Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

In the long mopoke nights when the boy was properly asleep she and Trevor Dobbs sat out on the deck and talked, and marijuana alone could not explain how a body that had previously seemed so strange and feral could now be both foreign and alluring, smelling of bark, the holes he dug, the dark green chard in his square muddy hands. She had wild hair but she was not wild and no matter what Time magazine said about her so-called generation she had only made love to one man in her life. She had been a loyal, lingering fool and she had no intention of involving herself with any more criminals, no matter how kind and principled they were. But she did kiss Trevor, more than once, and on one night fell asleep breathing that fragrant well of air between his neck and shoulder. There was a charge of violence around him but-the truth?-she did not mind it. Indeed she was familiar with this particular frisson, a little touch of fugu to the lips, not enough to kill her dead. And if anything surprised her about Trevor Dobbs, it was that he did not jump her-she might not know his heart exactly but there were few secrets between sarongs.

She was a little achy, pleasantly aroused, it was enough. Even if it was a moment, she would take it.

It was Trevor who suggested that they talk to Phil Warriner about how they might return the boy without endangering Dial.

That she agreed was not because her precious Harvard standards had slipped-but there was no other choice.

So Phil was summoned by whatever method Trevor used-it did not seem to involve telephones-and the lawyer finally arrived at the end of a wet day, a warm evening, still raining softly, little pools of water gathering in the banana leaves, then spilling in a crystal rush you would never tire of. Phil parked his Holden Monaro and Dial came out on the deck and watched him for a moment before she understood he was undressing, hanging his shirt and suit on a hanger like a traveling salesman before walking toward her up the rain-soft path, barefoot, bare bottomed, carrying nothing but his briefcase and what turned out to be a pack of Drum tobacco.

Hi-yo, he called.

Oh Christ, she thought.

He came rather shyly into the hut, a big man with hairy thighs and shiny calves, and Trevor made no comment on his appearance. She knew the boy was lying up in the smoky loft pretending to nap, or maybe really napping-she could not tell. Phil sat his rain-wet backside on the dusty floor and took out a yellow pad and asked them questions and Dial looked him steadily in the eyes, anything to avoid the penis which was peeking between his crossed legs like a mushroom.

Later she meant to ask Trevor what Phil imagined he was doing, but she never did. She supposed the lawyer, who had a lot of hippie clients, knew his business better than she did.

The boy, of course, was peering down on the three Fates while they figured out his life. They were not Clotho who spins the Thread of Life or Lachesis who allots the length of the yarn, or Atropos who does the final deadly snip. They were, Dial thought, more Karlo and Slothos and Zappa. She could feel the boy’s intense attention.

What did she call you? Phil asked. The nana?

The what?

The grandma.

The boy heard this, every word. He saw the gauze of light in front of the jacaranda, white ants getting born with silver wings.

She called me Anna, said Dial, licking the three cigarette papers and joining them together like a hippie quilt.

Anna Xenos?

The boy never heard that name before. He saw Dial look up at him, but he was spying through the crochet rug. She could not see his eyes.

That’s the first lesson, Phil said. Rich people don’t know the names of their servants.

Not so fast, said Dial.

You worked for her. She had no fucking idea who you were. Did she pay your taxes?

I was off the books.

See, said Phil, and he took the joint Dial gave him. He creased up his face to drag the smoke down into his lungs, curling up his toes. Some of the smoke stayed hanging around his furry sideburns like valley mist. The boy thought, No one will ever know what it is like to be here now.

See, said Phil.

What am I meant to see? asked Dial, laughing.

They don’t know who you are.

I don’t know who you are, said Dial and then all of them burst out laughing.

The boy saw Trevor pat Dial on the knee. Dial picked something from his hair, a bug perhaps.

You’re very sweet, Phil, said Dial. But they can easily find out who I am. I was at Harvard.

It was not the first time the boy saw how that worked. Phil raised an eyebrow and took another toke.

Fair enough, he said. Everyone was serious now.

Also, there is Che.

These guys are not as efficient as you think, said Phil. Really. They have a lot of trouble with their index cards at immigration. Ask Trevor if you want to know.

Trevor looked sharply at Phil, then shrugged at Dial, sucking on his bottom lip.

Phil, I don’t want to go to jail.

Why should you go to jail? The boy’s mother asks for him. You do what she asks. She’s your employer.

Former employer.

Former, OK. But employer, on that day.

It isn’t like that, Phil, said Dial. The boy’s mother was legally barred from access to her child. I stole the boy from his legal guardian.

With her permission.

Listen, Dial began.

No, said Phil. He drew a line across his pad. Here’s what we’ll do.

The boy saw this. He saw Dial look at him.

I’ll be your lawyer, Phil said.

OK.

I’ll go and visit Mrs. Selkirk.

You’ll go to New York?

To Park Avenue. I’ll explain the situation as your adviser. I’ll represent your interests. You were acting on the legal guardian’s instructions.

Phil, I went to Philly.

OK, OK, very funny, but she has her, you know, accident. You take the kid to the father, but the father doesn’t want to know. By then you are accused of kidnapping. You get frightened. You run away. Dumb, but not criminal.

Phil, you are so sweet, but this won’t work.

I’m a lawyer.

A conveyancing lawyer. That’s what you said before.

You think I’m a moron, say so.

Of course I don’t.

Conveyancing, Phil nodded, wills, trusts. This is an inheritance issue. And even if I am a moron, you tell me someone else who is dumb enough to do this for you?

How would you get there?

You’d buy me a ticket.

OK.

I’d book into a hotel. I’d negotiate your case and check out the Village Vanguard, you know. Max Gordon. Why not? You can’t do anything from Remus Creek Road. You’ve got to move. You can’t move. You’re stuck.

Phil, have you ever done anything like this before?

Phil beamed. He raised his eyebrows and twisted up his mustache.

This is lovely, he said.

Really? said Dial, and the boy could hear her old sarcastic voice and he hoped they wouldn’t have a fight. He liked it how it was just fine, her picking twigs from Trevor’s hair.

I wouldn’t be dead for quids, said Phil, exhaling.

And what might that mean?

It means that there is no amount of money you could pay me, said Phil-filling up his lungs again with smoke-no amount of money you could pay me that would persuade me not to be alive.

And then they all laughed, the Fates, rolling around, stoned out of their gourds most likely.

By then the boy was sleeping.

The word conspiracy was later attached to what happened on Remus Creek Road but in the weeks while Phil “prepared” himself to travel, the only conspiring the boy noticed was on the deck where he once saw Dial kiss Trevor late at night. Maybe also some noises in the dark.

Early every morning Dial climbed up into the loft and they played poker and ate leftover dinner. He knew this was because he would soon go home, but once that had been decided, the weeks or months that followed were like a vacation and he no longer needed to worry that his grandma would die or that his dad would never be able to find him.