Opportunity (22 page)

A dream had woken me. It was about Raymond.

We got married when we were both twenty-eight. He was
handsome. He was a filmmaker. He had directed successful
New Zealand films. After we'd been married a couple of years
he was invited to make his first film in America. He would go
on making films. That wouldn't change.

In the last months of our marriage I'd thought about trying
to get pregnant. I needed to get on with it, if I was ever going
to. I stopped taking the Pill. I didn't tell him. I wondered if he
knew. What with working so much we barely had time for
each other. I didn't get pregnant.

I thought about sex. I forced myself to look back. Was I just
thinking this way because of what had happened? What was I
getting at? When we'd been in bed together and I was happy,
had I sensed, once or twice, a kind of distance, almost malice,
in his tone, as if he had performed a task, performed it well,
and now could be released?

He was a polished performer. He kept some part of himself
separate. It was that distance that made me yearn after him, as
well as the moments when his vulnerability showed, and I was
all the more smitten with him because he tried to keep his
dignity, and to hide it. He was the fourth son of a solo mother.
He knew what it was like to be talented and poor. That was
why he did free film workshops for street kids. There were
parts of himself over which he had grown a shell, in order to
get on in the world. Old hurts, things he was ashamed of.

Chase Ihaka took away his dignity, and afterwards he
couldn't face me, couldn't stand that I had seen him reduced.

He despised me for begging, for not being able to face the
fact that everything had changed.

A voice came out of the blackness. 'What are you thinking
about?'

'About Raymond,' I said.

He sat up. I couldn't see anything. He got off the bed.

'Where are you going?' I asked.

He didn't say anything.

'Where are you?'

There was no answer. There was only blackness. I heard a
sound. He was standing in the room, near me.

'Where are you?'

Silence.

'Oh, turn on the light! Turn on the light! Turn on the
light!'

He jumped and snapped it on. He leaned over me, gripping
my wrists. 'What's the matter? What's wrong?'

I pulled away. 'You didn't answer. You didn't speak!'

'I was asleep,' he said, wondering. He held me tight. 'You've
been dreaming. Just dreams.' He held me in his arms.

'There's no one I can trust.'

'I'm here. You can trust me. I'll turn off the light, shall I?'

The blackness came down. I was shaking. I couldn't get warm.

***

We stayed in the bach for three days. On the fourth day the
wind dropped. There was stillness, quiet. The sky was low
and black, shot through with sudden, surprising beams of
sunlight. Rob went to the yacht, and came back with the news
that a man who had been sheltering at the wharf in his own
boat had helped him with the engine, that they had drained
the boat as best they could. The man had given him a bit of
fuel. If the engine failed we would have to get into the marina
under sail. He thought we would make it. The storm had
passed. People were leaving the island.

We packed up and tidied the house. I didn't want to leave
it. I had grown fond of it. Rob went into the bathroom and
hammered the window frame back into place. I pretended not
to hear.

'It's been an adventure,' he said.

'It's been great,' I said.

At the wharf the yachts were sailing out. The beach was
strewn with branches; the trees hung with broken sticks,
paper, plastic bags. The water was brown and churned up.
I looked at the yacht. It was stained with oil, sodden, smelly.
I was dreading the sail back. I felt nauseated already.

The engine started, and we headed towards the harbour
mouth. Rob waved to other boats, whistled, busied himself
with ropes and lines. Looking ahead anxiously I saw that the
sea was still rough. When we hit the open water I was
immediately doubled up with nausea, and the waves seemed
to me terrifyingly high, although the wind was moderate.
Soon I was lying along the rail, watching the green shoreline
rise and fall. Sunbeams shone down on the sea. Rob shouted
to point out dolphins. I watched them leaping through the
waves. Foam blew in the air. I rested my cheek on the rail.
Beyond Kawau the wind strengthened. The boat rose and
plunged, hitting the water hard. I felt the sickness rising and
rising. I leaned, heaved, and my breakfast hit the water and
was whisked away, a curl of matter on the bubbled surface,
like a question mark.

I imagined my own body, falling, hitting the surface,
whirled away in the current. I looked across at waves, jumbled
cloud, grey water lit up silver in the beams of light, birds
riding on currents of air. To lie here like a limp rag, weak, sick,
drenched, watching the currents, to yearn only to get from
this moment to the next, to be
reduced to simple things
. Was
this the way to confront what I shied away from most?

Raymond told me the truth just before he left me. He told
me as a final, savage assertion of himself, as if I had forced
him into a lie all these years. Afterwards, he despised me for
pleading with him. For wanting to carry on as before, despite
what he'd told me. It was our secret now. He told me what
Chase Ihaka had done, and what he had done to him. The
brown young man with the gap-toothed smile. His eager face,
his shining eyes. The sort of youth the Francis Foundation
wanted to help. He was poor. He may have been talented. It
didn't matter now. Living on the streets, a thief and an
alcoholic, he had started selling himself for sex. He had not
broken into our house. Raymond had invited him in.

Had arranged to meet him secretly, at home, while I was at
work. Had heard the knock, opened the door, ushered him
inside. Made small talk, poured out wine. Drawn him down
onto the couch. At what point the youth went crazy — before
or after the sex — I do not know. Raymond wouldn't say. I
don't know why he exploded in such violence. I know that he
did it again, not long after coming out of jail for attacking
Raymond, and that the second time, instead of clamming up,
he told the police a version of the truth. He said the victim
had made sexual advances to him. That he had recoiled and
lashed out. He didn't say he went to men's houses all the time.
That it was the way he made money, because he was drunk
and drugged out and poor.

Raymond was right. We couldn't really have stayed married.
In the end I would have had to face up to things.

It was when Chase Ihaka was arrested for murder that I
came home to find Raymond waiting for me, drinking, a
strange, heightened expression in his eyes.

He told me. In my distress I tried to make bargains.
I thought it was something we could solve.

He looked at me with contempt.

'I thought you would guess,' he said.

I never would have guessed. I had faith in our marriage.
I wanted children. I wanted to believe.

'You married me for my money,' I said.

I saw him flinch. He laughed scornfully. I looked at his
pale, scarred face and saw that it was true. I felt a wave of pure
sorrow for him, as well as for myself.

'What about the Foundation? The sheer hypocrisy of
you . . .'

But I didn't go on. I had done my begging. He left the house.
I watched him walk unsteadily away up the drive.

Perhaps he didn't think he and Chase Ihaka were all that different,
in the end.

***

Rob shouted. He pointed at the land. We were on a tack,
heading for the entrance to the harbour. He was going to
lower the sail and hope the engine would restart. If it didn't, I
couldn't see how we were going to get back in.

At the harbour mouth he tried the engine. It wouldn't start.
He tried again. The boat was tossing badly. I staggered against the rail.
He shouted some instructions I didn't understand. The current was pushing
us towards the shoreline, where there were rocks. The engine made a moaning
sound. It coughed. I could see the edge of the marina, the tops of the clinking
masts. The boat turned and was hit side on by a wave. I crouched down by the
railing. Rob swore and leaned down again, and the engine spluttered and turned
over and started, and then he was steering the boat, heading us in through
the channel, and as the sun broke out, casting a livid light through the black
clouds, we sailed into the calm lanes of the marina.

***

I was sitting in the car. I was looking along the lane that runs
off the main road. It was strewn with leaves, broken branches,
bits of paper. The gutters were running with rain. Leaves
swirled in the blocked drain. The footpath was flooded.

The dog, Robbie, was at the window, scrabbling, barking.

Rob got out and started unloading my things. He leaned in.
'Getting out?'

We carried my bags to the door.

'The bach. Did you really know who owned it?'

Rob tossed his keys from one hand to the other. 'Sure. He's
a client of mine. Lovely bloke.'

There was a silence.

'Shall I come in?' he asked.

I looked at him. A sudden squall blew through the garden,
flipping the leaves, driving rain onto the tiles. I looked up at
the white sky.

'Yes.'

I unlocked the door. He picked up my bags, whistling, and
followed me inside.

He said, 'You're fiery. Your whole family's fiery.'

He walked ahead of me through the hall, up the stairs, into
the bedroom. I wondered whether he was looking for something
or just getting away from me.

He took off his glasses. 'My eyes are killing me,' he said.

I followed him. I should have left him alone, but I had the
bad anxiety of the morning after. Last night's dinner party had
turned into a row. One of the guests had taken everyone on.

I said, 'Didn't it make you annoyed, the things he was
saying? About Palestinians. Calling them terrorists. Refusing
to admit that they might have
one tiny
little grievance. And
the way you can't just come out and say, "The security wall is
a crime".'

Scott looked at me. 'You did say it.'

'What?'

'You said you can't say it. But you did say it.'

'Oh. Well.' I shrugged.

'Just before you told him to leave and never come back.'

'So, do you think he'll be offended?'

'I'd have thought he'd be pretty annoyed.'

'But he's so unreasonable!' I wrung my hands. Oh, these
hungover post-mortems. 'Isn't he? Didn't you feel rage when
he said those things?'

'I don't feel the need to be enraged. I might argue with him.
Rationally.'

'Are you saying I wasn't being rational? I was completely
lucid. So was Rachel. You don't care about these things. You
don't say anything.'

He said primly, 'I'm quite happy to say things, I just don't
feel the need to run the guy out of my house. Throwing things
and shouting "Murderer!"'

'You're exaggerating. Why do you take that censorious
tone? Because you don't care, or because you're "diplomatic"?
Since you're a public figure. Do you think it's corrupting you,
all this celebrity? You can't be seen to have opinions any
more.'

He said, 'I'm trying to find my wallet. So I can go to work.
So I can earn some money.' When he was angry he got quieter,
and he smiled. I looked at his smile.

'You're a slave to your image,' I said.

But I'd behaved badly last night, going on arguing. I was
being a shrew. 'So, you think he'll be quite annoyed then?'

'I haven't got time to go on and on!' He slammed the door.

'Oh, shit,' I sighed.

We tended to be vehement in my family. My father never
backed away from an argument. You could call my mother
'opinionated'. My sister was fiercely political. They were a lot
for Scott to deal with. His family were quieter; his father was
a retired manager, a reformed alcoholic whose tastes were
simple. Having lived through troubled times, he was grateful
for a cosy, uneventful life. He and Scott's mother didn't look
beyond their routine; they were happy with a DVD of a
rubbish blockbuster and an undemanding chat about trivial
things. They were proud of Scott, now he was on television.
They enjoyed the attention he got. Scott handled the publicity
all right. There were a few changes when he switched from
radio. He got his hair done at the studio, in a new style. He
took more care with his clothes. He was less spontaneous. He
thought before he acted.

I walked the kids to kindergarten and school. I said hello to
one of the fathers. He was an American. Recently, the
preschool children had made flags. Sophie came out with a
New Zealand flag. The American boy had made the Stars and
Stripes. He said to Sophie, 'My flag's bigger than yours.' His
was on a bigger bit of paper. He meant the size. But his father
had said, glancing at me, 'Hey, they're all big.' He meant all
flags, all countries, were important.

The Iraq war had just started. I didn't like what I thought of
as his patronising, world-conqueror's tone. I said, 'Oh, we had
one of yours at home. But we've just recently burned it!'

He looked shocked, then let out a single, cynical bark of laughter
— 'Ha!' — and walked away, and I laughed and felt oddly melancholy
watching him cross the playground, and wished I were a different woman: silent,
mysterious, cool.

***

My father is an architect. He designed our house. We bought
it when he and my mother decided to build themselves a new
place. It was beautiful. We were lucky, privileged. I thought
of it as my fortress. It was built down a hillside, with a walled
courtyard at the top to screen out noise from the road. There
were three levels, the lowest a big sitting room and kitchen
opening onto a garden. Down there, below the road, it was
sunny and quiet, the light broken up by mature olive trees.
You could see the harbour from the back deck. I had my
workroom upstairs, looking over the suburbs, down to the
bay. Below and to the right was the deep, cool green space of
the neighbours' tennis court, its wire fence overgrown with
vines. Women met and played there in the mornings.

When I got back from the school I went to my studio. I'd
studied photography at art school, and I had ambitions. I
wanted to publish a book of my work, to exhibit. In the
meantime I did regular freelance work for magazines and
papers. That morning I was going to pick the best from a
series of pictures I'd taken of a writer, to go with an interview
in a magazine.

The doorbell rang. I ignored it. It rang twice more. I went
to the door.

Gerald Francis was walking away from the door. He made
a play of 'stopping in his tracks', his expression arch, faintly
self-righteous. Telling me he'd known all the time I was
inside.

He was a wiry, grey man, aged about fifty. He had intent
eyes behind tinted glasses, thin arms and hands all knotted
with veins, and one of those beards that grow only around the
chin, not on the cheeks. He lived alone in a big peach-coloured
bungalow on the other side of our drive. I said hello to him on
the street most days. I had the impression of someone heavily,
secretly preoccupied. He was always looking beyond, around,
checking for data. He noted number-plates of cars that came
down the street. He had told me he kept an eye on things. I
could be confident that if any burglars were around, he'd be
on to them.

I wasn't pleased to see him. I had things to do.

'Hi, Gerald,' I said. I looked at the photograph I was holding
in my hand.

'You can shorten it to Gerry.'

He said this mechanically, like something he'd learnt.

'Gerry.'

He was carrying a book. He thought for a moment, turning
it over in his hands. He walked inside suddenly, without
asking if he could. Taken by surprise, I stood aside, then
followed him in. He put the book on the table.

He pointed at it. 'I thought it was time I showed you.'

It was a thick hard-cover journal, bound in dark green,
with gold leaf.

He jigged up and down, wringing his sinewy hands.

'There are two of us in the street now,' he said quietly. He
ducked to the window and looked out, then veered back to
the table.

'Two of us . . .'

'Artists. You and me.'

'Oh.' I stared. 'I'm a photographer.'

'I've seen your work. Mine is in here.' He pointed to the
book again.

'Your work.'

He nodded, squeezing his hands together. The veins stood
out on his forearms. He swallowed, blinked, swallowed. He
couldn't keep still.

'I've put a collection together,' he said.

'I can't really . . .' I protested. 'I haven't got . . .'

He stopped moving. He looked at me.

'Is it . . . are they photographs?' I tried to think of an
excuse.

'You'll see.'

'Leave it with me,' I said. 'Leave it here and I'll have a good
look at it.' It seemed necessary to say more. 'I'll study it.'

His eyes, behind the tinted glasses, were fixed on me. 'Study
it,' he repeated.

I nodded.

He smiled. There were gaps between his teeth. I looked at
his wide, thin mouth, the damp lips above the straggly tufts of
grey beard. There was something wrong with his smile.

'Study,' he said. 'Collaborate.' He ducked to the window and
looked out.

'Right, Gerald. Gerry.'

He jigged from one foot to the other, staring. He said
rapidly, 'Your father is a well-known architect, Peter Davis.
Your mother owns the furniture store at 4/38 Teed Street. Julie
Davis. Your husband is the newsreader, Roysmith. Your sister
is an English professor. Rachel. You have two daughters, aged
five and three. You hold strong views, politically. What an
interesting family.'

A long, curly lock of his hair had come loose. He took hold
of it and smoothed it down over his bald head.

I looked at the floor. I said, with effort, 'Actually, Rachel's
not a professor. She's a junior lecturer.'

'Ah. Siblings!'

'What do you mean?'

'Ah.'

'What do you mean about political views?'

He looked sly. 'I heard you. Last night. On the deck.'

'Oh, we had a little argument,' I said weakly.

He stepped closer. I could hear the rasp of his skin as he
rubbed his dry hands. He looked pious, crafty. 'My own family
isn't nearly so interesting. Just ordinary, hard-working people.
We've had a few minor successes. In the legal profession . . .'

'I thought you were a photographer,' I said rudely.

The phone rang.

I went towards it. 'I've been waiting for this call; it's
important.'

Holding the cordless phone, I managed to waft him towards
the door, frowning and nodding as if there was someone
important on the line. I thought he was going to stand on the
doorstep listening to me talk. I gave him a thumbs-up sign
and, nodding, slowly closed the door.

Rachel said, 'Are you there?'

'Wait a minute.'

I ran up to my room and looked out. He was standing by
his car, writing in a notebook.

'Sorry. The man from next door . . .'

I told her. She laughed. 'What about last night? Will he ever
speak to us again?'

'Probably not.'

'Oh well. Go and have a look at his book.'

I went down and got it. I turned the pages. I was silent,
looking at it.

'What's it like?' she asked.

'It's horrible,' I said.

***

When I was a child I reacted strongly to visual things. I
particularly hated clusters. There was a kind of sea-egg that got
washed up on the beach: pods with bunched compartments
like wasps' nests. I couldn't bear to look at them. I didn't like
multiples. Even recently, when the children watched a movie
called
Monsters Inc
, I turned away from it, disgusted by the
cartoon monsters' multiple eyes.

When I turned the pages of Gerald Francis's book I felt the
same kind of revulsion. It was a very odd book he'd put
together. There were about a hundred pages, which he'd had
printed and elaborately bound. The first section was got up as
a family history. There was a text, written by Gerald — odd,
disjointed, full of non-sequiturs but more or less understandable.
It started with the first Francis to come from England to
New Zealand, and worked its way to the present day. There
were photographs of early Francises, and of members of the
families they'd married into. The tone was proud. 'Mr Justice
Francis, recognised in the profession as an extraordinary
intellect, was destined to marry a great beauty, Agnes, eldest
daughter of the esteemed Ronald Rowntree, of brewery fame.'

The Francises had made quite a mark. There were three
Justice Francises of different generations, also barristers and
businessmen. They seemed to have had, as the text tirelessly
reiterated, the knack of marrying into families just as wealthy
and accomplished as their own.

On the last page of the first section Gerald had allowed
space for himself. His biography and photograph were by way
of introduction to the second half, which was a presentation
of his 'artistic work'. It was the second section that I reacted
badly to. It suggested things to me: unwholesomeness,
madness.

I read the biography. Gerald Arthur Francis was fifty-one.
He was educated at King's School, then Auckland University,
where he studied sciences. There was no mention of his having
achieved any degree. There was a series of fudging sentences
('world travel', 'commercial ventures') before he turned up 'a
partner in his father's shipping business'. He had, 'like many
Francises, shown artistic talent from an early age', and, 'having
retired from a successful life in the family firm, was able to
answer his artistic calling'. There was a full-page black and
white photograph of him, intensely smiling, a gleam of
moisture on his lip.

I turned to the photographs, which had been professionally
reproduced, some in colour and some in black and white.
They were accompanied by a text, stranger and more
disorganised than that of the first section, in which Gerald
detailed his preoccupations. As a boy he had been fascinated
by the natural world. Insects were a great craze of his. There
followed some arid portraits of unfortunate creatures. A fly
on a leaf. A weta with a broken leg, as if he'd mangled it while
trying to pose it. A splayed cicada on a white background. He
had been, according to his text, a youth with a love of poetry,
'aware of growing feelings for the ladies.' There was a picture
of a girl standing by a tree, looking anxious. I wondered, with
an uneasy snigger, whether he'd tied her to it. The picture was
called
Untamed
. (I rolled my eyes.)

Further on, he'd got more inventive. There were pictures of
women's faces, distorted so that they appeared to have more
than two eyes. Some had three eyes; some had six. There were
bitter titles:
Deception. Trickery
. A stuffed toy sat on a chair in
an empty room. (
Loneliness
.) There was a brief attempt at
birds, unfocused, blurry, quickly abandoned, perhaps, because
he couldn't catch them before photographing them. (
Freedom.
Flight
.) The last untitled section was a long burst of walls,
rooftops and gardens, the neighbourhood he would see from
his own house. I recognised our roof and part of our bathroom
skylight. There were some unfocused, neutral shots of women
playing tennis on the courts below our house, and then there
was a long series of windows.