Authors: Robert Minhinnick
There was a corner of the Central Bar where I put down our drinks. We'd both decided on glasses of sauvignon blanc.
Must be strange, said Sophia. To be a teacher, I mean. Every year, your classes the same age. The girls, the boys. But you, another year older. Must be strange.
Oh yes, I agreed. It's ⦠peculiar. If you think about it. So maybe a teacher shouldn't think about it. But then, you reach a particular age and perhaps it's betterâ¦
Yeah?
Not to think about anything at all.
Because? Oh, well. Obviouslyâ¦
Yeah. Obviously.
But how long? asked Sophia. Have you been a teacher?
Thirty years. Started late. But thirty's enough.
I suppose so. But then, I'm a writer. I'll be a writer
forever.
Maybe I looked at her then. Maybe at our yellow wine.
Will you? Really?
Oh yes. Look at Leonard Cohen. Still doing it. A cousin of mine saw him in Sydney.
Yeah, great, I said. Maybe I should try the miserable old bastard again. Give him another chance.
You're not a writer? Are you?
No.
Well thenâ¦
Well what?
Maybe you don't understandâ¦
Maybe I took a long pull.
Christ, Soph. I understand all right. When I was your age my friends couldn't imagine a group still playing gigs at thirty.
Thirty?
we thought. Thirty's ridiculous. But what if you're fifty, sixty. Seventy
-
bloody
-
five? Do you stop?
Leonard's seventy
-
bloody
-
eight, breathed Sophia triumph
-
antly.
But do you stop?
No. Like, what for? Becauseâ¦
Soon enough you're dead?
Well ⦠yeah.
Then good on Leonard Cohen. I'm having another.
Not for me, please.
Go on.
I hardly ever drink.
Got to start. If you're a writer you do.
That's a myth. Don't typecast me. Look, just because I'm a writer you can't turn me into a cliché.
Hey, relax. White wine's nothing terrible. I'm sure I'm always better with a drink inside me. Most people are.
Well ⦠okay, she smiled. But I know I'll always want to write. Now I've ⦠discovered writing. Now I've felt how good it is. How real it is.
It's like you can't remember what you used to do before?
That's it. Spot on.
See. I get it.
It's like, there was all this time and I just wasted it. But now I understand what I was born for. Born to do.
And no one's going to argue with that.
But I bet you do, she said, turning up her face. Write that is. I bet you do.
Perhaps I allowed the question to float. I came back with the sauvignon in an ice bucket. Then two new glasses and a bowl of pistachios.
Cheers.
Cheers, she said. Sipping her first glass for the first time.
Course I do, I said. Of course I write.
Then I corrected myself. Or maybe what I write down are ideas. Ideas for writing. No, not the words themselves. Not the actual words.
We both looked round, then.
I suppose I make lists, I said. That's writing. Isn't it?
Oh ⦠yes. I suppose.
Yeah, I compile. I'm a brilliant compiler, me.
And what do you compile?
The soundtrack.
Sophia raised an eyebrow.
Yes, I compile the soundtrack to our lives. Okay, my life. Not yours. But mine. And a pretty good soundtrack it is too.
Essential task, she smiled.
So, should I say, of course I want to write. But first of all, I read. Which is an art. An occupation we're in danger of losing.
Why don't you paint? You teach art. After all.
I was always ⦠about to start. Always on the brink. Waiting for the moment it felt right.
It always feels right for me. Now.
Hold on to that feeling. And practise that guitar!
Every day.
You could play here, I told her. At the Central. There's a stage at the far end. But it might be possible down in this cornerâ¦
Don't worry. I've checked it out already. We were here last night. It seems Thursdays are unplugged nights. You put your name down and wait for the call. So Thursday it's going to be. And that's tomorrow. Oh, Richard!
Thursday? Wonderful. Soon you'll be quite the troubadour.
Trobawhat?
Don't tell me� You know ⦠a travelling minstrel type. There's a club in London. Called The Troubadour.
But ⦠I'm not ⦠very good.
Was Leonard bloody Cohen very good? He had to start somewhere.
I just strum in C.
One chord? If I knew one chord you couldn't keep me off that stage. One chord's all you need.
Actually ⦠I'll be over there. Sophia gestured to the corner where she'd perform.
But one chord? That's all it takes. Confidence is your only ingredient. Promise me you'll do it.
Another guitarist would help. Maybe bass. Fill out the terrible silence. But yes, I'll do it. Of course I will.
So do it.
Yes, she said. I have to. You've just got to ⦠push yourself forward. Haven't you?
Tomorrow evening? I said. I'm staying at The Sebel. Maybe I'll come over. Hear how you fill that terrible silence. Hey, I've thought of your first album title. What about Troubles of a Troubadour? What about�
THURSDAY
5am.
Darkness.
A raindrop on the tip of my tongue.
I thought of the Caib Caves. The cold of the walls. The roofs of rock. Where even the quartz is grey. Where it's always raining. That limestone rain.
Out at the bus and tram stops. That group of natives was being moved away. One of their children was crying. It's police policy, someone said. Two, three days, then move 'em on. Standard practice. Don't let them get comfortable. Don't letâ¦
It's not easy to see the photograph in first light. Still, people seemed to think about it. I might have appeared desperate. Or needy. So they looked.
Maybe that's how I must be to everybody. Because I haven't shaved all week. Haven't thought about it. There are more important things to do than shave.
You see, I don't want to pretend anything now. Yes, I've finished pretending. Maybe that's the last part of growing up. When you realise you can stop pretending. The relief of not pretending. The terror of it.
Because you realise that's what life can be. Pretending. If you allow it. You realise that's how you're spending every minute. Maybe even your last minute. Pretending.
But pretending what? Pretending you haven't pissed yourself. Pretending you care. Pretending you don't care. Pretending you know what you're talking about. Pretending you know what everybody else is talking about.
Pretending you don't care that the barman hasn't cleaned this table. I care about that. Does that make me alive? Because, look, there's wine spilled in the middle of the table. Or icewater. My glass is leaving rings in last night's spills.
When I showed the photograph to a man at the bar he shook his head. Shook his head. But was he pretending not to know? Or pretending not to care?
Yes, the barman's coming round now. Excuse me, boss, he says, excuse me. I lift my glass and allow him to do his job and I can still see the wet rings my glass leaves and maybe I should be doing this in my room, this thinking, this searching my thoughts, but I don't want to be alone, don't want to drink that way, because The Brecknock is where I brought Lulu once and she seemed to like it.
When he wipes the table I show the photo again. He says already seen it, sport. And the answer's the same.
But no, I think. It's a different world now. So the answer cannot be the same. In a different world the answer can never be the same.
I think Lulu and I sat in the same seats that afternoon. Under the mirror. Lulu ordered wedges. Yes with spicy mayo. There are so many places we sat together. Toasting our lives.
So long, Arcturus. So long.
A notice on the wall tells me there have been only three landlords at The Brecknock in one hundred and fifty years.
The man who wiped my table might be twenty
-
five. He's a strong
-
looking kid but tiredness has entered his eyes. His eyelids are mauve. He has a small
-
hours pallor.
Take it easy, I want to say to that boy. Son, rest your head. Upon the bar. Try and remember your dreams. Because this is the country of the Dreaming.
When he cleans my table he uses an old tee shirt with a yellow smiley face design. And look, here he comes again. He's here again.
Instead of sleeping he's working. Instead of placing his cheek against the cold metal of the counter, he comes back.
I think he asks can I get you another. And I am surprised. Yes, I am disconcerted.
Yes, thank you, I say. Another would be good.
And I think I mean what I say. I think that's what he said.
And no, I wasn't pretending. About that. Because that's another challenge, isn't it? To understand you're pretending you're not pretending. Or is it the other way around?
And what? I say. What's that?
Yes it would be better for you, he says. Better for you. If you did. Yes better for youâ¦
If I what?
Better for you. Better all round.
Better forâ¦
If I?
If you
Better all round.
If I�
Shove off.
But it's a girl now. A girl behind the aluminium rail of the counter. This new girl at the bar I haven't seen before. She lights a candle and the glow runs through the room. Like a fuse.
No, she says, no, I haven't seen her. You've asked everyone, sir. No one has seen the girl in the photograph. And sir, sir.
Someone is pointing out there's blood on my cheek. That blood is dripping from my nose. It's happening again, I don't know why. It happened this week. Or maybe last month.
Maybe that man hit me. Maybe that man on the high stool at the bar. He was there a moment ago. I didn't like the look of him. No, not at all. But I showed him the photograph, asked him to remember.
But it's a woman on the stool now. A woman with long legs. With black, with black. Stockings. Yes her legs so long. Stretched out before her. A woman taller than me. Yes she's taller. But how tall is she really? I wonder, how tall is the woman at the bar?
Now someone is wiping my cheek. There's blood on the cloth. Blood on that tee shirt with the yellow smiley face. Yes maybe he hit me. And maybe he didn't. Or maybe the woman with longâ¦
But the blood's running over my fingers and I think, in that one hundred and fifty years in all that time you'd suppose you'd suppose on the streets of Adelaide for one hundred and fifty years I've been searching the violet light creeping up the glass the southern rain starting to speckle the glass and the signs in a language no one understands.
Everyone is pretending. Everyone today, tonight in The Brecknock. So here we are.
Pretending I haven't pissed myself.
Pretending they've not seen Lulu.
And salty, I think. My blood warm. And so salty.
Like rain on The Caib. That rain's cold, but it's colder in the caves.
Yes, I've stood listening. To that dripping. That dripping that goes on forever. I've waited for it to stop and realised that it's music that will last for. Ever.
Stood there shivering. Felt my whole body. Shiver. Yes looked around and seen the ages of starlight grow dim in the stone. Seen the corals white and dead locked into the stone. And I've run away. Over the pebbles and through the pools. Run away as quickly as I could.
FRIDAY
Woke and slept. Woke and realised something was wrong.
Bleeding again. The bright noseblood everywhere. When I found the light I was afraid.
There was so much. A red pond in the dint my head had left. A wet stain on the cream Sebel Hotel pillowcase. The Sebel monogram in the corner.
My first reaction was to hide it. Yes, hide the evidence. Of bleeding. Of whatever's wrong. But Thursday was my last night here. When I go down to reception this morning I will pay the bill and walk out and then and thenâ¦
I put on all the lights and fill the bath with everything the hotel's provided. The soap, the shampoos, the conditioners, the body lotions in their plastic sachets.