Clowns At Midnight Read online

  The veranda was in full sunlight from 7:30 until around 10 am, and while in shadow then for the rest of the day, the air was simply too hot to permit working outdoors, the glare too intense. When I’d picked up the keys from Len Catley, the neighbour at the top of Edenville Road, he’d assured me there’d be cooling afternoon winds. So far I’d had the morning breezes and the miracle of the southerly, and a wall of blazing light the rest of the time.

  I had to smile at the thought of using the card table again when these promised zephyrs finally did come blowing round the hill. I’d recently browsed the paperback edition of Francesca Premoli-Droulers’ Writers’ Houses in Jack’s waiting room, and the author, with photographer Erica Lennard, had done a fine job of showing the homes where famous writers had done some of their best work: Karen Blixen’s Rungstedlung, Lawrence Durrell’s house at Sommières, William Faulkner’s Rowan Oak and the like.

  I couldn’t help but see my new hilltop vistas and aspects in these terms, as fixtures in a writer’s world, preferring to overlook the real reason for my exile and seeing the Rankins’ place as a carefully chosen retreat, a rural Everywhere that was at the same time dramatically regional. William Butler Yeats in his tower at Thoor Ballylee. David Leeton in his farmhouse at Starbreak Fell. It was foolishness, vanity, tongue-in-cheek delight in my chosen career, but I had to admit that I liked the idea of the card table, the straw hat, the sunglasses and the laptop, having the incredible view while working on the novel, sketching out the beginnings of the human interest article Jack had urged me to write for that new psychology magazine, Mind Fields, doing lyrics for a band whose music blended REM, Counting Crows and Jethro Tull from their Songs from the Wood period (poor Mick would faint dead away if he knew I’d bracketed Shock Salamander like that).

  However modest or renowned, large or small, all writers, all artists, have their systems, their avowals of how it has to be for them: Faulkner writing his few early morning hours in the library, Dylan Thomas working through the afternoons in his shed beside the Boat House at Laugharne, Hemingway doing his six morning hours at 907 Whitehead Street, Key West, and so on. I’d probably end up with a rotation: early morning and (with Len’s promised breezes) sometimes late afternoon and evening on the veranda, the rest of the day at the kitchen table looking back at the hillside or, if worse came to worst, in the comfortable anyplace of John Rankin’s modern, generic study. It sounded contrived and pretentious, but the idea was to make a neutral zone of my immediate work surroundings as quickly as possible so I could produce: a treasured thousand or two thousand words a day, whatever could be managed.

  The novel—my precious third—was again a police procedural, a crime thriller with dark edges after the style of Arturo Pérez-Reverte meets John D. MacDonald (so editor Lizzie tells me). But this time I hoped to make more of it, give it that extra robustness and zing that would fetch it the magical earning status of numerous reprints and the backlist. I was trying to make a living after all.

  But today it was hard. After the shock of the black page, after the tower, the bottle-trees and the Risi invitation, I was too aware of filling in time.

  Around two o’clock, Jack phoned. I smiled when I heard the familiar voice, determined not to mention the black page and equally determined, I suddenly decided, not to mention what I’d found on the hilltop yesterday.

  ‘How’s the wanderer?’ he said, his voice as rich and deep as ever, fond and with nothing avuncular about it. I could picture him leaning back in his big armchair, looking out at the harbour from his office in North Sydney, smiling one of his all-conquering smiles.

  ‘Obviously very popular. I’m going to a meet-the-neighbours party tonight. You have a hand in that, Jack?’

  ‘Not me. The Rankins must have arranged it. They’re good people, like I said. They wanted it to be a positive thing for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well you know how I feel. Just so long as I’m not being handled.’

  ‘We agreed on that. A light touch. No meddling.’

  ‘No puppeteering,’ I said.

  Found your image, Jack!

  ‘Since you mention it.’ I knew he’d probably be grinning at the added irony behind the expression. ‘This is our next step. We see how far we’ve come.’

  We’ve come. So easy to say, but a comfort all the same.

  ‘Holding patterns,’ I said, giving as much of tough and cynical as seemed appropriate. But open and direct too.

  ‘We’ll always settle for holding patterns. That’s the grail here. So, how you doing on your own?’ He kept the question casual, careful not to ask how it was living on my own, without Julia. Julia was too recently gone. Sweet, lost Jules. The wounding ambiguity was there just the same.

  ‘Easy to be brave at Day 6. Wait till I’ve met the neighbours. I might never come back.’

  ‘I’ve got three more appointments this afternoon. From where I sit, you’re the one who’s winning, Dave.’

  ‘But I’m a prisoner, remember.’

  ‘A prisoner?’

  ‘The Man in the Eye-on-Mask.’

  ‘Ah. We are feisty today. Buoyant, labile, definitely up, laying it on a bit thick as always, handling the handler, but pretty sound, I figure.’

  ‘I’d say if I was broken, Jack.’

  ‘I know. Just wanted to check in. Now I’ve got to spend forty-five minutes with Attila.’

  ‘Is that the Hun or part of a ship?’

  ‘An investment broker with morbid hypochondria and convenient shadows. But you’re tucked away safe?’

  ‘Very safe, thanks. It’s good here.’ Mention the black page, Jack!

  ‘Enjoy the party. Speak to you soon.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  I returned the phone to its cradle, smiling as I was sure he was smiling at that moment, and turned back to the words on the screen. I felt no more like writing fiction or song lyrics than ploughing a field. Working on the article didn’t appeal either. Too intrusive, too much in the head. I needed something else, some distraction to counter what was really creating the pressure, some act that would put me into the equation as a player here too.

  And, staring at the screen, I knew what it would be.

  Someone had set up bottle-trees; I’d do the same.

  The first signs of one of Len Catley’s afternoon breezes ran along the front veranda, so I took my time over a late lunch till after 3:30, scratching longhand at some lyric patterns for Mick. He had four already, for an album tentatively to be titled Mascheraio after the workshop where masks are made. Out with Mr Punch was everyone’s troubling favourite, frighteningly close to the bone for me but part of my ongoing exorcism of that particular hook-faced gentleman. Jeremy had delivered a haunting, pounding melody and it might very well make the first single. Carlotta’s Tears was sweet enough, clever and touching, Spoken Golem sufficiently rousing, and Wake the Engines a good concert closer.

  Now I was playing with Holy Meg, about—of all things—a medieval siege just before the castle falls. A defending gunner knows the various cannon, both his and theirs, by name, speaks to them as he laments that they have almost run out of powder and shot, and that the next morning will see the end of it, bring peace but at what price? A realist’s song, a song for all those who have ever known the moment when something is ending and found an odd bittersweetness in it.

  I went back and forth over the lines, deleting some, adding new ones, bringing it down to the tightest haiku-pack of words as delivered the moment. I lost myself in it until the cries of a baby eagle in a tree over by the river made me look up. Its parents circled the treetop, urging it to come hunt for itself. The fledgling made its cries, wanting to be fed, wanting things as they were.

  It was time; the day seemed cool enough at last. I went out to the Rankins’ garage and found a two-metre star picket, some wire, and the tools I’d need. Since Len took the recyclables into Lismore once a month, there were enough bottles. I cleaned off the labels at the kitchen sink, then spent the next hour wiring th
e bottles to the shaft.

  Finally I loaded the whole thing and a small stepladder into the car and drove down to the front gate. It took ten minutes to hammer the stake into the ground just inside the gate and to tighten any loose bottles. Then I stood back to admire my handiwork.

  This bottle-tree would be clearly visible to anyone using the road. It probably wouldn’t sing as well as those on the hill, but it was the visual effect that mattered. It would have sounded silly to talk it—you set up bottle-trees, I set up a bottle-tree—but it was all I could think of, just something instinctive and needed. I felt glad when it was done.

  I surveyed the quiet hills then, looked along Edenville Road and across at the houses on adjoining properties, tiny in the distance, set amid their cooling, protecting trees in the middle of wide summer-locked domains. Had I been seen at my task? Had someone been watching through binoculars—the makers of the bottle-trees behind me perhaps?

  Finally I returned to the house and got ready for my visit to the Risis. I sang in the shower, putting the first threads of melody to Holy Meg, with the definite sense that something was beginning to work for me at Starbreak Fell. I’d settled my mind, had so far managed to replace the neutral workspace of my comfortable study-cum-library at Lane Cove in Sydney, my tables at Darling’s and Caffelatte, with something equally energising and benign. Early days, but promising. The far views, a bonsai garden for heaven’s sake, and all this light. More important by far, I’d responded to unwanted mystery, to undisclosed purpose with the tower and the bottle-trees. I’d been here six days and I’d taken a stand.

  As I drove over the hill at 6:45, I barely glanced at the forest. The bottle-trees were clearly visible on their slope, flashing with hot light, but my eyes were on my own glittering construct, the bright new sentinel down by the gate.

  All’s well, David. Come along. I’ve got my brilliant bottle eyes on them for you.

  I completed the usual gate opening and closing ritual, then swung out onto the gravel road. I took it slowly then, enjoying the late afternoon more than I was able to the day before. I was a participant now in whatever was happening. To use Jack’s words from our early sessions, I’d needed a lightning rod to ground the negative energies, and the act of making my bottle-tree and setting it up had provided just that.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the Risis’ front gate. Today the padlock was gone and it was pulled back, so I continued along the drive towards the haven of trees atop a modest grassy rise, and soon came to a large low brick house set about with gums, four or five Moreton Bay figs, Cypress pines, poincianas and some well established olive trees. My own hideaway at Starbreak Fell had been built facing northeast to make the most of the winter sun. The spacious Risi home, sheltered by this generous spread of trees, faced west, its lion-coloured bricks glowing warmly in what sunlight reached it through the dark foliage.

  There were five other cars in the wide turning circle; it seemed that my hosts had arranged for other locals to drop by to meet me. They were being even more hospitable than I’d expected.

  Carlo and Raina Risi must have expected me to be on time too. They stood waiting on the front veranda as I drove in, a stocky but good-looking, olive-skinned couple in their mid to late fifties, dark hair streaked with grey, Raina in a floral-print, summer dress, Carlo in a loose white shirt, tan slacks and sandals.

  Since by their names and appearance they were presumably Italian, I’d already steeled myself for clown-sign, just as I had countless times as a teacher and working journalist. There’d be crucifixes, possibly the usual flamboyant statuary many Italians liked. Certainly Madonnas and Pietàs wouldn’t cause too much harm, but anything from Carnevale and the Commedia would bring me undone instantly, especially any recalling the higher number clownforms on my TT disks.

  But such masks were rarities in Australia. What were the chances of this rural Italian family having any? Still, just the thought brought the familiar chill, had me beginning to hyperventilate. I smiled at myself. Calm now. Calm.

  ‘Come sta, David!’ Carlo Risi called, as I stepped from the car. ‘Welcome! It’s good of you to come on such short notice. I trust you have settled in well.’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Carlo.’

  We shook hands. With his other hand he gripped my arm in what seemed genuine pleasure at meeting me, then stood back to introduce his wife. ‘This is Raina.’

  ‘A real pleasure, Raina,’ I said, shaking her hand. ‘It’s very good of you to have me over.’

  ‘The pleasure’s ours, David,’ she said. ‘What is it now? Six days?’

  ‘Six, yes. I arrived on New Year’s Day.’

  ‘Please come in and meet everyone,’ she said, and led the way through the screen door.

  We went down a wide front hall into a large family room at the back of the house, one made even larger by wooden dividing doors pushed back, concertina-fashion, against the walls. The Risis obviously liked entertaining. The curtains were drawn aside to give the first bloom of sunset through four large windows, though candles were lit too. As my eyes adjusted to the flood of golden light, I was surprised to find twenty or so people, all adults, seated around a large, richly laden dining table, already well into a meal.

  I felt that I was late, or that I had intruded. But amid the golden candlelight, the opened bottles of chianti and other wines, there were bright smiles and immediate cries of welcome. Two of the men even stood to acknowledge my arrival. I didn’t know what to think.

  ‘David Leeton,’ Carlo said in his big, hearty voice, ‘these are our good friends and some of our family. All live hereabouts and would not tolerate you remaining lost and nameless behind your hill. You will learn their names as we go and—a long-standing Risi custom—you can ask each person theirs only once. It’s required of you. So take your time. Do not ask until you are ready to commit a name to memory.’

  I glanced around at the smiling faces, feeling both honoured and embarrassed by the attention. They seemed to know Carlo’s system and wish me well.

  ‘Is there a reward?’

  ‘For twenty names? When you know two already? It would have been easier if Fabrizio, Ennio and Fabiana were here. More Risis. But they and their families are at a work party over in Ballina. We raise pigs here. A few sheep, a handful of goats, and pigs. They are dining with other pig breeders. It’s business and politics. You’ll meet them another time.’ Carlo barely paused to catch a breath. ‘Everyone, to make it official: this is David Leeton, houseminder for the Rankins while they are off trekking about in Europe for nine months. He will ask your name once. Be sure to give it clearly; his destiny depends on it. It will also determine whether or not we have the Vernaccia wines. I have some vintage Cannonau.’

  There were sounds of mock dismay and delight. These people were used to being his audience.

  Then, in Continental fashion, Carlo seated me opposite himself and next to Raina at the middle of the long table. The others had already been enjoying a soup course, but now I had the feeling that they had been waiting for me to arrive.

  Raina explained each dish she spooned onto my plate, always with the exhortation: ‘Eat small, David. Eat small. There is more to come’: the culungiones, the malloreddus, the burrida, even a small taste of cordula, with Raina’s clear explanation that lamb entrails were involved and no offence would be taken if I didn’t try it, all this served with plenty of pane carasau, the traditional bread.

  Carlo poured me chianti—from Naples, he explained, and added in a low earnest voice, mock-conspiratorial: ‘Tonight we shall let the Italians go first. Australian wines for the second glass, Sardinian wines for the toasts and the tasting. What do you say? Sounds right?’

  ‘I say you’re trying to make it impossible for me to remember any names at all.’

  Carlo found that hilarious, laughing and pounding the table, repeating what I’d said for those who hadn’t heard.

  I continued with my meal, loving the food, loving the warm, genial atmosphere, t
he fond and comfortable talk of people who knew each other well and were glad to be together again. There was none of the awkwardness of needing to amuse the stranger. I was among family and friends. But for the distinctly Australian accents that came and went amid the Mediterranean ones, I could have been anywhere in the world.

  Plates were cleared, glasses replenished. New dishes continued to arrive, brought in by Raina or one of her friends. One moment there was no-one in the kitchen; the next, four of the women would trail off after Raina and return with more specialties, all served to the refrain of: ‘Eat small. You must try this.’

  The Risis were amazing hosts. Raina was charming, unfailingly attentive to her guests, but it was almost as if she held back to let Carlo hold court. He told jokes, slapped arms, went and crouched beside each of his guests at some point, murmuring asides he then shared with everyone when he returned to his chair. He told anecdotes, made serious pronouncements about pig-farming, cattle-farming and Italian politics. Sometimes he spoke in Italian, naturally and exuberantly, without self-consciousness or apology.

  Finally, back in his chair, he topped up my glass and played formal host again. ‘Beth Rankin said you are a journalist, David. A writer. It keeps you busy, eh?’

  ‘Freelance now, I’m afraid, Carlo. A few health problems.’

  ‘You’re here to recover.’

  ‘Something like that. I’m working on a book and some other things. A mutual friend arranged that I stay. It’s perfect.’

  ‘It’s a fine land hereabouts. A good land. You will do well.’

  It was an odd comment, and it made me realise, belatedly—the wines were having their effect—that Carlo was speaking for the table’s benefit, that everyone had stopped their conversations and were listening. I could have asked about the tower and the bottle-trees quite innocently then, made it seem like neighbourly curiosity, but something stopped me, possibly the steadiness of his gaze, being the focus of everyone’s attention.