Carmen is short and Lela is short and there shouldn’t be any difference in perspective at all. But something is different this time, because there’s no hesitation, no dancing around the truth. He just pulls me to him and murmurs, ‘Mercy’.
His arms about me feel so right, as if it’s always been this way.
But it’s never been this way. It’s only ever Luc who’s held me like this, whom I’ve allowed to hold me this way — arms about my waist, linked at the small of my back, chin resting atop my head, warm breath stirring my hair. So close, I can’t be sure whose heartbeat I’m hearing, his or mine.
Ryan tightens his hold on me, and I wonder how it is that I never even felt Luc’s iron grip over my heart loosen enough to let Ryan in. After all this time, out of all these lives, to find myself falling for someone when it’s the last thing I should be doing, when it screams forbidden? It’s terrifying.
In answer to everything unspoken that I’m feeling in the hard muscles of Ryan’s arms, I tentatively place Lela’s cheek against Ryan’s shoulder, and breathe in his achingly familiar, addictive, clean male smell before smiling up at him out of Lela’s navy blue eyes. And I know it’s the wrong response, it’s not what I want to do, but I don’t know if what we are together is even . . . allowed.
Ryan tips my face up to his, searching my eyes, wanting more. But I reach up with one hand and place a finger to his lips.
He sighs in resignation, kisses it anyway. And I pull my hand back from him so quickly — as if his touch has the power to burn — that he throws back his head and laughs.
He’s so tall, I think again, dazed. Somehow I imagined us being equals when we met again — in every sense — but this is the real world, and in the real world I look like Lela. There’s no getting around that, though I can’t help wishing that he could see me the way I really am. And I woder whether he’d approve and like me even more if I was wearing my own face, if we were eye to burning eye.
He swings me around gently, the better to look at me, to see me behind Lela’s eyes, to imprint this new face on his consciousness. And I catch a glimpse of Cecilia smiling widely behind her coffee machine, Reggie’s open-mouthed, gobsmacked expression, Sulaiman’s dark, unwavering gaze through the serving hatch that frames him.
Then I remember.
‘There’s no time to explain!’ I exclaim, suddenly shoving Ryan back in the direction of the front door, so hard that he actually stumbles a little. ‘There’s a guy here — he’s in the bathroom — and he can’t see you. He just can’t.’
Ryan digs his heels in, stands straighter, looks around, suddenly spoiling for a fight. ‘Who is he? What does he want?’
I shove him again with every muscle in my body, but now it’s like pushing an unyielding stone.
‘You don’t understand,’ I say urgently, tugging on the duffel bag in Ryan’s hand. ‘I promised I’d go out with him tonight if he helped me find you. I would’ve promised him the world, don’t you get it? He can’t see you. You’ve got to go. Now. Just wait on the other side of the road. Outside the tapas bar.’ I point through the window, through the plane trees in the middle of the road, to a sign with the outline of a black bull on it.
Ryan’s face is mutinous and he tightens his grip on me. ‘I’ll clear it up with him. He’ll understand. He’ll have to. How could he hold you to that if he sees us together?’
‘No time,’ I hiss. ‘No way to let him down gently. It’s too complicated to go into now. Just wait for me and I’ll come to you. I won’t be long. Wait for me?’
Ryan’s face clears and he bends and takes my face gently in both his hands.
And I know what he’s trying to do, what’s in his heart, and I freeze, fear and desire at war within me.
He sees the look in my eyes and smiles.
‘Only if you want to,’ he breathes, his eyes hynoptic as he inches closer. It’s something so longed for that I slide my arms around him again, amazed at myself, at my temerity, almost succumbing to the moment before pushing him away.
‘Not now,’ I mumble. ‘I need time to to work us out, and that’s the one thing we don’t have right now. You’ve got to go.’
He sighs. ‘I can afford to be generous, I suppose.’ But I can feel his reluctance to let me go even as he’s pulling away, out of reach.
‘Wait for me,’ I say again. And it’s not a question.
He smiles, a smile that crinkles up his eyes and makes him seem lit up from within. ‘Until the end of time,’ he says quietly, and leaves with another flurry of the plastic curtain, waving once at me through the front window before crossing the road.
When I turn around, Ranald’s standing silently beside the service area. I don’t know how long he’s been there.
I rush back over to his laptop on the table and log out clumsily, saying, ‘Thanks. All yours again.’
He glares at me and I look away, almost bumping into him in my haste to put some distance between us. There’s guilt mixed in with all this, too. I can’t bring myself to tell the guy that dinner tonight is out of the question; that it’s out of the question forever, because he and Lela will never have a future. Lela’s riding into the sunset with someone Ranald can never measure up to. Not in a million lifetimes. And he’s standing right across the road at this moment, probably hailing us a taxi cab.
Ranald’s eyes blaze into mine for an instant, as if he can pick up my thoughts. But then he sits back down and flicks impatiently between a couple of open windows on his laptop, as if he’s waiting for something to come through.
I feel like I’ve been dismissed, but also ridiculously relieved. He didn’t see. He ca
n’t have, the way he’s staring so intently at his screen.
The postman bustles in and leaves a sheaf of mail with me for Mr Dymovsky. Unable to stop myself, I peer out through the front windows at Ryan’s waiting figure, before taking the post to Mr Dymovsky’s office. He looks up gratefully, but his thoughts are elsewhere and his thanks are distant.
‘The café’s still quiet,’ I say at the door, ‘and my friend’s arrived. I was thinking I might leave now . . .’
Mr Dymovsky nods and says in his usual way, ‘What you like, Lela, what you like,’ before returning his gaze to the correspondence in front of him.
I’m heading for the cupboard with my rucksack in it when Franklin Murray steps through the door, meeting my eyes sheepishly. He sits with his back to everyone, near the front of the café, and pulls the day’s newspapers towards him with a heavy air.
‘Ah, the prodigal bankrupt,’ Ranald says loudly, with satisfaction, and for a moment his fingers are still on the keyboard of his machine.
Reggie takes one look at Franklin’s back and flounces out of the shop with her lighter and cigarettes, eyes hard, head held high. I know she’s still holding a grudge against him and won’t be back until he leaves.
It’s also been bothering Mr Dymovsky that Franklin has kept coming in here since he took a pot shot at one of the ceiling panels, but the boss is still in his office, and lost souls need to eat. There’ll be no one to make Franklin’s sandwich and serve him coffee if I go right now. So I change direction away from my things and head back to the breadboard to set about organising Franklin his usual meal while he commences reading every word of the newspaper forensically, as if the answers to his misfortunes are somehow encoded there.
Just as x2019;m placing Franklin’s coffee down on the table, Justine bats her way through the greasy plastic curtain into the cool of the shop. She closes the front door firmly behind her, pushes her loose fall of heavy hair off her broad shoulders and looks around.