Homecoming
Authors: Adib Khan
For those Australians who went to fight
in Vietnam and came away to discover the war
within themselves.
Our repentance is not so much regret for
the evil we have done as fear of what might
happen to us because of it.
L
A
R
OCHEFOUCAULD
The sky darkens to a bruised purple. Martin Godwin switches off the ute’s radio as the piano concerto in F minor meanders towards its conclusion. He prefers silence to Bach.
As if in deference to the calmness of dusk, he eases up on the accelerator, reducing noise and engine vibration. He feels a surge of apprehension about the onset of darkness.
To be the sole vehicle on the road. An impossible wish in the city. Travelling alone provides opportunities beyond the mere necessity of reaching a destination. He ponders about bitterness and resentment. Such emotions are the residues of life, as natural as breathing or sleeping. But kept cloistered in the heart and mind, they shape adverse perceptions of the world at large. A cathartic experience is then needed. The imaginative variations Martin has discovered for this are infinite. He has regular conversations with imagined personalities; sings arias at the top of his voice; verbalises his fantasies: converting bank managers to the belief that economic rationalism should not be the
primary imperative of a civilised society, extracting unqualified admissions of ignorance from doctors, making politicians feel guilty, upsetting the professional equilibrium of psychiatrists, and pausing for a conversation with a stranger in the middle of a department store about the contradiction between blatant commercialism and the spirituality of the season on Christmas Eve. The satisfaction of such contrived exchanges usually gives him a feeling of power, a temporary sense of control over the direction of his life. And so now he sings.
If only the car behind him would take a turn somewhere, or at least drop back another fifty metres. That would lend some credibility to the illusion of solitariness. He presses hard with his right foot, but is unnerved by the rattle in the motor. The noise has associations with a tropical landscape. He peers into the rear-view mirror. In the rapidly fading light he can only guess that the car tailing him is the same vehicle that honked and swung behind him as he pulled out of Pete’s garage on Ferntree Gully Road.
Singing louder, Martin continues to think. Aloneness has been essential in restoring his balance whenever stress threatens to unhinge him. Over the years he has become adept at draining away built-up reservoirs of anger and frustration. Acts of harmless aggression—punching the air in the kitchen as he waits for the kettle to boil, ranting at vacant space as if it were a guilty opponent, kicking the ground in the backyard, firing salvos at Fate or even God when, in those moments of desperation, that mythical entity, so simply encapsulated in a three-lettered word, becomes an almost believable necessity—these make him feel like an ancient
Dionysian, lunging towards a state of composure by exhausting the passions.
Tranquillity is fundamental for coping with adversity Lately, however, carelessness has created awkward problems: he has cancelled a doctor’s appointment, and failed to meet with the bank manager. There should never be any urgency about the possibility of receiving bad news. Sometimes one has to kick life for being a dull bastard, even with the knowledge that it will retaliate in some unexpected way. But perhaps this sort of recklessness comes from an increasing awareness of his own vulnerability.
Martin has already reconciled himself to the likelihood of more dislocation. But somewhere within him there is a determination to prioritise and focus his attention on matters that are important to him.
A visit to see Colin is overdue. He decides to scrounge among his collection and pick a few poetry anthologies to take to his friend. As for Nora…He feels leaden, as though a great weight were tied to him. Why are those he cares for invalids?
The ute will have to wait, despite Pete’s warning about its condition.
‘
I
’
D GET IT FIXED
quickly,’ Pete had advised Martin only fifteen minutes ago, after turning the ignition on and off several times and then tinkering under the bonnet. ‘The starter motor needs replacing, and the head gasket could become a problem.’
‘How soon?’
The mechanic wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag. ‘Might last a few weeks, or it could go like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Hard to tell.’
They discussed the cost of repair. Despite a discount offer, Martin chose to wait for a few more weeks. Longer, if possible.
‘Do you want to book it in?’
Martin deliberated. ‘I might leave it for now, thanks. I wish you hadn’t moved so far away from Fitzroy.’
‘It’s cheaper to lease out here, mate. It’s all about making more money,’ the mechanic said laconically. ‘Sure you want to risk it?’
‘I can’t do without the ute for the moment. I’ll chance my luck. Whatever’s left of it.’ Unwilling to prolong the conversation, Martin had hopped into the vehicle, waved to the mechanic and pulled out onto the road.
He had been juggling numbers in his head, busily adding and subtracting. Regardless of how he manipulated the figures, he was unable to stretch his finances to meet all accumulated expenses.
Then there was the sound of a horn.
Martin had not seen the vehicle speeding towards him. He was startled. The driver slowed down close to the rear bumper of the ute. Instinctively Martin had raised his right hand in a gesture of apology and steered as close to the left of the lane as he was able to without the wheels touching the wide strip of loose gravel adjacent to the road. There had been ample room for the Ford to overtake him. But the car had veered towards the ute.
The driver honked again, several times in succession, and then dropped back several metres.
MARTIN HAS STOPPED
singing. He loathes the idea of attending to the bank first, but what with the car, he is unable to deny the urgency of the financial mess that confronts him. A politely worded letter has lain on his kitchen table for a week. In it his bank manager extols the virtues of prompt home loan repayments and suggests a meeting to discuss Martin’s monetary situation. Another letter arrived the next day, drawing his attention to the credit-card statement of the previous month. This one reminds him that payment is overdue and that interest is being charged.
Martin has decided not to phone the bank to seek an appointment with the manager. Instead he intends to write a reply and delay a meeting. A few days can be extended to a fortnight or more, especially if he writes an unconventional response. The serious world of banking is likely to be confused by any hint of facetiousness about money matters.
‘Dear Malcolm
…’ Martin clears his throat and turns on the wipers to clean the splattered remains of insects that have dashed against the windscreen.
‘Dear Malcolm, In response to the letter about the loan repayments and the bankcard statement, I…
No!’
He bangs the steering wheel in disapproval. He sounds like the bank manager. Dour and predictable. It is dark enough to switch on the headlights. The car behind him does the same.
‘Dear Malcolm,’
he begins again, more loudly this time.
‘Have you thanked your customers for the huge profit that the bank declared for the year? Were you invited to a board meeting to drink French champagne and determine what new charges will be added
for services provided, so that the annual profit can he increased next year? Assuming that the cost of imported huhhly and caviar will rise, what is the target? Eight billion dollars? Nine? Perhaps you could consider running a competition for the exact amount? The prize could he a T-shirt prominently displaying the hank’s logo. I am writing to give you a solemn undertaking that in future I shall keep up with the home loan repayments, conditional on a drop in the interest rate. Should the rate rise, then such an undertaking becomes invalid!
Martin grins and begins to enjoy himself.
‘You see, I am one of those inept people who cannot simply snap their fingers and find extra cash to keep up with the repayments. Now, about my credit-card statement. As you know, we are a nation that is adept at using the plastic card to improve our material status. I am disappointed that you haven’t encouraged me to use it more frequently. Well, bugger me! $278.80 on flowers and chocolates! An inexcusable indulgence given my situation. But I managed to please someone for a day. An achievement to be proud of, don’t you think? Does the happiness of others ever figure in your scheme of things? Maybe you could put that question to the bank’s computer and receive an answer rounded off to three decimal places. On to more weighty matters. Since I am unable to find the time to meet you and receive free?) advice about my perilous financial state, could I ask you ring me late at night in about a fortnight’s time? I also wish to discuss the matter of a loan for some gardening tools. I am sure that any inconvenience caused by calling me after hours will be offset by your commitment to the bank’s proclaimed intention to be always at the service of its clients. I hasten to
—’
The glare of the headlights—suddenly on full-beam—bounces off the rear-view mirror. Martin squints. He accelerates abruptly. A horn blares an intimation of pursuit.
He looks into the mirror again. It functions like memory, reflecting what is behind him.
A GIRL APPEARS
in the mirrored glare, and then he hears words.
The angry eyes of the dragon are rings of white fire. It will follow you from behind
—
under the sea, across land and sky, burrow into your being, live inside you, nibbling for the rest of your life. You too will know what it is like to be hunted.
It is unnerving how he remembers the words exactly as Graham Rankin had translated them that day all those years ago in the steamy village. It wasn’t what the old woman had said as he and the others stood over her, their weapons heavy in their hands, but rather her lack of fear and that revolting cackle which were so offensive. She flouted their sense of righteousness and unhinged their implicit belief in their cultural and technological superiority. Though it was darkly elusive, there was something real about what she said. Her words hovered in that zone between the credible and the fantastical, creating an uncertainty that had angered them even more. The men lit cigarettes, raised their faces to the sky, laughed and mocked her.
Martin had shivered in the stifling heat of the tropical afternoon. The woman squatted on her haunches under a jackfruit tree. She singled him out. Her eyes pinpointed him, and radiated virulence. This stare did not waver, even when they pressed the nozzles of their guns against her head.
‘Where are the men? Where are those bastards?’ Graham shouted repeatedly in Vietnamese, the rifle shaking in his
hands. Ken Davis circled menacingly around her, threatening to shoot. Perhaps she carried a knife or some sharp instrument that could be judged as a dangerous weapon.
She responded with a gummy condescending grin, as if she were privy to some secret knowledge far more precious than anything that they wished to know. Martin had looked at her and said it would be better not to waste their ammunition. There were bound to be enemy troops hiding in other villages.
They had torched the huts and moved on.
Just before they entered the jungle again, Martin spun around. A huge python was sliding across the cushion of rotting leaves. He felt certain that the old woman had followed him, laughing soundlessly. But all he could see were flames leaping upwards like giant tongues licking the tops of the coconut trees that ringed the huts.
‘Come on! Move it!’ Chris yelled, beckoning Martin with his rifle.
The woman had unsettled Martin. But he felt no compassion or remorse for her. She made him aware of the emptiness that was scooped out inside him. He could only think about the horrible end to Barry’s life, that explosion into bits of bones and flesh. Martin looked at the back of his hands. Involuntarily he wiped them on his legs. Still they did not feel clean. Graham called him again. He turned to run. A branch crackled and crashed to the ground.
‘
ANOTHER LIFE IN
another century,’ Martin’s son, Frank, said recently. It sounded as though the beginning of the twenty-first
century were an impenetrable barrier intended to block out the relevance of experiences over the last one hundred years.
In another century.
Martin eases his skin-tight grip on the steering wheel. Grudgingly he admits that the words create the effect of distance, a subtle dissemination of the past, like a body disintegrating over time, a suffocating cover pulled over it, rendering memory lifeless and impersonal. It has occurred to him that anguish and anxiety might be the disturbances of restless ghosts seeking escape from the depths of one’s being. But to voice such sentiments, even facetiously, is to expose oneself to expressions of incredulity or, at best, sceptical silence.
Martin risks a quick look back over his left shoulder. Headlights flick on and off. His grip on the steering wheel tightens again. The rear-view mirror is a dark plate. The car speeds to his right, past the ute. Suddenly it swerves and stops in front of Martin. He slams his foot on the brake pedal. The tyres screech and the ute skids as he rotates the steering wheel. The world outside is a blur of darkness streaked with light. The front wheels hit a mound of dirt piled on the side of the road. A dull thudding noise. The engine dies.
Two figures jump out of the parked car and run to the ute. Martin locks the doors from the inside. His left hand reaches for the glove compartment. He grips the padded envelope swathed in a T-shirt. Since Vietnam he has not felt the physical reality of danger. It is a tingling sensation. A trilling of the nerves and a rapid pulsation in his veins. His mouth is dry and his forehead feels hot. Through the windscreen he can see the orderly pylons of streetlights stretching in front of him. Houses on either side of the road. Quiet lit-up boxes defining suburbia. He thinks about the
phenomena of unforeseen events that can alter one’s life. His mind spirals to a tropical afternoon permeated with the heavy smells of ripe mangoes and fresh cow dung.
He sees a clearing dotted with bamboo huts. A sprinkling of peasants are scattered in the surrounding fields. Unafraid villagers, pretending to be ignorant. Experience has taught them to be calm. This was another group of intruders intent on destruction. The huts would be burnt down, but they would be built again. And again, until the foreigners became tired and went home. Patience was the ultimate weapon in a nation’s arsenal. Eagles whorl overhead. Suddenly there is a triumphant call.