A Short History of Richard Kline (27 page)

As for Rick, he had never felt more grounded, and yet he could only register that this was how things were, that he was one half of Martin's dilemma.

Now and then in his meditation he would see that he was irrevocably bound to Martin by an invisible cable; it appeared in his mind's eye as a long rope in the form of a double helix, and while he might go hours without thinking of Martin, that cable swayed between them, a vibration that animated both their bodies. He did not speak of this to anyone since it was too peculiar a state of being when spoken of, even as, in his everyday experience of it, it could not have been more mundane.

On the Saturday before Susan was due to return, on impulse he took the pebble Sri Mata had given him out of the drawer in his desk and put it in his pocket. The time had come; Martin was visibly brighter and he would present it to him as a gift. Over the past ten weeks they had said very little to one another, nor felt the need. It was not a common symptom of pericarditis, even in the most dire cases, for the patient to lose speech, yet Martin had been bound into long periods of silence. But that was fine. Rick had felt not the least slight in this, indeed had intuited that silence was an essential condition of Martin's recovery. It had suited them both just to sit and look out onto the garden, where he was able now to identify each tree, the black sassafras as well as the drooping she-oak, the cedar wattle alongside the brazen banksia.

When he arrived he settled into his chair in the sunroom and took the pebble out of his pocket. He held it out to Martin, who looked at it, nodded silently, but didn't reach for it.

Rick leaned across, took hold of Martin's right hand and very deliberately pressed the pebble into his palm.

Then, feeling pleased with himself, like a child who fancies he has a good story to tell, he explained how he came by it.

‘Why did she send this to you?' Rick asked.

Martin gave his crooked smile. ‘She didn't,' he said, with a grimace. ‘It's for you. It's for you, Rick. She's
your
teacher, not mine. Any message from her is for you, not me.'

‘But she said it was for you.'

‘If I heard you correctly, she said it was for “your friend”.
You
made the assumption it was for me.'

‘It seemed obvious. At the time.'

‘Yes. But maybe there was a little more going on there.'

‘More?'

Martin was silent, and looked out to the garden where a wind was whipping up the she-oaks so that they gave off their mysterious hum. Finally he said, ‘Maybe she wants you to think about who your “friend” is.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning not
just
me.'

‘Not just you?'

‘There are others.'

Who were these others? Rick would have liked to ask but he didn't. This, he knew, was for him to find out. First he would look after Martin, and then those others might present themselves. Would he recognise them when they did? Yes, he would.
She
would see to it.

Martin was looking at him indulgently, like he was a favourite pupil but a slow learner. Then he held out his right hand with the pebble nestled in his palm, and it was clear that he wanted Rick to take the pebble from him.

Just then Raoul appeared in the doorway. ‘I've made chilli,' he said. ‘I make the best. Would you like to eat with us, Rick?'

‘Thanks, but better not.' He would leave them to it. What an odd pair they were, the ascetic and the sensualist. And their third party, him, who was neither, just a fixer in the world, the very person that as a youth he had determined not to be.

He rose from his chair, leaned down to Martin, took the pebble and slipped it into his pocket. They shook hands as they always did when he was about to leave. How dry Martin's skin was, papery and taut, and often it felt hot, as if he were burning. Rick stifled an impulse to kiss the crown of his head, grey stubble that failed to conceal the livid suture that ran like a battle wound along the side of his skull.

Nine lives, he had once said. I have nine lives.

When Rick turned to follow Raoul into the hallway, Martin called after him. ‘Rick?'

He looked back.

‘I don't believe I've thanked you.'

He laughed, and shook his head. Of course Martin hadn't thanked him. It was unnecessary, and they both knew why.

Raoul saw him to the front door. ‘You could always stay overnight,' he said. ‘I forget to tell you. Before she left, Mrs Coleby said it would be okay.'

‘Thanks, but no.' It had never occurred to him. He would not impose on Martin in that way; it would be entirely the wrong kind of intimacy. But the proposal gave birth to an impulse. It was a long weekend; Zoe was at a conference in Brisbane and Luke at a sleepover. There was no rush to get home. The last time he had spent a night in the Blue Mountains had been over two decades ago, and on the drive to Katoomba he had passed near the resort where as a young man he had been part of that crazy corporate abseiling jag. He could not see the hotel from the road but many times had registered the sign beside the freeway, and the turn-off to where it lay among dense bush on the rim of the Jamison Valley. Here he had failed some kind of test, had hung against the cliff-face like a stuck pendulum.

He decided to spend the night there.

It was just after four when he pulled into the grand circular driveway lined with dwarf she-oaks. The car park was almost full, and a black limousine idled outside the main entrance with a white ribbon attached to its bonnet.

‘You're in luck,' said the clerk at the desk. ‘We've got a wedding tonight and there's only one room left.'

Since he had no luggage, he pocketed his room keys and returned to the front garden. He had decided to walk to the lookout. He remembered the path and had time to catch the last of the evening light. It was only a short distance through stands of ti-tree and banksias, and within minutes he was on the small rock platform that jutted out over the cliff edge. And it was all just as he remembered it.

He stood with his arms braced on the steel fence and looked down into the purple depths below, canyons of eucalypt and mountain ash.

By now the golden stone along the cliffs was deepening into a burnished flame-coloured red; the grandeur of it was exhilarating. And yet, just two weeks before, a student had fallen to his death from this same lookout, the horror of his fate compounded by the possibility that he might have jumped. And that man, he thought, might once have been me.

Below him in the valley some rock-climbers were completing their ascent of the eastern cliff-face. Locked on to the rock like giant stick-insects; they moved with excruciating slowness; the intensity of their focus could be felt even at a distance. The narrow rope that connected them was barely visible but the late sun glinted off their white helmets with such a dazzling flash that for a moment they appeared to him as a party of luminous pilgrims, scaling the face of an unknown god.

For a long time he continued to stand there, gazing out across the deepening hues of the escarpment, until he became aware that a shadow had begun to creep over the valley. Soon it would be dark, and he must turn back. Halfway along the track, he reached into his pocket and felt for the pebble. He had been certain that it was intended for Martin, but no, Martin insisted it was for him. So he was none the wiser; just when he thought he had a fix on things, the smallest and most inert of objects could throw him off balance. There was more to come, and the riddle was not yet unravelled.

When he emerged from the narrow track the grand dining room was lit up, its chandeliers ablaze. French doors opened onto the terrace and he could see waiters darting among chairs swathed in white satin bows and tables set with flowers and purple helium balloons.

Because he was the only houseguest not attached to the wedding they offered him an early meal in the old red-velvet bar, small and womb-like. There he sat in a quiet corner and drank himself into a daze. The muted sound of revellers wafted in from the dining room until at last the band struck up a brassy fanfare, followed by a round of excited applause.

Now he was tired. He walked to the east wing, down a long corridor of red carpet patterned in dark blue diamonds. His room was at the very end and looked out onto the smoky blue depths of a canyon.

When he entered the room he felt a thin shaft of terror strike him between the shoulder blades, felt he had opened the door into a void and teetered now on the brink. With one arm he braced himself against the wall, and as swiftly as the dizziness had come over him it subsided.

Slowly he undressed, and stood for a long time under a blissfully hot shower so that the billow of steam enveloped him and the water washed away his fear. Now he would like to meditate, but he had drunk too much. He lay on the bed and rang Luke to check that he was okay. Then he rang Zoe and they talked for over an hour.

‘What on earth are you doing there?' she asked. ‘Something to do with abseiling,' he said, and realised he had never told her about his pendulum experience. ‘I'll explain when I see you,' he added; it was too intimate to go into over the wire. ‘It's alright,' he said, ‘I'm in a good place. Tell me about the conference.'

He thought that afterward he would fall asleep instantly, but instead he drifted pleasantly on the threshold of oblivion. When at last he did sleep he dreamed that he was in the midst of a wedding. It was midday and the wedding guests wore bright clothes and stood about in a field of dry wheat. The sun was high overhead and gave off a searing white light, and as he walked among the sun-struck crowd it came to him:
I am the bridegroom
.

Well, then, he must hurry and take his place, and he made his way to the front, and stood there with his back to the others. He looked down and saw that his feet were bare, and his pockets weighted with pebbles. He could not see his bride but knew that she lingered on the path behind him, an ethereal presence, a column of light, a promise. He stood still, he waited on her arrival, he could not see her but he knew that she approached …