Read The Pages Online

Authors: Murray Bail

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The Pages (3 page)

BOOK: The Pages
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Now he surveyed Erica Hazelhurst. No lipstick. With its slightly pronounced jaw her face gave off a studied calm. He had an aunt in Melbourne who was like her – very intelligent. Erica wore a faded cardigan the colour of boiled rhubarb, which splayed over her hips, and speckled green slacks.

‘I have known the Antill family for as long as I have been working here. When I say I know them, I've managed in these thirty-odd years to meet just one of them, and then for less than five minutes. But that's all right. Not a problem. The Antills are an old pastoral family. They can do what they like. Cliff Antill conducted his business through the post. It was said of Cliff he was afraid to open his mouth in case a fly flew in. All I can say is, there must be a heck of a lot of folk in this country going about not talking.

‘He had racehorses. There was a photo from Flemington in the paper once, years ago, and I was surprised to see a thin man holding a champagne glass. I'd always imagined, I don't know why, a big fellow, sturdy. She – that was Mrs – she was known for her hats. Her family made their money out of inventing a new shoe polish. I gather she preferred her apartment at the Astor to the sheep station out in the mulga. Mrs Antill left endowments to music and the State Library. I managed to dissuade her from leaving any monies to theatre companies.'

The filing cabinet, the venetians from the nineteen fifties, the exceptional neatness of the desk, its broad glossy surface, the photo there of wife and kids, and Mannix's motionlessness as indicated by his stationary cufflinks, his purple lips producing the only movement, like a little hidden engine, as they formed the steady horizontal arrangement of words – all these things transferred attention onto Erica. She tried to imagine how he would be as a father to daughters. If only he'd fiddled with a paperclip, perhaps just twisting one out of shape.

‘When Mr Cliff and Mrs passed away, as we all do eventually, the property passed in equal shares to the children. These children are Wesley, the eldest – come to him later – Roger, and the daughter Lindsey, with an
e
. They lived together in harmony, and worked the place without much trouble. Wesley has now died. In his will, he has bequeathed his share to the brother and sister.'

The phone rang and Mannix answered: ‘Not now.'

‘I met Wesley. It was in this office. He made an appointment and sat in the chair you're in now. It was fourteen years ago. I had no idea what he wanted. An Antill had never come into this building before, not one of them. He sat there a good minute or two before he realised he still had his hat on his head, so he took it off without a word. He had a fair bit of white hair. He didn't crack a smile throughout. I remember thinking: this is not a happy man. He'd just got back from Europe, perhaps that was it. You could see by his general manner and clothing he'd been away.'

From his trousers, Mannix drew out a large handkerchief, blew his nose and put it back in his pocket.

‘He says to me, “Mr Mannix, I'd like to change my name. How do I go about it?”

‘Wesley would have been early thirties then. I said of course it can be done, we can do that. We can do anything here. But why? I reminded him the name Antill wasn't any old name, but a name with a history, a name stuffed to the gills with squatter connotations. It is not to be dismissed easily. I felt I could say that. I said, I didn't particularly enjoy my own name – what sort of person do you conjure up when you see “Mannix”? – but I wouldn't dream of changing it.'

Here Mannix leaned back in his chair.

‘He listened politely, then he said
Antill
was not the right name for a philosopher. A philosopher, he said, words to this effect, had to have a name appropriate to his work – his labours, he used that word.
Wesley
he didn't mind. It wasn't perfect, but it wouldn't be a burden. If necessary he could just use the initial.
Antill
was the problem. It was light, that was the problem as he saw it. He said there can be no such thing as “light” philosophy. It was a contradiction. He said it more than once – a contradiction. To be a philosopher was impossible enough without being lumbered with an inappropriate surname. I must have had a silly look on my face. He said to me, “You don't know what I'm talking about.” He was explaining that to come up with a meaningful philosophy was one thing. The difficult part was to convince others of it. Everything had to be in place, I remember him saying. To succeed it was necessary to rid himself of all disadvantages, and that included his name. A philosopher had to begin with authority, in every way. That's roughly what he said, words to that effect.

‘I think he was winding himself up. Nothing came of it.'

It was enough to trigger in Mannix memories of other clients and their bizarre instructions. ‘I had someone else who died,' he wanted to say, ‘who left his neighbour a pair of gates. He didn't want them.'

His advice was to keep everything simple.

‘I say to people: hang on, spare a thought for the executor! Not to mention the added expense.'

An informal tone had entered his voice and manner which Erica found disappointing.

Mannix gave her a glance, ‘Goodness me, on the scale of difficulty I have known people worse off than Wesley Antill. One of our clients is called Mound – Mr Leon Mound. How about that? We also have a Murray Pineless on the books. And let's be perfectly frank. If this was about photography and not philosophy there wouldn't have been any fuss. So now we have this small difficulty.'

He adjusted one of his cuffs.

‘According to his brother and sister, Wesley Antill was in fact a philosopher. That's all he did when he went back to live on the property – write his philosophical work. Very generously, it strikes me, his brother and his sister didn't mind. Not at all. They had a very high opinion of Wesley. To them, their eldest brother was a genius. Or perhaps they thought he could have been. For years they worked the property and gave him the free time, and the space, and all the rest of it, to write. And that is what he did all day. And what was the result of all this? There is a provision in his will. It is clear enough. It asks that his philosophy be published and the costs be borne by his estate. Is this possible? Is he a genius in philosophy? We have no idea. That's where you come in. The university tells me you are an expert in this field. We would like you to examine this “philosophy”, or whatever it is he's put on paper, and supply an opinion.'

‘Yes,' Erica nodded. She almost went on, ‘I can identify with Wesley Antill. The difficulty, my God. I am very interested in this. And it will be something to look forward to – the drive, getting there, everything.'

Mannix was in a hurry now.

‘Roger Antill and his sister are expecting you.' He went back to his desk and found the hand-written map. ‘It should be pleasant this time of the year.' He shook her hand. ‘Not too hot, not too cold.'

5

SOPHIE HAD her arms folded. All it took was a flat and dusty tyre to interrupt her flow, enough to have her pondering what else might be in store, as if she and she alone had been singled out for obstacles, uncertainties. Very little was needed to bump Sophie Perloff off course. A person she didn't know might say something careless, incorrect or deliberately outlandish, and Sophie would begin pondering, looking into herself and away.

Dead something on the side of the road. Two small dams were laid out in the shape of artists' palettes.

In her work Sophie was supposed to remain neutral, be the conduit. Instead of a couch in the office she used a
chaise longue
, draped with a kelim – a splash of geometric individualism. Here the patient was forced to lie neither horizontal nor upright. Some found it necessary to grip the sides which resulted, one afternoon, in a thin woman's wedding ring slipping off and rolling along the floor. Otherwise, discomfort was not something they noticed. ‘The only men I have on the books are ex-priests,' she explained to Erica. Some patients fell into the category of super-articulate (an aspect of their intensity). When the session came to an end they looked disappointed. Others faltered even as they were absorbed in talking about themselves. Some began sobbing and couldn't stop, disliking, as they saw it, their own unlikeability. It was not unusual for a patient to pay good money every week to stretch out perfectly still or fidget slightly on the recalcitrant
chaise longue
, their fingertips reaching to the floor, and not open their mouths until the last few minutes when there'd be a flood of recollections, of experiences they evidently groped around for in the dark, and now held up, and turned over, and recognised as vital evidence. Lying there and not saying anything, just a twitch of the fingers, and Sophie seated somewhere behind as an invisible prompter, a person could begin to see how they were unpleasant and unattractive, and how this had affected others; and, although it was a source of unhappiness, they felt happy being able to recognise and describe it, as if they were carrying out their own treatment of themselves. Traffic noises and the sound of birds came into the room, allowing Sophie's mind to wander.

It required patience of an extreme kind to listen over and over to the words of others. In many cases the subject and the way of talking were only slightly different from all the others. A lot of what was said screamed out for intervention. Instead of answering a question with a question, Sophie sometimes – unexpectedly – gave an answer, a harsh one. Her own opinion, if you don't mind! She found her own self mysterious. A lot of obscurity there. On occasions her own monologue took over. Of course it is not supposed to happen. It was precise, colourful, multi-layered, and absorbing to Sophie, but having to lie there listening to such an articulate outpouring was not what the fumbling patient had come for.

Recently, Sophie had slept with a patient – one of the ex-priests. She waved away the risk. ‘Can I say something, Erica? These men are fascinating, believe me. They are double-men. They have an entirely different take on things.'

From the beginning to the end she enjoyed the process of meeting, then sleeping with, a man. Astride him, these chosen men, she could look down on her opaque self, and spread a flooding generosity, and for a moment, forgetfulness. Otherwise, Sophie found intimacy difficult. She couldn't sufficiently involve herself. She could not reach out. And she enjoyed experiencing the inevitable weakness in men, of seeing the effect she had on them, from the moment she turned her special attention on them.

She preferred the company of men to women. It didn't stop her from having women friends. Recognising her behaviour, they looked on it kindly. As for the men, they understood at a glance she would not be trouble. Many of her affairs were with married men; and these men had made a calculation. Whatever they had murmured to Sophie, they would never bring themselves to leave their wives for her, not even the most crabby, fading wives. It wasn't the way it worked. Sophie knew that. And with a married man any ideas of permanency could always be postponed – by the week, by the month, whenever. Now, though, something felt missing. At forty-three, Sophie was facing discomfort, uncertainty in the form of vague emptiness. The smallest thing could throw her off balance – not much, but enough to make her pensive. Erica saw this in the folded arms.

A recurring problem for Sophie was her father (though
he
didn't see any problem). To Sophie, he was in front of her and above and to the side. The solid shape of her father. Just by being there he could unsettle her. Something he said. Or when he said nothing at all. It was her father up to his tricks again. Immediately she would call Erica to discuss. She had to talk to somebody. Erica was always there. She seemed to be sympathetic. Sometimes she asked a question. If she did, Sophie would continue without answering. ‘And do you know, I think he's basically oblivious?' Then there was the stepmother. Sophie could hardly be in the same room as that woman; and this didn't concern her father at all. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I find that perplexing and very hurtful' – Sophie speaking to Erica.

Perloff, Harold G. – where does that come from? Stopping and U-turning it went back in a faint line to a town in one of those tangled, land-locked countries in Eastern Europe, where it became dark at four in the afternoon. It might explain his mysterious limp – story there. Hemmed-in countries produce all manner of limps and missing limbs in their men. Along with a certain ironic superiority, his limp gave Harold Perloff a way of sitting in a chair, ankles crossed, and sipping an espresso from tiny gold-rimmed cups, with his little finger sticking out. Here was a large round bald head, noticeable for its warts and protuberances, bobbing up and down like one of those floating World War Two mines that wreaked havoc in the Mediterranean. The bow tie sometimes fitted on Fridays resembled a propeller below the water-line. He was playful. He was also implacable; when his daughter thought of him, which was often, he had his eyes on her.

At Bankstown, the enormous rusty roof of Perloff 's factory had grown into a local landmark: with an immigrant's pride he liked to joke you could see it (the rust) from an aeroplane coming in. H. G. Perloff & Co manufactured hard hats of reinforced plastic for working men, smaller helmets in glossy blue, red or yellow for children. As Harold told it, to anyone who'd listen, it was good and proper to protect the all-important heads of construction workers, oil-rig operators, coal miners and the like; but he had real doubts about legislation which had small boys and girls strapping on one of his products the moment they stepped outside, for it diminished the thrill of being on your own in the playground, or of balancing on a bicycle. A law promoting softness, a suburban law – it would produce problems further down the track – his very words. He had a view on everything. Still, Harold Perloff understood the decency of making something and being paid for it, and churned out the hard hats by the thousands, selling them into Asia, and places like Fiji and Papua New Guinea.

BOOK: The Pages
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