A Man Melting (19 page)

‘That really is a fantastic moustache you have,’ Kissick said. ‘I was thinking of trying facial hair again, now that I’m a more distinguished shade.’

Fortitude looked up from his mug. His eyes resembled poached eggs. ‘You know who you’d look like? Papa Smurf.’

Kissick tried to pour himself another drink, but found the lid was still on the bottle.

‘My moustache has quite a story,’ Fortitude said, leaning back in the mayor’s chair. ‘I dreamt my mother had a moustache once.’

‘I bet you do well with the ladies,’ Kissick said, trying to conceal his hiccups. ‘Know how to talk to them and all that.’

‘I once found a pipe cleaner in my moustache. A pink pipe cleaner.’

‘I can’t do it. The designs of my heart defy words.’

‘I have no idea how it got there. A pipe cleaner!’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Snowy Kerr from the doorway. He was wearing his two-tone grey security-guard uniform and he shone his flashlight in Kissick’s face, then Fortitude’s, then back to the mayor, even though the lights were on.

‘Mr Kerr,’ Kissick said. ‘So pleasured to acquaint your meetage.’

Snowy turned to Fortitude, but left his torch pointing at the mayor. ‘I’d have thought he’d be the last person you’d have time for.’

‘In times of despair, a pair of any kind will do. My mother said that.’

‘The one with the moustache!’

They both laughed like air being let out of balloons. Kissick tried to sit down on a non-swivelly chair but misjudged and ended up on the floor. More laughter.

‘Look,’ said Fortitude, ready to burst again, ‘another Papa Smurf.’

‘Both of you can go to Helensville,’ Snowy said, and swung his torchlight into the hall and followed it out.

‘I think you’re definitely going to Helensville,’ Fortitude said with a sudden calm.

‘I know,’ Kissick said, getting to his feet. ‘And we’ve run out of whisky.’

Fortitude lifted his nose and sniffed. ‘It’s going to rain.’

From over by the liquor cabinet, the mayor held up an unopened bottle of Rémy Martin and a magnum of Lindauer. ‘Election presents from the League of Mayors.’

‘Open both,’ said Fortitude from the window. ‘And there it is,’ he said, caressing the windowpane. ‘The heavens open.’

When Kissick awoke in the morning the rain was still falling. He had slept slumped in the far corner of his office with his shoes still on, though his socks were nowhere to be found.

‘My head,’ he exclaimed. ‘My ears are roaring.’

‘It’s the rain,’ said Fortitude. ‘Torrential now.’ He was standing at the window again. Kissick wasn’t sure if he’d ever left it.

‘Knock knock,’ said Mrs Johansen, as she charged into the room. ‘That rain’s a doozie. Oh, Mr Fortitude, I didn’t … ’

Kissick groaned from the corner.

‘What’s been going on here then?’ she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

‘Coffee, Mrs Johansen,’ Kissick said.

‘For two, your highness?’

‘My head is pounding,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Fortitude touched her gently on the shoulder and said,
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Johansen.’

‘Call me Eva. Oh!’ she squealed as a drop of water landed in her eye.

‘It seems we’ve sprung a leak,’ Fortitude said.

‘Coffeeee,’ c moaned.

By the time Mrs Johansen returned with the coffee, Fortitude was back at the window after arranging rubbish bins beneath the leaks and Kissick was straightening the creases in his pants in front of the full-length mirror.

‘Milk, Mr Fortitude?’

‘I think you’re going to get your answer, Mrs Johansen,’ he said, staring outside.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What Noah did with the fishes during the great flood.’

‘Now I’m being blamed for the rain?’ asked Noah Kissick.

‘You’re lucky. This rain should bring plenty of rich organic matter into the system. Enough to sustain what’s left of the population. But there’s still their fear of the surface.’

‘Where are you going?’ Kissick asked.

‘To the fish,’ Fortitude replied. ‘To the fish.’

It continued raining through the day and into the night. Kissick remained in his office with the blinds closed, occasionally going out into the hall to grab another vase, biscuit tin or teapot to catch the water slop-slop-slopping from a new spot in the ceiling.

As his hangover spilled over to its second day, he wondered if something else was, in fact, the root of his suffering.

He was sitting at his computer when the phone rang.
It had rung earlier — many times perhaps, he wasn’t sure — but this was the first call he felt up to answering.

Perhaps things are turning around, he thought after hanging up. A TVNZ camera crew was down by the creek, which by this time had swollen to the size of a major river, and they wanted to interview the mayor in a live cross for the morning news.

Television. As mayor, he had been in the newspaper plenty of times, and for a short stint was a regular phone-in guest on an AM radio show, but until now, television had almost completely eluded him. Indeed, in a career of public service and good citizenship, he had only appeared on television twice to his knowledge, once in a vox pop on inflation rates while he was on holiday in Auckland, and once as principal of Windswept Lakes Boys’ High when the roof blew off its swimming pool.

He removed his heavy-duty yellow PVC raincoat from the wardrobe, pulled it on, slung his mayoral regalia over the top — quickly checking the mirror to ensure everything was in order — and stepped out of his office. A thin film of water covered the linoleum hallways of the council building and spattered under his leather shoes as he walked. He tried holding up the legs of his trousers, but when he saw the water level outside, he let them drop. That and the fact he was still not wearing socks. He took a deep breath, thought of Tilly Thompson seeing him on television and opened the ill-fitted glass doors.

The rain was still falling heavily as he walked across the town square, so he was surprised by the industry going on around him. Steve and his family were sandbagging
the pharmacy. Bully Jacobs bounced past in a Bobcat, with Snowy Kerr and Damian Driscoll jogging in its wake carrying trenching trowels and hessian sacks. Everyone was wearing waders. Kissick looked down at his dress pants. The waterline was just below his knees.

The rain kept falling during his interview. ‘I really am proud of this community,’ he told the reporter, a young man with short hair which had curled tightly in the rain. ‘This is the Rainbow Gorge spirit. We’re more than just a fishing spot, we’re a lifestyle.’ A gust of rain-heavy wind blew Kissick off balance and he stumbled backwards, but was saved by a pile of sandbags waiting to be arranged.

‘As you can see,’ the reporter said, the camera now back on him, ‘Rainbow Gorge is a town under siege. With water levels rising, and outside help slow to arrive, this may be the one that got away. Back to you, Russell and Jacqui, in the studio.’

After the interview, Kissick sloshed around town, offering his services, but no one wanted his help. He felt as if they were blaming him for the rain, too. He realised the closest thing he had to a friend in town was off with the fishes.

Just as Kissick was considering wading back to his office to check his emails, a large blue chilly bin floated past, followed by a branch from a fallen macrocarpa. He grabbed the branch and used it to hook the chilly bin. Kissick looked around and in that moment — surrounded by people but utterly alone — he knew where he was supposed to be.

For a moment the rain eased and the sun could be seen through a thin layer of cloud like a twenty-cent coin in a pencil rubbing. The townsfolk straightened their backs, leant on their shovels and waratahs, and watched as Mayor
Noah ‘Rusty’ Kissick floated by in a large blue chilly bin.

As he neared the creek, his macrocarpa branch could no longer push off the bottom and was jettisoned in favour of two ice-cream containers, which had presumably floated out of someone’s toppled fridge-freezer. Kissick poured the melted ice cream into the murky brown floodwaters and scooped his way slowly towards Heavy’s Bend.

He knew he was close when, over the sound of the lightly falling rain and the flowing c, he could hear the ghostly
whour-irr-ooh-irr
of Fortitude’s koauau. Shortly thereafter, he saw the khaki-clad MAF consultant standing on a small, shrinking island of grass.

Fortitude lowered the instrument from his nose. ‘I never thought I’d be glad to see you,’ he shouted.

‘I want to help the fish,’ Kissick puffed.

‘You really are a driven but limited man, aren’t you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Here, grab this.’ Fortitude held out the pool cue he had plucked from the waters and hauled the mayor onto his island. The patch of green was just big enough for Kissick to turn the chilly bin upside down and take a seat. He edged over so Fortitude could perch there also.

The MAF consultant sighed and began pulling the leaves off a branch of mahoe. ‘So, where’s your cellphone?’ he asked.

‘Back in the office.’

‘You don’t have a plan, do you?’

‘I just wanted someone to talk to.’

Fortitude threw the bare branch into the water and they both watched as it was whisked away.

The rain became heavier again. Kissick pulled the hood
of his yellow raincoat over his head.

‘I’ve seen a couple,’ Fortitude said.

‘Raincoats?’

‘Rainbow trout. I think they’re coming from upstream.’

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘I don’t mind being wet.’

The water had begun to lap at their toes.

‘How long do you think we have?’

‘About half an hour.’

‘Oh.’

‘The current’s picking up. Might be less.’

‘Should I go back and get help?’

‘You’d never make it in time. Not in this thing,’ Fortitude kicked the chilly bin with his heel. ‘You’d be tipped out, anyway, in water this swift.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s all right. When the island goes, we can just float on our backs until we hit land.’

‘Oh.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t float.’

‘Not with these on,’ Fortitude said and tugged Kissick’s mayoral chains.

‘But —’

‘Here,’ Fortitude said and lifted the chains off the mayor. He righted the chilly bin, placed the chains inside and launched it into the water.

‘Goodbye,’ Kissick said, pretending the rain running down his cheeks was tears.

When Fortitude demonstrated the starfish floating
technique, it made Kissick hyperventilate.

‘It’s nothing to be worried about. Look, we can still see where the banks of the creek are.’ He pointed to a densely rippled area. ‘And there’s the clock tower in the distance. This flood is nothing like the Tinui flood of 1991.’

‘Or the Pahiatua flood of ’53?’

‘I don’t know about that one.’

They both looked down. The water was now covering their feet.

‘That was quicker than expected,’ Fortitude said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Maybe we should just shove off now?’

‘No. Please. Let’s wait.’

‘Why don’t we just wade out a little bit? Get you used to the water, before it gets too deep.’

Even though Kissick could no longer see the island on which they stood, at least he knew it existed, which was more than he could say for what lay below the surface just a few steps away. And besides, he didn’t want to get his crotch wet.

Fortitude had waded further out, up to his waist. He leant into the current, trying not to show the strain on his face. ‘Come on.’ He extended a hand.

The gesture filled Kissick with fraternal gratitude. He reached out and clasped his friend’s hand.

‘Hey,’ said Fortitude, ‘a mature female.’ He pointed with his free hand. Between them, a pink-streaked trout, the size of a dog roll, slithered still against the current.

‘She’s beautiful.’

Just then, a Four Square shopping trolley, unseen by both of them, slammed into Barclay Fortitude and knocked him off his feet, pulling Kissick with him. The mayor swallowed a
mouthful of water — it tasted like the morning-after remnants in a beer bottle — and his hand slipped from Fortitude’s.

‘Just relax,’ Fortitude shouted, clasping the shopping trolley as a buoyancy aid as he was whisked downstream much faster than the mayor.

Kissick rolled onto his back and tried his best starfish, but his feet kept sinking. He frantically kicked off his shoes and tried to doggy-paddle, but the current bobbed him up and down too much and he swallowed more beery water.

As he was swept past the impromptu stopbank Bully Jacobs and his crew had erected to protect the primary school, he held his right hand as high in the air as he could, like he had seen on one of those surf lifesaving shows on television. Everyone waved politely back at the mayor, and he continued on downstream.

A short time later, he saw what appeared to be a balled-up pair of business socks floating ahead of him. He could have sworn they were his. As he splashed about, trying to reach them, a golden retriever swam past. He tried calling out, but the dog did not turn back and save him. Kissick was forced to admire the creature’s stroke.

He thought of Tilly Thompson, the radiant mayor of Whangamanu. He wished he had been bolder. Kissed her that time at the bar after the mayoral conference. Insisted she stayed the night at his house after talking with his council. Sent her flowers instead of hilarious chain emails. He imagined this new river was taking him all the way to Whangamanu — to Tilly — even though he knew it was geographically implausible.

In time, he began to feel more comfortable in the water.
He managed to spin around to face backwards so he might react more quickly than he had when he saw the golden retriever. What he saw were hundreds of smooth, round objects floating towards him like a swarm of bees. When the first of these objects passed him, he realised they were potatoes. The floodwaters must have washed the soil from the potato fields and let the crop loose upon the world. It was beautiful, in a way, seeing these nearly-white tubers bobbing on the surface of the Milo-coloured water, but they were no help to him. It seemed to Kissick the final damning word against the visual arts.