Love in the Years of Lunacy (25 page)

‘Reinforcements, for fuck's sake!' she yelled again. And then the connection went dead.

She punched the air with frustration, wanting to slam the transmitter against the ground. Instead, she grabbed Wanipe's rifle and crawled back outside. She raised the binoculars to her eyes. The Australians were making slightly faster progress than the Japanese; they seemed to be heading for a stream further east that surged through a chasm of the valley in currents of glistening stars. But the lead was only a minor advantage, because the only thing protecting the soldiers from what would soon be a bloody onslaught was the mist still scrolling up through the terraces of the gorge. With only one rifle between her and Wanipe she felt a crushing sense of impotence; she was powerless to stop what would happen. She had to do something, she decided, something to distract the enemy and at the same time alert the Australians to their proximity. She swung the binoculars back to the twenty-strong unit and saw that the men were sliding down the slope to the next tier of the terraces.

Before she had time to consider the consequences, she was back at the cave, piecing her battered saxophone together, inserting her last reed. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely fit the mouthpiece onto the body and she suddenly had the desperate urge to piss.

‘Here,' she said to Wanipe, handing him the saxophone. ‘You sit here and blow, blow hard. The Japs'll turn around and follow the sound. I'll take the rifle down lower into the gorge and fire at 'em as they come towards us.'

Wanipe frowned and narrowed his eyes as he considered the plan, then shook his head.

‘But we've got to do something!' she wailed. ‘They're almost upon the unit!'

Pup, sensing the tension between Wanipe and her mistress, began barking and wagging her tail.

‘You play,' he said, holding up the saxophone. ‘I shoot.'

‘I'm the head of this unit.'

Wanipe shook his head again, glancing quickly through the binoculars. ‘My gun. I shoot. You music. You saxophone.' He put the instrument on the ground and, before she could stop him, wrenched the rifle out of her hand and began racing across the plateau.

She called after him, but he was already disappearing down the steep incline that led towards the valley, Pup trailing him excitedly as if it were all an exhilarating game, yet another show they were performing.

Pearl cursed herself as she picked up the saxophone:
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The mist was thinning even more with the rising sun and when she squinted she could just make out the line of Japanese soldiers threading through the bush. They seemed small and harmless against the magnitude of the valley, and the disjunction between the illusion they presented and the threat that they posed made her shudder. She could see Wanipe's head bobbing between the bushes and trees that grew out at an angle from the side of the gorge. He positioned himself behind a boulder about fifty yards down into the valley. He raised his arm and waved to her and she waved back, knowing her time had come. She moved away from the ridge and kneeled in the mouth of the cave for both protection and amplification. She lifted the saxophone and the mouthpiece was like a block of ice between her lips.

Pearl made herself believe that it was indeed James down in the valley with the Australians, trekking towards the stream, and that with her saxophone she could save them all. With the right combination of tempo and sound she could make the mist in the gorge thicken, protect Wanipe from enemy bullets, cause the Japs to retreat, draw the Allies back to safety, transform all the misery and loss they'd endured.

Her fingers found the keys of her instrument. She drew in a deep breath, and began to blow hard. Suddenly, instead of playing a familiar tune, a primal wail surged out of the bell of her sax and echoed throughout the valley. From the opening of the cave she could see the Japanese unit suddenly pause. Then they began ducking and pointing their guns in all directions, unsure where the noise was coming from. The first rifle shot exploded. A machine gun stuttered and she could hear bullets ricocheting off the limestone chasm below. She inched back a little and continued to blow, her fingers moving randomly across the keys in one long, primeval howl. The mist was clearing and from where she kneeled she could just see a few of the Aussies cantering back along to the western side of the terrace they were on, moving in behind the Japanese, positioning themselves for an ambush. She glimpsed a Jap drop backwards, roll down the slope of a terrace and disappear. Gasping occasionally, she tried to play even louder in an attempt to distract the enemy from Wanipe's position.
Two bullets whistled over the ridge and she ducked as they hit the cliff face. Another bullet ricocheted off the top of the cave and she squeezed her thighs together, gathering her nerve.

She drew air down deep into her lungs, her groin, and before she knew it she found herself playing faster and faster, even though she hadn't begun with a particular tempo or even a melody. She was playing nuances and half-tones—tones within tones—sounds she'd heard from squawking tropical parrots, squealing pigs, the cries of mating birds of paradise. A machine gun rattled an uneven rhythm behind the wild runs she played and she could hear the closer rhythm of Wanipe's rifle reporting back, as if they were all involved in some crazy cutting contest, playing chorus upon chorus until the weaker musician slunk offstage in exhausted and embarrassed defeat.

She couldn't see the battle, but could hear the advance of the enemy by the higher pitch of their booming rifles. A bullet skimmed the top of her helmet and zigzagged through the cave and she ducked to the right, pressing her back against the wall.

She was startled to hear the voice of a man laugh and cry out, ‘Digger! Digger! Where are you?' in a clipped Japanese accent, further down the gorge, to her left. She leaped from the mouth of the cave to the recess in the limestone to her right, again trying to distract the enemy from Wanipe's position. As she wedged herself into the V-shaped niche she noticed the bowerbird had fled its sanctuary of twigs and treasured things. A grenade arced through the air and part of the cliff suddenly exploded and fell away into the valley in a cascade of rocks and dust and, as the debris began to settle, she could see clearly now the advance of about five Japanese up the rise of the gorge and the darting movements of several Australians behind them. She couldn't tell whether part of the enemy unit had already been shot down, or if the Japanese, knowing they were surrounded, had split up into smaller groups.

The recess she stood in formed a small echo chamber and her saxophone was wailing now as her fingers moved in a frenzy across the keys. She didn't know how long she'd been playing at this lightning speed—five minutes, ten . . . Two Japanese, close to Wanipe's position, fell backwards one after the other. Then an Australian, further down, dropped from the bough of a tree and landed face down in the mud.

She thought she saw Pup skittering through the undergrowth to her right and, still blowing relentlessly, she leaned out of the recess to check. It was then that she saw him, about twenty feet away along the ridge: a thin Japanese man with matted hair down to his shoulders, knees slightly bowed, rifle brandished, the barrel pointing directly at her face. Fear shot through her and yet her lungs ballooned with the chill morning air and her fingers danced back and forth over the keys. The man shouted something and took a few steps closer. A gust of wind blew up and sang around the cliff and Pearl found herself modulating in harmony with it. The man shouted again, shaking his rifle. She saw the anger in his eyes and hoped if she just kept playing he would finally put down his rifle and back away. Somewhere close by she could hear Pup barking. As she stared into the fierce brown eyes of the enemy, the infernal noise she was making became a plea. He yelled again and ran forward, and for a split second she glimpsed a soldier behind him, also raising a gun—the black man in the Australian fatigues. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his frizzy hair was much longer and his skin had greatly darkened. She was so shocked that for a second she almost stopped playing but their eyes locked and the look he threw her implored her to continue, and on she blew as a grenade exploded in the valley and the man screamed at her to stop. A volley of rifle shots thundered around her and still she kept playing as she felt a blinding light flash against her skull, an electric pain bolting down her neck, and even as she found herself dropping down what seemed like a very deep well, her saxophone whimpered a goodbye.

Rain drummed onto metal like wire brushes against a cymbal. She could hear triplets, paradiddles, shuffles, a beating heart. Was it music in the weather or weather in the music? . . . A chorus line of crotchets and semiquavers dancing on a lake . . . Or were they merely raindrops rippling the surface of the water? The drumming was growing louder and she felt a stab of pain near the base of her skull. Then she heard the sound of barking. When she shifted she found the surface she was lying on was hard and that she was cold and shivering.

Pearl groaned and half opened her eyes. She was surprised to find herself looking at a tangle of wiring and realised she was staring at the cabin ceiling of a plane. For a moment she thought she was flying—or being flown somewhere—but the plane wasn't moving. And then it dawned on her that she was still alive and breathing, and that the barking dog had been Pup, who was now nuzzling her neck and licking her face. Then she sensed a particular smell, something raw and earthy, as familiar as cut grass or the scent of her own sweat.

‘How's my sunshine?' she heard a man ask. ‘How's my baby?'

At first she thought he was a ghost or apparition, lounging beside her, his head propped in one hand, gazing at her. He was gaunt and his hair was longer and threaded with silver, but he still smelled the same—that hint of a ripening lime. When he touched her face she suddenly felt blood rushing through her veins and a ringing in her ears. Was she imagining all this? Could it be real? Where were they now and how had they wound up together inside the cabin of what looked like a crashed plane?

He took her in his arms and kissed her eyelids, her earlobe, her neck, while the dog leaped about them, wagging her tail. ‘Baby,' he murmured. ‘Your friend told me all about it. Wanipe. He told me everything.'

James supported her head and held a canteen of water to her lips. She took a sip, spluttered, then drank some more. ‘Don't know how you did it. Pretending to be Martin. Comin' all this way . . .'

Pearl glanced at his thigh, bound with a bloody cloth, and cried out, as if she'd suddenly been knifed.

‘Whoa, baby—' he dropped the canteen of water and slipped his arm around her ‘—it's all right. Just a flesh wound.'

She touched the side of her head then and realised it was also bandaged. ‘Sunshine, you lucky to be alive, too. Bullet skimmed your ear. Half an inch closer and you'd be up in heaven now.'

She glanced about, her heart hammering. She was overwhelmed by so many emotions—relief, ecstasy, confusion—that she briefly choked on her own breath. ‘But how? How did we get . . . ?' She pressed her face against his naked chest.

James held her close, stroking her hair or, rather, running his hands across the surface of her clipped blonde spikes. ‘Baby, it's all right,' he murmured. ‘You just collapsed. Collapsed from shock, I guess.'

‘Where's everyone else?' she breathed. ‘Where's Wanipe?'

When she looked directly into his eyes she realised that they were another aspect of him that were exactly the same: that pale, slightly rheumy grey-blue.

‘Every day,' he murmured, ‘every night. I can't get you outta my head, Pearl. I thought maybe going away would make things better, but . . .'

He shook his head and sat up. She watched the rain drumming against the cracked window of the cockpit. He began rolling a cigarette, head bowed, as if he'd run out of breath and could no longer talk. ‘Can't believe you're here.' He glanced at her, half grinning, shaking his head. ‘You
are
here, right?'

‘I think I'm here.' Down near the cockpit she could see splintered wooden boxes and ammunition. ‘But where are we?'

He finished rolling the tobacco and explained that they were resting in the crashed Japanese supply plane because the others had stored the corpses from the battle inside the nearby cave. Besides, it was warmer and drier in the plane. She'd been out cold for about two hours; Wanipe and the five surviving Australians were off hunting for food; the Japanese unit had been wiped out, so she needn't worry about the reinforcements. They'd probably arrive when the weather cleared, when the pilot had better sight lines.

The mist coiling around the plane was so thick that she could barely see anything outside. A light rain was still falling. They shared the cigarette he'd rolled and she marvelled at the fact that they were both still alive, in the same cabin, together, after all this time and distance.

‘Baby, you're a star,' he murmured, shaking his head. ‘The brightest one in the sky. At first, when I heard that horn—hell—when I heard that sax I thought I was going nuts.' He lifted his index finger to his temple and drew little circles in the air. ‘But the others heard it too and before we knew it the Japs came out of nowhere, guns were firing, and then I see my goddamn dog all the way from Nadzab running straight towards me!'

He stubbed out the rollie and drew her to him, enfolding her now, as if to protect her.

‘Sunshine, you saved our lives, you and your horn.'

She could feel her cheeks flushing and then a deeper burn, lower down, between her legs.

And then their muscles melted into each other and his tongue found her mouth; her hands traced his bony ribcage, the ladder of his spine, while his fingers pulled at the buckle of her belt. He couldn't move much, due to his wounded leg, and as the dog sat at their feet, watching, she rolled herself on top of him, looked directly into his wide grey eyes, pushed his cock inside her, and made love to him as gently as the falling rain.