Max (9 page)

What was it about suicide? Everybody wanted to know, to get in on the act. They all wanted to know why. Why did he kill himself? Why? If we knew the answer, would it make sense? Because it wasn't the details that mattered. The details were clear, the whys and wherefores not so clear. Not so clear? If the truth was told, murky would be a good word. And no matter what you did, when your friend killed himself, the meaning of it all just fell through your hands like mist between your fingers. Why'd he do it? If Lou knew that, he probably wouldn't have done it.

Max and he could be spraying together right now. He could've told Lou about the tunnel and the blood and the autumn leaves, swinging and swaying, laying down paint like they were rich men, leaving vaporous trails of purple, making love to the wall, stroking the piece out. With Lou, Max could've stayed there forever, swinging on the end of the rope, arms outstretched, touching the outer edges of a circle, reaching for a star. Getting some balance.

Standing in the shadows, Max watched the security car patrol down the street. A black bird glided past, following the power lines. With the guards now out of sight, he rode along Wellington Street, gusts of wind skittering papers ahead of him. The time was 12:45 am.

The Tan Dai grocery lay in darkness. Upstairs, a small light shone dimly from a back room.

A
NYTHING WRONG WITH YOUR PHONE, son?' Max had been outside the principal's office for most of the afternoon.

‘Not that I know of, Sir. Although I think I heard dad saying something about it the other day.'

‘Well, after last night's little effort, you better tell your father that if I can't get through on the phone, I'll be coming to your house in person.'

Max swallowed. ‘I told you, sir. That graffiti didn't have anything to do with me. I was looking after my brother. You can check with my father if you like, Sir.'

Lying was beginning to grow on him. When nothing seemed certain, truth and lies shimmered like a mirage.

He caught sight of Mai walking down the corridor. He gave her a look that said, ‘Don't go. Wait for me.'

‘I know what you told me, son! It's not only the vandal-ism and the police visiting our school. It's your attitude. You seem to be a student intent on shooting out of orbit.'

Max looked away. The walls outside the office were lined with old school photos – girls in black shorts leapt over hurdles, swimmers turned their heads as they touched the finishing lines, an old teacher in overalls who lived for the school and one day died on the job. There were no photos of champion graffiti artists on these walls.

Mr Davidson heaved a sigh. ‘Very well. Off you go – and don't forget to tell your father. I'm serious, Max!'

He watched the boy traipse up the corridor, asking himself why he'd even bothered to say such an ineffectual thing. Of course he was serious. But Max seemed to be serious as well. Mr Davidson went back into his office wondering if there was a company that could scrub paint from porous bricks.

Max's head was in a whirl after his talk with Mr Davidson. He leapt down the front stairs of the school. The street was deserted. But when he looked again, there she was, standing under the plane trees, among their fallen leaves.

Max ran over to her. He stood for that second that always seems like an hour, then reached out and grabbed her by the hand. It felt natural.

‘Max. Hello. You in trouble again?'

‘No – yeah. Kind of.'

‘Is it about that?' she asked, pointing to the top of the main school building.

He turned around, knowing exactly where to look. His belly leapt and a short breath caught in his mouth. He knew the words, more or less. But he didn't recognise the symbol, painted like a signature at the bottom. A tag, only more complete, more like a drawing – a man standing with arms outstretched, inside a square, inside a circle.

It was not quite true to say he didn't recognise it. He felt it, somewhere in his body. A naked constellation whirling in space.

‘That's the drawing by Da Vinci,' Mai spoke quietly, gazing at the drawing beneath words that were written like a poem.

He stepped closer to her saying, almost whispering, ‘How come you know what it is?'

‘A teacher showed us in art one day. It's really great. Did you do it?'

It was a simple question, requiring a yes or no answer. But for Max it wasn't quite that easy. Once more he found himself staring at words and a drawing that he could only vaguely remember.

‘Did I do it?' Max said, repeating the question.

Mai looked quizzically at him. ‘Well?' she asked.

‘I did the words.'

‘If you did the words then somebody else must've done the Da Vinci. Who was it? Or aren't you saying?'

Max felt the warmth of Mai's hand in his. ‘You've got hands as warm as hot pies – that's what my mother used to say when I was little.'

‘Max! Are you on this planet or what?! Will you talk to me – or at least say something sensible. You say you wrote the words but not the drawing...'

‘I didn't say I didn't do them. I'm just saying I don't remember anything very clearly.'

Mai gave up and turned to look at the words again.

Autumn leaves and ants
The tunnel waits for us all
Good luck

Mai read ‘Good Luck' aloud. ‘What's it mean?'

Max blushed. He had a hazy idea of the meaning but it was held somewhere in his mind and body, not easily interpreted by words. Mai squeezed his hand and peered into his face. ‘Well?'

‘Oh, it was something I've been thinking about – and doing.' He smiled at her. ‘Don't worry about it. It's all bullshit at any rate. Anyway, I thought we were going to the Falls. Still want to go?'

‘Sure,' she said. ‘But you're going to have to start talking to me, I mean real y talk to me, sometime. The way you're going, you'll end up like Lou.'

They walked along the path of tan bark that ran down be-side the concrete pylons of the Wellington Street bridge. Guy and Kirsty were having their regular after-school bong. It must have made them more mellow because Kirsty called out, ‘Hey, you guys. Where you going?'

Mai answered, ‘For a walk.'

‘That's alright,' said Kirsty. ‘I won't say nothin'.

‘They should smoke that stuff all the time,' said Max.

At the end of the tan bark they came to a muddy track, winding through the scrub and reeds that grew down to the river. The water caught the glitter of the afternoon sun. River gums, old and resilient, grew on the opposite bank. Gutters of water trickled through the grass into the river. A small breeze blew off the water. Max and Mai smiled as though their hearts would break, as though they would not, could not, stop smiling.

Turning the bend, they heard the faint roar of the Falls before they saw the silver curtain of water flowing into the pond of froth and foam and stopper that rose back on itself like a dragon devouring its own tail. They jumped across the rocks and ledges until they reached the side of the small waterfall. Standing on a flat-topped rock, they watched broken branches, plastic cups, twigs and leaves give one last swirl, before being dashed on the rocks below.

Max leaned towards Mai. He had to yell to make himself heard. ‘See how the water falls then rises and kicks back? There's a ledge of some kind under the water at the base. Does weird things to the water. It's only a small waterfall but it's got a nasty kick.'

He realised how close he was to Mai, who was mesmerised by the turbulence. Her ear, her cheek, her eyes, her mouth – all so close to him and his beating heart. Mai slowly turned her face to his, placed her hand on the back of his neck and kissed him.

Later, they stood outside the grocery. Mai's mother was near the door, working at the check-out.

‘Did you finish your work?' she called.

‘The library's just closed. Yes, Mum. Max helped me. Mum – This is Max.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' she replied, placing groceries in a bag. ‘Is she a good student?'

Max smiled. He could still feel Mai on his mouth. ‘Oh yes. She's an “A” student.' He turned to Mai, barely sup-pressing a grin. ‘Don't you talk in Vietnamese?'

Mai whispered, ‘All the time. But if I'd said it in Vietnamese you wouldn't have known what I said. Thought you should know the lies I tell.'

He raised his eyebrows. Looked over at the mother and said goodbye-nice-to-meet-you. Then to Mai he said, ‘You want to come paddling? I could take you up the river – you could meet Nick. Yeah, you could meet this old guy I know. Sometimes he's a bit grumpy. Interested?'

‘Sure,' said Mai. ‘I don't know how good I'll be, though. I might tip us over.'

‘That's OK. You can always swim, can't you?'

M
AX TIDIED HIS ROOM. Washed the dishes, dried them and put them away. He moved onto the lounge-room, picking up the papers, toys, mugs of cold coffee dregs, Dave's bottle of whisky, a couple of jumpers, books and Woody's ant farm.

He was doing his homework when Dave came home with Woody, who had been playing at a mate's place. They were peculiarly quiet as they walked up the front steps. Normally you could hear them laughing or Dave listening to Woody say something like: ‘You know when you're thinking something in your head and you think about it for so long that you're not sure whether you've been saying it out loud, so everybody can hear.' The kid was either mad or a mystic or both.

The key turned in the lock. Max kept his eyes on the books in front of him. Woody said a quiet hello, then headed straight for the television. He heard his father pouring himself a whisky. The fridge door shutting. The TV softer than usual. Dave's footsteps treading up the hall to Max's bedroom.

‘Thanks for the clean-up, Max.' Dave sat down on the end of the bed, swirling his ice blocks, looking for something in the depths of his glass. ‘Really, mate, what in God's name have you been up to?'

Max half-turned, looking vacantly through his doorway at an Indian wall hanging that covered a few gaping cracks in the plaster.