A Many Coated Man (8 page)

Croad is taking down the banner as he waits for the youth teams to arrive for the clean-up. Hurinui talks with Iago and Dafydd Thomas and a long, thin man comes to claim the panda with assumed confidence. Maybe in his withdrawal he covers the exact spot where a Ngati Toa lookout watched the special constables coming from Cloudy Bay: more likely the spot where tourist lovers from Alberta lay in the summer grass and cicada rhythms of 2007, to conceive a daughter who would show great talent in software development, but be killed by a bouncing boulder in Yellowstone Park.

‘To be able to mobilise people like that,’ says Thackeray Thomas and he leans in at the car window to squeeze Slaven’s shoulder. Croad has the banner down at last and begins to roll it up.

‘But mobilised for what?’ says Kellie. ‘At present it’s all steam and no engine.’ Thackeray is delighted with the analogy. He mentally files it for his own use.

‘Precisely,’ he says.

‘Kellie is a born administrator,’ Slaven boasts. ‘She knows that efficiency is never the enemy of any worthwhile undertaking.’ He looks her in the face and wonders if she has fears about his new life, as he does — snide fears circling in hope of misfortune. ‘You can be the impresario. It will be like planning and planting a brand new garden, a landscaping of this political project we’re beginning.’

In time the rally at Tuamarina becomes the recollection and the relics rather than the actuality: spools of video from the ground crew and the helicopter, the radio tapes, the selected memories of people who were there, the invoices for a double thousand beef mince pies, a lesbian thigh rocking to the movement of the horse’s flank, the banner blue and white, the drifting rain which enveloped them, the sparks from the fires which dazzled and escaped, Slaven’s oratory from the truck deck, the singing of
Welfare
Heaven
and
Remember
Greenpeace
as the noose tightened.

In time the place itself recovers from such thoughtless possession. The grass grows back rank in the sun and the wind so that the fire sites and the few juice containers missed by Thackeray’s youth workers are hidden, the gum tree over the grave branches out again in directions not too obviously determined by the depredations made upon it, the broom flowers in summer and the stench from the latrines long gone is supplanted by a sweet wind coming over the bushed hills from Queen Charlotte Sound. And the words most likely to linger are those of old Te Rauparaha as he burst from the trees to fight. ‘Hei kona te marama. Hei kona te ra. Haere mai to po.’ Farewell the light. Farewell the day. Welcome night.

At night, after a campaign dinner, Slaven wakes at seven minutes past four. He can see the blue figures on the display clock by his bed. Slaven thinks that he has woken simply because he needs to piss, but when he has done this quietly and come back to his side of the bed he realises that his stomach is queasy. He has overdone it somewhat with the Australian shiraz and the pork and bacon kebabs and the marinated mussels and the cocktail onions with gruyere
cheese. Altogether, it leaves him with a sour weight low in his stomach and an inability to rest comfortably.

He leaves the bed again, again quietly so as not to wake Kellie who faces away, just a sweep of hair showing on the pillow. By the drapes Slaven rubs his stomach up and down, not round and round. He grimaces slightly for his own benefit and looks through the narrow gap in the drapes to pass time.

There are people on the front drive of his house.

Seven of them, no, eight. All quite young; both sexes. The moonlight is not particularly bright, but he can see that they are throwing something from baskets at the house. Well, scattering rather than throwing, broadcasting with an action of the wrist rather than the whole arm and whatever it is they cast it makes no sound against the walls, nothing that would wake Kellie, or him. All of them wear pants and most the canvas jackets fashionable amongst the unfashionable, which show the dirt of constant use. They are dancing, rather perpetrating some parody, some travesty, of a pastoral dance, with the baskets hung on their arched arms and their bodies clumsily bending and swaying.

Slaven has an unpleasant sense of their conceit and affectation, but they themselves take it all with arty solemnity despite the almost total lack of grace and skill. And every few minutes they put down their baskets in an unsynchronised way, hang themselves like scarecrows, then shake and quiver to mimic electrocution.

Even though he can’t be seen, Slaven takes a step back. He has the right to be here, yet the last thing he wants is to reveal himself, to challenge the dancers. He is afraid of them, but not in the immediate and physical sense. Far worse than that. They are the manifestations of his worst fears concerning his work, proof that from the rational, humanitarian ideas he upholds, mutants can be spawned. Slaven watches the figures in the ludicrous repetition of their makeshift dance, yet what faces he can see have expressions of fixed intensity.

Slaven knows that the Executive and staff try to keep such things from coming to his notice, yet he’s aware of a whole range of half-baked responses to his speeches and
his campaign. Half-baked! A grim reminder of the fryers who continue to electrocute themselves in his name and to make headlines at last with their death. There are people who have fits at his meetings, women who wish to bear his child, or claim they have already done so, fundamentalists who insist that the coalition prefigures the Apocalypse, people who demand large sums of money and blessings, others who are intent on giving both. Sarah has a group of volunteers who go through his mail bag and weed out the most disturbing letters, but Slaven finds others thrust into his pockets when travelling, or under the door of a hotel room.

At times the dancers go forward and bend in the garden close to the bedroom window — whether to pick, or place, it is difficult for Slaven to tell. He begins to feel cold, but won’t lie down while the ritual goes on. One man is very fat and his serious face shakes as he parades in the dance.

Why don’t they just all bugger off. Whatever they see in Slaven’s beliefs he will never acknowledge. In fact he resents their appropriation of his name and movement even more than their appropriation of his drive and lawn before the sun has risen. In his heart he knows that the real source of his anger is a fear that his work could be corrupted, that what was so clear to him could still nourish opinions quite contrary to his intentions. The snake they say, hears nothing that the charmer plays.

Finally the dancers leave, after whispered argument, trailing down the long drive with their baskets. The fat man has an arm around one of the women who doesn’t return his embrace. A more nondescript man waits long enough to secure a minimum of privacy and then pisses by the crabapple tree, his shoulders hunched protectively. When he has pranced after the others the drive is empty and Slaven at the gap of the curtains is hard put to keep the episode in mind as any more than a sour dream. Before going back to bed though, he moves through the house and checks on each of the other three sides, in case like wagon pioneers he and Kellie have been surrounded by the basket cases with their ungainly dance. He must talk to Kellie about security.

In the morning Slaven says nothing to Kellie of all this, but he goes outside after breakfast and steps close to the bedroom wall. Kellie has musk mallow there and the gladioli which have seen off Norman Proctor without so much as a flourish. There are lines, small heaps even, of yellow-orange scraps set together by the dew. Slaven takes some of it to his wife. ‘Safflower petals,’ she says. ‘I’d say that’s what it is. Where did you get it?’

‘In the garden.’

‘I’ve never grown any.’

‘A gift then,’ says Slaven. ‘Has it got any particular folklore associated with it? Is it lucky, or anything like that?’

‘Not that I know. It can be used as a dye.’

Slaven yawns to prove to them both that he is at ease. At least his stomach is settled. In his mind however, he has an involuntary reprise of last night’s dance. The earnest, self-absorbed clumsiness of it: bows and crooked legs, baskets dangling, hissed instructions, the fat man’s jowls trembling in the fish-belly light. What else goes on at the far ripple remove from his intentions. What things are fed on tail first which he has sent out with a sense of true direction.

There are people, you understand, who are employed for the hypothetical. Dr Royce Meelind is one. He works in the Government Think Tank with a responsibility for the potential political impact of social movements and events. His most splendid career success was predicting the growth of reactionary regionalism as urbanisation intensified. He noticed such signs as the growth of country and western music in the lower part of the South Island. The media term it Hillbillyism, but Meelind refers rather to the Pancake Syndrome, after the great twentieth century West Virginian author, Breece D’J Pancake.

Meelind read all the reports of Tuamarina and watched the uncut film from the television station. At the Thursday morning briefing of the Think Tank he uses it as an example of nostalgic popularism which arises from time to time as a political expression of frustration and anxiety with the complexity of modern life. Meelind’s colleagues expect Slaven
to flare across the political sky briefly and then be forgotten, but Dr Meelind is impressed by the man’s grip on an audience. He jokes about the prospect of a dentist with a mid-life crisis, yet opens a file on Slaven which includes the names of school friends, medical reports, his financial situation, his links with Thackeray Thomas and his recent friendship with that old power of business — Miles Kitson. To the file he adds the information passed on to him from sources within television, that Slaven has been asked to appear on the ‘What’s Up Show’.

I haven’t burdened you with a full static description of Royce Meelind at this stage. His time will come. The large, pale ear-lobes for example, whitened with down, and the extreme length of his upper legs so that when he rests his elbows on his knees his body is almost lying forward, but you’ll be interested that his brother was that paleontologist whose death was widely reported when he choked on a bumblebee while climbing in the Old Man Range.

Anyway, it is a staffer from the show who rings Slaven and invites him to appear on the ‘What’s Up Show’. ‘Amand is very much hoping that you can see your way clear,’ says the staffer. ‘We’re all very much hoping. You realise of course that there’s no payment offered as such, but the exposure of views is absolutely enormous, isn’t it.’ Slaven has been slicing onions for one of Kellie’s quiches and his eyes swim with tears. ‘Just a few questions on your policies and reaction to the present political direction of the country.’ Slaven thinks he would like time to consider the invitation. ‘Of course. Look, as long as you let me know by four this afternoon. That’s three complete hours. Remember, we’re very much hoping. I haven’t talked in detail with Amand yet; I wanted your initial response, but I imagine he’ll be interested particularly in the angle of oratory, inspirational ( delivery, the democratic message. Quite extraordinary what happened at Tuamarina. We have a great programme mix in mind — with you, cartoonist Buffle who has just turned ninety did you realise and Marie Antoinette Smith, the first woman convicted of serial rape in this country. It’s getting that balance, that cross over impact, for prime time TV you see.’

‘I suppose so,’ says Slaven.

He talks it over with Kellie and later she rings back to make the arrangements, insisting on a clear understanding concerning fares and accommodation for both of them, and being met at the airport.

Afterwards she takes the opportunity to point out to Slaven the need for a more businesslike approach to his activities. She reminds him that despite the thousands at Tuamarina he received no fee, nothing at all. Yet increasingly money is coming in, often vaguely identified in origin and purpose. She has been talking to Thackeray Thomas of the administrative and financial structures required as Slaven becomes a focus of attention. She is of course the best manager he could have. Her ability to organise and direct is no surprise to him, but her enthusiasm to do so humbles him. As they discuss the practical matters, the external things, he has a sense of both guilt and remorse concerning their marriage and yet finds as ever that he has neither the courage, nor the words, to speak. He can barely admit to himself what a falling away there has been; gradually, imperceptibly almost, the erosion of love’s isthmus until they are quite separate again.

‘Absolutely,’ he says energetically, ‘but not just the management of finances and logistics. What’s more important is that we’re sure of the true motivation of those people who want to be associated with us, who we allow to represent the movement. There’s a real danger of exploitation in all of this, exploitation of the people that I know now I can reach, can influence. Oh, we’re all of us used and users I suppose, but there has to be some scrutiny, some on-going evaluation of our purposes and our power. Don’t you think?’

‘Can you make yourself responsible for the opinions and actions of everyone who responds to your ideas.’

There should be a moment here when Slaven can admit that love has gone, and weep for that loss. Admit that he has admiration for his wife’s intelligence and decisiveness, the lack of triviality, her loyalty and respect of privacy, the skill she has in the garden and the nimble way that she can keep all disappointment hidden. Say all of that to her and also that in the heart where love was, he cares not a jot
for any of it. Instead he continues to talk of the contribution he hopes to make towards the general good. ‘— trying to return a measure of effective political influence to people who aren’t interested in the processes of politics,’ he says, ‘but are interested in outcomes, some of them even in collective outcomes, but let’s not push our luck too much on that last one.’

‘Not on the “What’s Up Show”, anyway.’

Kellie and Slaven sit in the kitchen and watch the onion, cheese and pineapple quiche rotating in the oven. They talk of the formation of a Coalition for Citizen Power which they will invite the Charismatic Cambrian Church, Gender Plus and the union movements to join. Slaven remembers a time some nine or ten years before, when Kellie’s younger sister came to stay with them, remembers the dreams he had each night while she was in the house, the frisson each time she came into the room, the profitless recital to himself of all the fortunate aspects of his life. Nothing was said, nothing happened. Miles once told Slaven of an affair he had with a South African nurse; how they would habitually meet during the late afternoon in a bungalow his firm maintained for guests. Miles said that as soon as he opened the front door he knew whether he had arrived before her, because his cock would stiffen if she was anywhere in the house. That’s natural life, that’s pure experience of a sort, surely, Miles had said.