Peter Carey - The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith

She held out her hand for her dark glasses. He hesitated a moment, but then he gave them back to her.

‘What I said was I’d set you up, OK?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know you think that’s a double meaning, but it isn’t. I meant I’d get you the seed for them to eat, show you how to set up the automatic watering.’

He shook his head. His eyes had that hurt look men got — she didn’t know whether to pity him or fear him.

‘I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m also really sorry I put the hex on you.’

‘You didn’t hex me. I like you being here.’

‘I hexed the theatre. The pigeons did. I wrecked her theatre for her.’

‘You don’t know Felicity,’ he said.

She snorted.

He cocked his head. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘What?’

‘Laugh.’ He folded his heavy freckled arms across his chest.

She shrugged.

‘Why did you laugh?’ he demanded. He tightened his mouth. She did not want to look at all that dangerous hurt dancing in his speckled eyes.

‘I was thinking you don’t know her,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I’m probably wrong. It was my impression.’

‘How would you know if I knew her or not? How could you even have an opinion on the subject?’

‘You’re a man.’ She smiled and touched his forearm with her hand. ‘That’s all.’ And she turned and headed up the corridor, before it got any more intense. She hurried into what had been Annie McManus’s room. It was the room she had planned to commandeer, but now she saw it had a door opening on to that spooky little courtyard.

‘You’re saying I don’t understand women?’

‘Look at you,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘You’re hanging round me like a dog. You want to fuck me, you don’t do it like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You’ve paid a fair price for the pigeons, but that’s all you did. You bought some pedigree pigeons, OK? Enjoy them.’

He leaned across and held her arm. The maman and the boy were up in the tower. They were all alone on this floor. He was hurting her.

‘You think you know who I am, Roxanna. You think I am some sort of creep, but you don’t know shit. You want to know about me, go upstairs and ask her. Do you think she’d have me here if I was a creep? I’m a good man, Rox. You’re too scared to see that. You’re so jumpy you think you have to rip me off. You’re so nervous you don’t know what to do. But I’ll promise you this and you can trust it — you can sleep in my room, in your own bed. You’ll be safe. No one’s going to bother you in any way at all.’

She looked at his face — the velvet grey eyes — and believed him.

‘OK?’ he said.

‘You want to go to the bathroom first?’ She put out a hand to touch his forearm but he moved away a little as if by accident.

‘I went,’ he said.

When she came back from the bathroom, he was lying beneath a quilt on an old mattress which he dragged in from somewhere, one of those mattresses with off-putting brown stains on their black and white ticking. He lay beneath the quilt so still, on his side, his back to her. She did not completely trust the integrity of his stillness. He was a good man, maybe, but he was a man and this was a standard male act — to get to fuck you by pretending they did not want to fuck you.

She looked at Wally like she might have looked at an alarm clock, something ticking quietly which would, sooner or later, no matter how quietly it ticked, start ringing in her ear.

French toast was a treat in our house, something I was permitted to have only once a week. Yet in the days following the actors’ departure, I had it three days in a row. Twice was a treat. But when, on the third morning, I found Wally beating up the eggs and milk, I knew all my fears were well-founded — something seriously bad was going to happen to me.

I climbed up on to the kitchen chair and watched him apprehensively as he pulled a yellow seed-sprinkled semolina loaf from its bag and cut three slices, each one a good inch thick.

‘Did … I … have … french … toast … yesterday?’

He turned to look at me, hollow-cheeked, poker-faced. He took a pack of Caporals from the pocket of his black and white checked cotton trousers and lit one on the gas jet, jabbing his nose and lips towards the neat blue flames.

‘Who knows?’ he said.

This was not like him.

He now dipped the bread into the beaten egg, one slice at a time, and dropped three slices of delicious slimy yellow into the sizzling pan. He picked up a dishcloth and wiped a little spilt egg from the blue iridescent surface of the kitchen table.

‘I … had … it … yesterday,’ I said.

‘I thought it was your favourite food?’

‘You … said … it’s … bad … for … me.’

Wally lobbed the dishcloth on to the draining board and winked.

Then he placed the jug of sugar syrup right next to my elbow. Now I was really afraid — he had never let me control the syrup jug before.

‘Is … Sparrow … coming … today?’ I asked.

‘He’s looking for a job,’ he said. He turned the slices in the pan, watching them intently while he smoked. ‘You know that.’

‘She’ll … change … her … mind.’

‘She’s going to stand in this election,’ Wally said. ‘You heard her. You saw those gens in their suits. You know who they are.’

‘She’ll … change … her … mind.’

‘Eat,’ he said, flopping the first slice on my plate.

I flooded the plate with syrup. He did not criticize me. All he said was, ‘You clean your teeth afterwards, you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘My … teeth … won’t … look … like … yours.’

He stubbed out his cancerette. ‘That’s right.’

He cooked the next two slices until they were mottled brown and yellow like the melted tiger in the story. When he had served them, he washed the pan, dried it, and stacked it neatly inside his wooden crate. Then he wiped down the counter top. Finally, he brought me my blue mug full of hot cocoa and sat opposite me at the table to watch me eat.

He placed a box of tissues on the table beside his ashtray. He lit a second cancerette and I looked up from my plate to watch the way the smoke rose up past the grey tips of his ginger eyebrows.

‘Taste good?’

‘Very … good,’ but the truth was, I was ill with apprehension. Everything my maman had done for two days had made me nervous. She had said no more to me about the new house, but on the other hand she had ‘tidied up’, stacking all her belongings in wine cartons.

‘I’m … not … leaving … here.’

Wally shrugged. ‘I yell at you a lot, don’t I?’ he said, not looking at me.

‘Yes.’

‘You know it’s because I love you, don’t you?’

I don’t think he ever used that word to me before. Now I nodded my head, unable to look at him.

‘Sometimes I laugh, don’t I?’

‘Yes,’ I said, but in truth I could not, at this moment, remember him laughing. All I could feel was his sadness.

‘What would you say was the most memorable thing about me?’ he asked me.

‘I … don’t … know.’

‘You’re a smart kid,’ he said. ‘You’re going to do fine.’

‘I’m … staying … here,’ I said. ‘Not … leaving.’

‘You maman’s worn out with theatre. Don’t make it hard for her. This election is just what she needs.’

‘I’m … not … going … to … that … house.’

‘You maman needs a change.’

‘Please … sell … the … pigeons.’

‘For Christ’s sake. The pigeons are not the point, Rikiki. From what Vincent tells me — it’s not the pigeons — it’s your dad.’