Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

There was more wood and metal and wiring haphazardly thrown together as sculpture on the lower level; there was also an early sixties Mustang convertible, the inside gutted, and a video projection of a desert highway flashing across the windscreen, random Polaroids of the desert landscape around Joshua Tree stuck along its chassis. In another room, a DVD on a loop played what seemed to be a harshly over-lit video of a woman’s hand grating a plastic toy; it was not a doll, which would have at least made some kind of sociological sense; nor was it a war toy, which would also have had a discernible purpose. Two women, plump and silver-haired, dressed as though they had set off for church or temple that morning, were looking quizzically at the screen. There’s nothing there , he wanted to say to them, don’t bother , but if the day was teaching him anything it was that he should just keep his big stupid fat mouth shut.

He wandered into a passage that led to a large darkened gallery in which one long wall was divided into two screens. On the first panel a dignified old man, in a thick checked shirt buttoned at the collar, was answering questions from an off-screen interviewer. Something about the old man’s suspicious but dignified manner in front of the camera spoke of a much earlier age, as did the vivid colours of the image, shot on film, pulsating with depth. On the second panel an abstract collage of found footage — from nature documentaries, educational instructions, old family Super 8—reminded Bill of his early childhood, as did the whirring of the projector. The second panel played silently while on the first the old man struggled to answer questions about himself. Within minutes Bill recognised that the old man had dementia, that his memory had been ripped from him the way his own grandfather’s memory had been stolen. The strain in the old man’s voice, the unsettling fear in his eyes as he tried to recall if he did indeed have children, was almost unbearable to watch.

Bill let his eyes rest on the footage of a man and woman setting up a tent by a river: the saturated colours of the Super 8 stock, blown up to fit the wall, were as rich and brilliant as the brushstrokes in the Hopper painting. There were footsteps and he turned to see the elderly couple from the lift enter the room, hesitating for a moment as they adjusted to the near darkness.

Bill slipped out, terrified that they would recognise him, walked quickly to the stairs and straight down them to the ground level. It was only then that he regretted not finding out the artist’s name; the installation about the loss of memory had moved him. The three young attendants were still seated at the counter but he couldn’t face asking them, didn’t want to have to deal with their rudeness, the insinuation in the young man’s tone that he was somehow not worthy to bear witness to such art.

He pushed through the glass doors and took in breath after breath of the hot dirty air. With the exception of the Hopper and the unknown artist’s video installation, the Whitney had only offered him emptiness. He hoped Trina would feel something of how he felt, agree with his reaction. If she didn’t, if she liked that place, responded to that art, it seemed to him impossible for them to trust one another’s feelings again. He felt it would separate her from him forever.

He was awaiting her exit from the gallery with such eagerness that her sudden appearance and grim silence momentarily confused him. Then he remembered and he couldn’t suppress a groan: she hadn’t forgiven him.

She took out the bottle of water, drank from it, and returned it to her pack without offering him any. ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced. ‘There’s a place Chloe told me about, she said it was a fantastic old-school kosher deli.’

‘That sounds good. Where is it?’

‘On the Upper West Side.’

It was already close to two o’clock and it would mean having to walk all the way across the park. Or catch a cab. He didn’t want to go but he didn’t want to upset her further, so he just stood there looking indecisive.

She looked at him as if he were some idiot. ‘You don’t want to go there?’

‘No, no,’ he lied, ‘I do.’

She slipped the backpack onto her shoulders and started walking. He called her name and she swung around, her annoyance evident.

‘I think we should get a cab.’

‘I want to walk.’

‘We’re hungry, it’s hot, it’s across Central Park. Come on — let’s get a cab.’

‘No.’ She was shaking her head, her arms folded. ‘I want to walk. So I’m going to suggest that we split up and we’ll have lunch separately.’

‘No, I think we should have lunch together.’

‘I’m not sure I want to have lunch with you.’

For God’s sake, they had just been words, about a preppy stuck-up shit who had insulted her. And the little prick hadn’t even heard them. But Bill knew that there was no possibility of winning that argument, knew that he didn’t deserve to.

‘I’m really sorry. It was an awful, idiotic thing to say.’

‘It was more than that,’ she spat out. ‘It was a racist thing to say.’ Her voice wasn’t raised at all, but he was conscious of the delivery van that had eased into a park behind her, and that the driver was black. ‘I feel like I don’t know you.’

The driver had opened the back door to the van and was lifting boxes onto the kerb.

‘I feel terrible about it, Trina, I really do.’ Bill found he was whispering. ‘I feel really ashamed.’ He offered her a shy apologetic smile. ‘Let’s get some lunch, eh?’

She shook her head. ‘I want a couple of hours alone. You actually repulse me at the moment.’

If he spoke he would cry. He stood there, nodding, as she told him to meet her in three hours at a bar on Mulberry Street that they had discovered their first night in the city. If he spoke he would cry.

He wandered the city, looking into the windows of cafés and restaurants, unable to decide on any of them for lunch. He walked in the shade of the cross streets of the Upper East Side, past Lexington, past Third Avenue. He found a small deli and ordered a pastrami and salad roll that turned out to be enormous, and sat on a small stool outside to eat it, but could only manage to eat a third of it. Down the street he could see a man wheeling his belongings in a trolley, stopping every so often to check through bins and gutters. Bill wrapped the roll in a napkin and perched it carefully on the edge of the stool for the homeless man to find.

Bill walked all the way to the edge of the island, hoping to find a park, a space, some kind of solitude from the roar and bustle of the metropolis, but at the edge of the city a motorway, ugly and relentless, barred any access to the river. His shirt was now sticking to his back.

He wandered back to Second Avenue and scanned the sign above a bus shelter. An elderly man dressed in a light brown suit, a fedora in his hand, looked across at him and smiled.

‘Excuse me,’ Bill said to him, ‘can I get a bus here to go downtown?’

‘Where do you want to get to, son?’

‘Allen Street.’

‘It’s the right bus.’

They waited, standing next to each other.

‘Are you English?’

‘No, I’m Australian.’

The old man smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve heard Sydney is beautiful.’

‘I’m from Melbourne.’ The old man kept smiling and nodding. ‘It’s in the south,’ Bill explained.

But the old man had looked away and was holding out his hand to hail the bus. Bill climbed the steps behind the man and held out a five-dollar bill to the driver.

‘Allen Street, please.’

The driver was shaking his head. ‘Exact change, sir.’