Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Instead they went to a Laundromat. There was a hippie girl emptying dirty clothes from a trash bag. They looked at her.

Then they found an arcade where the sweet rotten sugar smell of Nambour was overcome by patchouli oil and spoiled bananas.

Are we looking for hippies, Dial?

She would not say.

Maybe they sell books here?

But it was a health food store. Above the bulk dried beans, beside the pile of empty molasses cans, was a notice board with ads for massage and meditation and moon dances. Also: four colored photographs of two log huts with cute shingle roofs. These she looked at.

What is it, Dial?

She read, silently, frowning and wrinkling up her nose.

Who lives there?

It’s a place for sale.

Let’s just stay in a motel.

Shush. Listen. It is fourteen acres on the edge of rain forest, she said. There is water from a spring. There are five hundred fruit trees and an established vegetable garden. See, there’s the papaya, like Trevor bought you.

Can we stay in a motel please?

And coffee bushes, she said, and persimmons and lemons and limes and three different varieties of bananas including lady fingers.

What are lady fingers?

She did not know but would not admit it.

It’s in the jungle, isn’t it?

She fitted her arm around his shoulder and set to stroking him again.

Do you know what bull ants are, he asked.

She was deaf as a dog with a good smell. There’s so much information here, she said. Everything but a phone number.

There is no phone, said the woman behind the counter. She had a nice face, like the girl in the Beach Boys poster Cameron had stuck up on his wall. “Good Vibrations” was the single most important song of the last ten years. He knew that.

You’re American? She had long blond hair and faded blue eyes and shiny suntanned skin.

Buenos Aires, said Dial. South America.

Yeah? The girl frowned. So how do youse like the Sunshine Coast?

We were interested in this place at Yandina.

No, the boy thought, please.

Yand-eena.

We’re interested in it.

No town water. The girl shook her head and smiled. She did not like them, and the boy was pleased. No electricity, she said, sort of singsong. No TV.

Where is this property, Dial asked.

This property, the girl said, mocking the way Dial talked, is out at Remus Creek Road.

Come on, Dial, the boy said, I want to go.

But Dial folded her arms. Where is that exactly?

The girl shrugged. She took a spotty apple from a plastic bowl and rubbed it on her stomach. You go to Yandina post office, she said at last. People hang out there. Ask them.

She placed the apple daintily in front of her and then selected a second from the same plastic bowl. That your cat in your pocket, she asked.

That’s exactly what it is.

The girl put her head to one side and appeared to admire the apples. Then she took a knife and began to carefully slice the first.

She said, I doubt they’re into cats out there.

The boy was pleased to hear this.

What would anyone have against a kitten, Dial asked the girl, hauling out the sleeping Buck and kissing him on the nose.

Well there are what we call Australian birds. And the cats kill the birds. The girl looked up, unsmiling. People don’t like that.

Well, said Dial, stroking Buck’s head, he is an Australian cat, so I guess he lives here too.

The girl kept slicing and finally they left the store.

We’ll find another house, the boy said. Better even.

They hate Americans, said Dial.

They’d like you if they knew who you were.

We don’t want them to know, do we?

I guess we’re underground, Dial?

Do you like that?

Cameron said you would come and take me underground. So I sort of knew. We’ll find a regular house, he said, thinking it must be somewhere on a regular road where his dad would find them. They would need a telephone for sure.

They were walking through the hazy heat up toward the motel. The air was drunk with sugar and soon they were at the highway and the trucks and vans were raging, loud and foul, their tarpaulins flapping like sails on a foundering yacht. Then came a Peugeot blowing smoke, clouds of it as thick as thunder, a Peugeot 203. It was about the one car model that he knew but he was really annoyed to see Dial thumb it down.

What about the motel?

Shush, she said.

Why, Dial, why? he said, still running after her, the opposite direction he wished to go.

But she was already in the car by then.

The Peugeot driver was a freak, long faced, long toothed, straggle bearded. He had narrow bony shoulders and real thin hairy arms like Cameron’s.

As they slid into the front there was a rush of air like flapping canvas-a rooster, wings about six feet wide, rising in the air from the shade of the backseat.

Christ! said Dial.

My chooks! The driver swatted over his shoulder, even as he drove away, as the boy got down among the dust and crumpled newspapers, catching the kitty’s tail as it fled beneath the seat. He got scratched for this, right down his arm, but when he squeezed back up between the mother’s legs, he had Buck safely by his scruff.

Adam, said the driver, peering too closely at him.

Dial, said the mother.

The boy was mad about the motel. He did not say anything.

And where might we two be off to? The driver had a patchy black beard and very heavy eyebrows which rose as he peered at the boy.

Dial said, We need to get to Remus Creek Road.

The boy groaned out loud.

Shush, said Dial. We have to do this first.

Adam was sitting very, very close to the wheel. He cradled it against his chest, and his peeling nose was now stretching toward the glass.

What’s that? He pointed, screwing up his face at a big gas station with palm trees for sale. He was a total dork, but he peered directly at the boy who felt he had to answer.

You mean the trees?

Is it Ampol?

The boy could not understand the way Australians spoke, words like ground beef in their mouths. He did not like them generally.

The brand, the freak cried, the bloody brand.

Esso, said Dial.

Right, the freak said, of course. We’re fine now, he said, but obviously he could not see. Tell me when you see the caravan park, he said. Who are you visiting at Remus Creek?

We saw a place for sale.

Ah-hah, said Adam and beamed at each of them in turn. He should watch the road.

Fourteen acres, said Adam. Five hundred fruit trees.

That’s it.

What’s that?

It’s a kitten.

Is that the caravan park?

Can’t you see? the boy asked. He didn’t care that it was rude.

The driver had stopped in the middle of the highway, opposite a tractor yard. A semitrailer passed them on the inside, its siren blaring, the trailer snaking, huge clouds of dust drifting into the sky.

Little more, said Dial.

And then they swerved through the dust and did not die and the rooster rose and the tailpipe thumped and they were clattering along a corrugated track and the car was filled with dust and feathers.

The boy was not going where this freak was going.

I think we’ve got some problem with the cat, he said.

Dial elbowed him, hard. It hurt.

Adam peered right and left-How could there be a problem with a cat?

Some girl at the health food shop.

Adam made a farting noise. Health food. Oh mate. Mate! Molasses merchants. Pesticides, he said. Insecticides. They are putting genes from bloody jellyfish in sugarcane. That’s health food.

That’s where we saw the place for sale.

Ah yes, said Adam, well there you are. There you are. Indeed, he continued, careening down a steep rutted hill and splashing across a narrow ford.