Peter Carey - Amnesia

If it’s not one thing it’s another. Soon they went off to her room and they must be having sex, but no: Celine heard that Apple noise and was not smart enough to be afraid. The computer had been a waste of money. Gaby never used it. As far as Celine knew she had transferred all her cybermania to the reclamation of Merri Creek. The new school encouraged this from the first day. Her study group planted trees and hunted carp on Saturday afternoons. They used the school PC to make charts of invasive species and native birds. That was enough. Who would have alerted her to Agrikem? Frederic? How would he know?

No, Celine said, Mervyn Aisen introduced Gaby to Agrikem. This was pure malice. He “proved” to her that MetWat had issued Agrikem a secret licence to release “limited quantities” of dioxin. Gaby was Gaby. She was immediately outraged. Mervyn wound her up and she rushed off to attack her daddy.

Sando had to be the good guy, Celine said. It was what his life was for. He could not bear it that his daughter would think otherwise. Of course Gaby knew that, and she was totally relentless. She took him to visit dying gardens in the little houses on McBryde Street. She nagged at him until he actually raised the issue in parliament. This did nothing to calm his daughter and he was mocked by the minister who was the one, presumably, who arranged for a “reliable source” to leak him a chemical analysis of Agrikem’s effluent which showed no trace of dioxin at all.

He was a politician, Celine said, as the semitrailers shrieked, so therefore he must be corrupt. But the poor darling could be completely unworldly and when he was fed bad information from the left faction, he believed it utterly. He sat Gaby down at the kitchen table and went through the printout with her. He gave his solemn word that there was no dioxin in the Agrikem effluent.

I wasn’t there, Celine said. I can imagine: how it must have hurt to confront his daughter’s grey and hostile eyes.

Pause. Rewind. Play.

What if you wished to obliterate the corporatists? the Angel said.

WHEN TWO HEADLIGHTS ARRIVED directly outside his window Felix snapped awake and stumbled towards the white-quartz glare, naked arm held across his red-rimmed eyes, but nothing else to ensure his modesty.

There came a violent thumping on the connecting door behind him.

He drew one of the curtains and saw, through the mountain fog, a tall windowless van with a high old-fashioned radiator which he would later learn had the singular virtue of being unburdened by computer operating systems. For now, however, the thumping on the door took precedence.

At other times he had pressed his ear against this door, sometimes his back. Sometimes he had heard laughter, sometimes television. No-one had ever knocked on it before. Who’s there, in the name of Beelzebub? He had, until that very moment, assumed that those on the other side like the woman who had driven him from Newcastle, the boy who delivered him upriver, that whole tribe of river rats and dry drunks who had kept him supplied with food and drink, the crew of surf lifesavers, all these people had a benevolent intention towards him. He knew them to be brave individuals who revered his occupation and would place themselves at risk to ensure the story was told in all its complexity, no matter what pistol-wielding thug might try to stop it.

What? he asked the door.

A white paper napkin slid in over the carpet, its message clearly visible.

KEEP AWAY FROM THE WINDOW.

He retreated to the vicinity of the bed and donned a pair of boxer shorts.

He imagined he could hear newcomers entering the next room of the suite. There were sounds of distress, although they possibly had been produced by a television soundtrack. Someone coughed. He thrust his papers, tapes and batteries under the mattress and remade the bed. Then, with his heart beating loudly in his ears, he slipped beneath the iridescent quilt. He waited. He faced the door with his knees drawn up. He embraced his pillow like the child of divorcing parents. He threw off the blanket and pulled his trousers on. He took three steps to the connecting door which, being of the hollow-core variety such as can be purchased at Mitre 10 for less than $50, was no serious barrier to anything. Perhaps he might have kicked it down.

He knocked.

The voices ceased. TV ditto. The door flew open. He saw several young men and women fleeing like cockroaches from light. He saw a woman with two gold earrings shaped like shells. On her slender wrist there was a bracelet, also gold. She reached to grasp a hand. He was shocked to realise that the hand belonged to Claire Moore, his wife. She wore a long man’s coat and tennis shoes. Her perfect girlish legs were bare, as if straight off the court, and she was flushed.

You’ve lost weight, she said, and held out her ruined potter’s hands.

Celine Baillieux, who did not know her, then placed her hands familiarly on Claire Moore’s shoulders.

Felix Moore felt the force of emotions he had imagined safely locked away.

His wife was searching his face. She asked, How much are you drinking?

I fucked it up.

Idiot, I love you.

The fugitive held up a single finger, then two palms, then retreated to the bathroom where he confronted the embarrassment of his crumpling mask, the snot in his mad beard, the red wine stains on his dirty teeth.

Fubsy, Claire called, let me in.

But he was ugly with snivelling gratitude.

Let me clean my teeth, he said. But he had no toothbrush [ sic ] and when he finally emerged his eyebrows were mad and his wet hair stood on end.

His wife then informed him that Gaby was Celine’s only daughter. So would Felix please write what Celine wanted him to write.

Claire patted the bed and he sat beside her. He was very pleased to have his hands taken.

You’ve got a lovely wife, Celine said now.

You shouldn’t be here, he told his wife. There are people trying to kill me.

I went with them, Claire said. I’m here to drive some sense into you. They’re on deadline. They’re editing right now.

He registered that his writing was being fucked with. At the same time he beheld that dear familiar face and understood that she would take him back.

I was at Five Dock tennis club, she said. The game was nearly over.

You walked away from a third set?

She honoured him with a private smile.

That was who Claire was. She was being taken to see her estranged husband but she was a good citizen, she would not let down the others. That was who she was. She could not play singles because she had no killer streak, but she was an ace at doubles because she could never let her partner down.

Listen, Celine said, listen to what Claire wants to say.

Claire’s hand was pressing on his knee. Felix, she said, please do what they want.

What do they want?

Are you really making Gaby seem as if she’s guilty?

In the midst of this upset, the fugitive was pleased to feel his wife’s restraining hand.

You will not fiddle with my words, he told Celine.

Listen to your wife.

What is all this “editing”?

We are fixing your awful spelling. We are preparing the digital edition. But it reads like you want my daughter dead, so maybe you could think about that.

Then don’t publish it. Burn it. I don’t care.

Fubsy, Claire said.

The fugitive looked into his wife’s brown eyes and when she had taken stock of him she shook her head and laughed. He can’t be changed, she said and, with the back of her hand, brushed the tangled beard. Dear old fool, she said. Don’t be brave.