Wood Green Read online

  Michael kicked off his boots, dropped his briefcase in the office and carried a bag of groceries to the kitchen.

  Here are the sausages you asked me to pick up.

  What’s that?

  Sage and mushroom, right?

  Lucian frowned. I didn’t ask you to buy those.

  Of course you did. Last night. Just before I left.

  Why would I ask you to buy sausages when I’ve been planning to make a vegetable pie all week?

  Who knows? But you definitely asked me to do it. Why on earth would I make up something like that?

  Lucian lifted the lid of the pot and stirred. You must have dreamt it. I had no intention of eating meat for dinner two nights in a row.

  Michael placed the sausages in the refrigerator then searched his pockets for the receipt. With it he found the scrap of paper on which Lucian had written his preferred sausage type, as well as the deli’s address on O’Connell Street. Michael put both on the kitchen counter and walked back down the hall.

  After he heard the office door close, Lucian turned off the heat beneath his pot and inspected the note. He had no doubt that Michael was right, and threw both pieces of paper into the garbage. Destroy all evidence he thought to himself. Then set the kettle to boil.

  Michael swivelled warily in his chair and watched Lucian carry a cup of tea towards his desk.

  Sorry about the mix up, he said. Must have smoked too much weed last night. I’m already making a vegetable pie for dinner, so why don’t you cook those sausages tomorrow night.

  When Lucian left the room Michael shivered, unnerved not only by the uncharacteristic hospitality of being brought a cup of tea, but also Lucian’s willingness to concede he was in the wrong. Neither had happened before and it left an odd atmosphere inside the room. As if Michael was dreaming and something similarly unexpected was about to occur. When all remained still and silent, he returned to a large yellow envelope mailed to Lucian by his London agent. Inside were reviews of Dismantling Ivan’s Circus that had appeared in the British press, and from their pristine condition Michael judged they had been completely ignored. Carefully he unfolded each sheet of three-year-old newspaper and read how Lucian’s most recent book had been received by the critics of the day. Half-heartedly was his conclusion, as each review broadly summarised the narrative, identified a few distinguishing features, and arrived at the same judgement – reclusive Tasmanian author writes strange book that fails to live up to the promise of his first two novels. Michael was shocked at how much the journalists had plagiarised one another. Though the earliest critic had clearly misinterpreted a key element of the plot, all the ensuing reviewers had perpetuated the mistake like a Chinese whisper. Few had bothered to discuss the novel’s structure, voice or context in contemporary literature. And all had failed to detect the references to Alfred Jarry’s Ubu plays that Lucian had included at the beginning of each chapter. It was as if the reviewers had skim-read the novel. Or grown too impatient and not bothered to read to the end. Michael had encountered a similar quality of reviewing in North American and Australian papers. A dividend, he believed, of the spare clean style of prose that was currently in vogue with publishers and universities. Writing reduced to its barest essentials. Devoid of any awkward metre or hint of circumlocution, it sat flat on the page like a frozen dinner, able to be consumed in the most controlled and precise fashion where everything looked, smelled and tasted as expected, and the reader was never forced to suffer the indignity of not feeling in complete control. Surrendering to the imagination of an author was not part of the agreement made with this new style of writing. Instead it was believed that readers wanted real events set in real places to support a real story about real people. And if they were not real, then they had better be based on real people. No one wanted to feel lied to or manipulated, so everything needed to be coated in a thick syrup of familiarity. To ensure readers would recognise themselves in the work. For without such a thing there was a risk they might experience a different way of thinking. Or living. And who wanted to read a book like that!? Lucian did, that’s who. And it was why he refused to give a damn about reality in his work. Making a reader feel secure in their values and ideas was not the purpose of his writing. In fact, he was committed to achieving the exact opposite. To destabilising his readers’ reality in the hope that once they looked away from his pages they might see the world anew. Unfortunately book reviewers failed to understand why any writer would attempt such a thing. How could Lucian Clarke expect to ever become famous enough to teach creative writing to the most privileged students at the most prestigious universities if he refused to tell his readers what they already knew? That everything was okay. There was nothing to learn. Here are the same stories you have always been told. The same places. The same people. Relax. Don’t question your existence. Life will soon be over. Then you can sleep. The book reviewers insisted that living at the bottom of the world had pushed Lucian Clarke’s thinking in a strange direction. Don’t follow him. You wouldn’t like it. Keep your receipt.

  Michael now understood why Lucian had not bothered to read the reviews, and returned them to the envelope without having learned anything he could add to his daily report. He hoped Lucian’s newly found civility would endure past dinner time, otherwise he feared he was likely to receive an earful about value for money and renegotiating their agreement. Michael quickly threaded a sheet of paper into the typewriter, but his fingers hesitated above the keys. All he could think about was Lucian bringing him a cup of tea. It was as if he had wanted the incident about the sausages swept under the carpet and forgotten. But why? Lucian loved a fight. Even when he knew he was in the wrong. So why not this fight?

  36.

  I’ve had an idea for doing something different tonight.

  Oh yes? What’s that?

  Instead of me giving you another page of notes, I thought perhaps you could recount some of the moments in your life that you think have been defining. That way I could write them down and keep them in mind as I work through your papers.

  I see. That is an interesting idea.

  It’s exactly the same project, just a different approach. And it could help me to recognise things that I might not otherwise identify as significant.

  Yes, yes. I see your logic.

  As a safety measure against missing anything important.

  Uh huh. Right.

  Last night I suddenly realised how risky it was to have only my interpretation of what’s relevant.

  That’s a good point.

  After all, we’re two different people.

  Very different.

  And if I knew a little more about your life then it could help me delve deeper between the lines.

  Well I did say I wanted you to do that, didn’t I?

  It’s a valid request, especially if you’re intending to write the autobiography I know you’re capable of.

  You think it could be something good?

  Of course it could. Without question.

  Well that’s very nice of you to say.

  And I want to do everything I can to help you write it. So it occurred to me that a two-way exchange of information might improve our process. Instead of just one way, from me to you.

  It all sounds very wise…except, I thought we had already established the guidelines for how this relationship was going to work.

  Well I know we discussed a general process, but I didn’t think it was set in stone. We can mix things up a bit can’t we?

  Mix things up? Sure, sure. However you do remember that I am the person who’s paying you, right?

  Of course, but…

  As well as giving you proximity to me in case any of my talent rubs off. How’s that working out for you by the way?

  I don’t really…

  And I understand that being an academic you’re used to appropriating other people’s ideas to disguise the fact you have so few of your own. In fact I sympathise with it. It’s part of the culture you’ve always work
ed in. And I can appreciate how difficult it must be to break a habit like that. I suspect that after a while you don’t even recognise it as a habit.

  I wouldn’t exactly put it like that.

  Of course you wouldn’t. But I just want to clarify that I’m not some anonymous funding body handing out grants so you can sit around regurgitating my own ideas back to me. I’m paying you to do an actual job. To tell me about my life. And the last thing I need to hear is what I already know.

  I wasn’t intending…

  To tell you the truth, your idea sounds like nothing more than an excuse for not having done your homework. What are you going to do next? Tell me that Sadie has eaten it?

  No of course not, I…

  Just what exactly have you been doing all day? You’ve been paid your wages. Yet so far all I’ve received in return are sausages that I didn’t even ask you to buy.

  But I thought you said…

  Stop fucking interrupting me. The next time you try and pull shit like this you’ll be out on your arse. I haven’t given you a tough job. Even someone with your limited intellect should be able to manage it. So now I want two pages from you tomorrow, and they had better be impressive. In fact I want two pages every day from now on.

  I was reading reviews of Dismantling Ivan’s Circus. That’s what I was doing today.

  Well what the hell for? You think I can’t remember everything I need to know about a book I only finished writing four years ago? I don’t need to know anything about Ivan. What I want is information from the time of Foxtrot and The Bombardier and Lady Cadaver. That’s what I need help remembering.

  Right. Okay. I’ll get onto it first thing tomorrow.

  You can get onto it now. You think you’re going to sit there and eat my food and smoke my weed and provide nothing in return? I want a page by the end of the day or the deal is off.

  But I thought you said you wanted two pages tomorrow.

  Two pages tomorrow, and one tonight. You’ve pissed me off kid. Now get to work.

  37.

  You’re finishing late tonight, said Maureen as she turned off the lights over the fruit and vegetable stand.

  Michael rubbed his hands together as he hurried towards the potbellied stove at the centre of the store. Busy day. Lots to do.

  Don’t let Lucian work you too hard. He’s an old softie deep down.

  Michael raised an eyebrow.

  Well maybe not an old softie, but remember he probably needs you as much as you need him.

  Michael admired the efficiency with which Maureen moved about the store – checking the fridge doors were properly closed and all the mousetraps had been set. It’s okay, I’m not being exploited. I just got distracted reading something and had to stay late to finish off the day’s work.

  What was it?

  Pardon?

  What were you reading that was so distracting?

  Just some old reviews of Lucian’s books.

  Oh yes? Which ones?

  Dismantling Ivan’s Circus mainly.

  Anyone gush?

  Hardly. In fact I don’t think many of them even understood it. I can’t understand why though. That book has always struck me as being pretty straightforward. Especially compared with his others.

  Same here. I gobbled it up.

  You’ve read it?

  Maureen chose to ignore Michael’s surprise. I’ve read all of Lucian’s books. It’s probably why I only see his polite side.

  Which one is your favourite?

  I read Foxtrot first, so I suppose it’s always going to feel special to me.

  Lady Cadaver was my first.

  Yeah, lots of men like that one best.

  Michael’s cheeks glowed warm as he remembered how aroused he had become while reading Lucian’s fabulist tale of a bordello whose girls had the ability to transform into exact reproductions of wives who had died. From the sound of their voice and the perfume they favoured, to their tiny mannerisms during the moment of climax, the women were able to offer a perfect imitation of a wife at any stage of life that a widower requested. The book was a brilliant examination of matrimonial sex that included the mundane routines alongside the perversions; the aggressive overtones as well as the loving connections, while at the same time contemplating ideas of death and grief and the changing nature of relationships across the course of a marriage. Michael shrugged. I said it was my first, not my favourite. I usually recommend The Bombardier to people.

  So do I. Just so they can read him in the proper order.

  You think there’s an order to Lucian’s books?

  Maureen turned off another light. Order is probably the wrong word. His books are so different that it would be impossible to link their stories together. I think it’s more about being able to enjoy the development of his style and themes from the beginning.

  Loss of identity. Reincarnation. Struggle for a legacy.

  But don’t you think all those ideas have something to do with sacrifice? Haven’t you noticed how Lucian’s characters all have to lose something precious to gain something precious? I think that’s the idea sitting at the centre of all of his books. Appreciating the price that needs to be paid just to make it through a single lifetime.

  The sudden despair Michael felt at the failure of his thesis to address such an interpretation quickly gave way to delight at gaining a new insight into Lucian’s work. I might have to go back and read them all over again.

  Maureen offered a coquettish smile while she locked the cash register and turned off the store’s CD player.

  I suppose I should call a cab so you can close up.

  Would you like a cup of tea first? I usually make one after I lock the front door.

  I don’t want to keep you up.

  It’s not that late. And I don’t often get the opportunity to talk about books. Come on through to the kitchen. It’s warmer in there, and if Tim hasn’t scoffed them all you might get a homemade biscuit.

  Maureen filled the kettle and cleared the plates from the dish rack as she answered Michael’s questions about her previous life in Melbourne, and the circumstances behind her move with Tim to Tasmania. Eventually the tea was ready and she grabbed one of the biscuits that Michael had so far ignored. I suppose you’d prefer a cigarette?

  What? No. I mean, I’m trying to quit. Eight days so far.

  Good for you. I’m glad. I was only being polite. I hate the smell.

  Yeah, it’s not something you notice until you stop smoking. But now I can smell it all over my clothes and through my room.

  Where are you staying?

  At a B&B in Battery Point.

  Fancy.

  So people say.

  Maureen took another biscuit and pushed the plate towards Michael. So what work are you doing for Lucian?

  Just organising his papers and making notes about his past. I think he’s planning on writing an autobiography.

  I thought he was working on a new novel?

  He probably is. I think he’s waiting until I’ve gathered all the information together before he decides on whether he wants to do it or not.

  Doesn’t he hate autobiographies by writers?

  That’s certainly what I’d always thought, but he seems to have changed his mind. Michael dunked a biscuit into his tea.

  It reminded Maureen of her grandmother who had the same habit, and fitted perfectly with Michael’s other old fashioned traits. And not just his clothes, but the manner in which he crossed his legs, held a tea cup, and used a handkerchief instead of a tissue. So what did you find?

  Pardon?

  What did you find out about Lucian today?

  I don’t know if I can talk about it without Lucian’s permission. He’s quite a private person. And the last thing I need is for him not to trust me.

  Who am I going to tell up here?

  I’d better not.

  Okay then, how about we play a game. I tell you something about Lucian that you didn’t know, and you tell me something. F
air?

  Michael had never considered Maureen as a source of information, but after seven years in Wood Green it made sense that she and Lucian would have got to know each other. All right, but you go first.

  Gladly. Did you know he still has a piece of shrapnel in his leg?

  From Vietnam?

  That’s right. Says it starts to hurt whenever it’s about to snow. Your turn.

  Okay. Let me see. Did you know that in seventy-seven he almost died from a knife fight?

  Who doesn’t know it? He’s so proud of that scar he shows it to strangers. Come on, you’ve got to give me something better than that.

  All right, um, how about this? Did you know that he wrote a book before The Bombardier?

  Maureen leaned forward. No. Have you read it?

  Michael shook his head. I don’t think it exists anymore. But I’ve run across a few of the rejection letters it received. He must have been only fifteen or sixteen when he wrote it.

  Not bad. Not bad at all. Did you know that Lucian cheats at cards? And that the first time he played Patricia he took forty pounds off her in a game of poker.

  And it wasn’t enough of a warning not to marry him?

  Lucian says it was why they got together. Apparently Patricia was going through a rebellious stage and wanted to be treated like a real person, not just some debutante waiting for a man to protect her. That wore off pretty quickly though.

  Have you heard how in Turkey he smoked a plant that sent him blind for three days?

  Maureen rolled her eyes. Did you know that when Lucian was living in Paris he stalked Jean Genet. And when Genet walked across the road to confront him he ran away like a scared child.

  You’re joking?

  It’s true. Ask him.

  Not on your life. I suppose you know about the affair he had with Patricia’s best friend?

  No, but it’s hardly surprising. Has he told you how he knocked back an Order of Australia?

  No. Do you know why?

  He wrote to them and said that after allowing Patrick White’s house to be sold they could take their award and shove it.