Portable Curiosities (3 page)

Satirist Rising

She has a strange feeling about the man sitting next to her on the skyglide.

He is dressed in a three-piece tweed suit and a red bow tie. His grey hair is slicked back.

He is eating a courtesy packet of peanuts and thumbing through an old copy of
The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
.

From the corner of her eye, she watches him rub his thumb against his fingertips to rid himself of the salt. Under the overhead reading light, the cufflink on his left sleeve gleams at her: it is the head of an onyx panther baring ivory fangs.

He stands in the next line at Immigration. He inches forward with her until they are both at the head of their queues.

She waits for a family of four to move through the gate. Then it is her turn.

She wheels herself forward.

‘Evie Bluhm?' says the machine.

‘Yes.'

‘Enjoy your stay in Auckland.'

At the baggage carousel, he waits next to her.

He steps forward and pulls a tan leather suitcase off the moving belt.

Instead of hurrying off, he lingers. He doesn't look at her but stares at other people, at the ceiling, at the same bags going around and around.

She squints at the carousel and sees her own luggage approaching.

‘That's it,' she says, pointing it out to the airport ambassador who has been assigned to help her.

Hers is a frayed plaid polyethylene bag, half-full. The ambassador hooks it over the back of her wheelchair.

‘Wow,' he says, ‘you're smaller than your own bag.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Have you ever thought of getting a spaceframe? Wheelchairs are seriously old-school.'

‘If you've got the cash for one I'd be delighted to accept it.'

The ambassador laughs. He wheels her out of the airport and onto a shuttle, where he secures her wheelchair and wishes her a pleasant stay.

As he hops off, the man in the tweed suit hops on. He tosses his suitcase onto one of the luggage racks and sits down opposite her. He pulls a spiral notepad from a pocket inside his jacket and jots something down.

He doesn't acknowledge her presence, but the other passengers stare. A young boy tugs on his mother's sleeve and points. Those gammy legs, those tumours pushing out of her neck, those strange little bumps multiplying under her skin, those bulging, asymmetrical eyes. A festival of deformities, all gathered on one little old lady.

The shuttle reaches the centre of town. The access ramp extends onto the kerb for her.

The man in the tweed suit alights at the same stop and follows her up Mayoral Drive.

He is still following her as she wheels herself through the front doors of the hotel.

He queues up behind her at the reception desk.

She glances around the foyer. The hotel looks stuck in the past – clean but in need of a dramatic update.

‘Good morning, Ms Bluhm,' says the concierge. ‘Welcome to Curiosity Inn.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I noticed you've been admiring our foyer. As the world's most avant-garde boutique hotel chain, we at Curiosity Inn pride ourselves on our cutting-edge retro design concepts. For each of our sites this year, we've re-created the atmosphere of a typical four-star hotel circa 2015.'

‘Why four-star not …'

‘Sorry, ma'am?'

‘Never mind.'

‘Would you like a complimentary newspaper, Ms Bluhm?' The concierge gestures to a stack of folded broadsheets on the counter. ‘We're pleased to publish the news in the format of that era.'

She glances at the front-page headlines: ‘US Government Ice Cartel Launches IPO'; ‘Lesser Flamingo Crowned New Prince of Spain'.

A third article gracing the front page features a shot of the recently elected Australian Prime Minister. He is lying naked with a come-hither smile, a national flag artfully covering his private parts. He is on a bed of flags, on a floor of flags. The caption says he is ready to confide in his beloved compatriots the economic benefits of climate catastrophe. The headline of the article is ‘I Love a Sunburnt Country'.

‘Ms Bluhm? A newspaper?'

‘I think not,' she says.

The concierge takes her bag and reassures her it will follow her up to her room shortly. He hands her a plastic card in a small cardboard folder.

‘Here's your swipe card,' he says. ‘You're in a Wheelchair Accessible Room with City View. It's on the eighth floor. Room 870. Enjoy your stay.'

She wheels herself towards the lift. As she leaves, the man in the tweed suit walks up to the counter.

‘Good morning, sir,' says the concierge. ‘Room 846 is available for you today.'

She watches the number above the lift decrease from 11 to 10 to 9. The number hangs. She eyes the strange tweed man.

He is still at the counter with his back to her, sorting through some papers.

Her hotel room is very 2015. There is something consoling about it. A regular double bed with crisp white sheets, a bolster and two rows of pillows. A desk with a Curiosity Inn writing pad and a cheap plastic pen. A bar fridge filled with Coca-Cola and soda water, and assorted snacks including a cylinder of stackable potato chips.

The window's fauxview is set so the room looks out over a historically accurate city street and, in the distance, a motorway. Above the motorway are green road signs bearing white arrows and the names of unfamiliar – perhaps now obsolete – roads.

In the bathroom is a GROHE hand shower, a hairdryer and a variety of toiletries in small bottles and boxes. One of the boxes is labelled
Shoe Sponge
. She isn't sure what to do with it. She wants it to say
Shower Cap
. She hasn't brought one.

She undresses. In front of the mirror, she unwinds her bandages. She peels the sheet of green gel protectant off her chest and stares at the spreading, gaping sore under it, which refuses to heal. She replaces the gel sheet with a new one.

‘It's a good day,' she tells herself. She tries to smile then notices a new tumour forming on her neck, expanding by the second. ‘It's not a good day.'

She transfers herself from the wheelchair to the seat under the shower.

The water falls. She sits still, staring at her body in the bathroom mirror.

Later, she watches TV, tuning in to the local accent. She reapplies her bandages while watching a DIY lifestyle segment on building a statement outdoor table setting. Another channel is screening a movie in which a woman sets fire to the curtains of a hotel room.

She lies on the bed and picks up the telephone. She holds the handset to her ear, listens to its low purr, puts it down and falls asleep.

When she wakes from her nap, the room is warm. She doesn't want to leave.

She wipes on some foundation. It sinks into the creases of her face, covering none of her imperfections.

It will have to do.

A staff member from the hotel stands at the entrance to the conference function room, next to a silver A4 poster stand. The sign is printed with the words:
The End Game Leadership Series
.

‘Ma'am,' says the usher, eyeing the tumour trying to push its way out of her neck. ‘Are you lost? The Curiosities are upstairs.'

‘I'm here for the End Game session. I'm the talent.'

‘Oh, I do apologise, I assumed …'

‘What are these Curiosities?'

The usher points to a poster on the wall.

The Portable Curiosities
,
it says.
A Public Warning.

‘It's a travelling exhibition, sponsored by the United Nations and run in partnership with Curiosity Inn. It berths at all our hotels around the world. It's free to the public, if you have time.'

‘I suspect I do.'

‘They're currently installed on the tenth floor in the East Gallery.'

There is introductory text at the gallery entrance but she wheels past it.

A series of large black boxes is arranged in rows across the floor.

On the front panel of each box is a small viewing window.

She peers into the first.

Under a spotlight, an elderly man in a nappy sits on a rotating golden disc. His skin is a sickly white, his muscles wasted. He is miming with great concentration. With both hands, he seems to be twirling an invisible stick on its axis, keeping it horizontal at all times.

In the second box is an old Asian lady. Her long hair, parted down the middle, hangs like two white curtains over her nappy. She sits wide-eyed on her rotating disc, watching her right hand move slowly through the air, twisting and turning, fingers separating and coming together. It is as if she has never seen a hand before.

In the third box, a black man with a white beard, his nappy discarded on the floor, has stepped off his circular platform and is pacing his box. Side to side, forward and back. His hands are clasped behind him and he speaks continuously, although she can't hear anything he's saying. He pauses occasionally to shake a finger at an imaginary audience.

She knocks on his window but he doesn't notice her.

‘I predicted you,' she says.

She knocks harder.

‘I predicted you,' she repeats, raising her voice.

He continues to pace and talk to his audience.

‘It looks like a mental asylum,' she says to herself.

‘Crazy old mimes, eh?' The usher from downstairs has suddenly appeared next to her. ‘Your session is about to start.'

*

There are just three people in the audience.

She watches them from the stage.

Two sit next to each other in the front row. They wave at the interviewer and blow kisses.

The third is the tweed man. He is sitting in an aisle seat in the last row, flicking through his notepad.

‘Welcome to this session of End Game,' says the interviewer, crossing her legs. ‘Today we have as a guest a woman who needs no introduction. The most notorious satirist in the world, once described as mankind's most dangerous individual, appears as a guest of Curiosity Inn – Where Curiosity Will Get the Best of You.'

‘What a slogan,' says the satirist.

‘You're ninety-seven years old this year,' continues the interviewer. ‘Let's rewind almost a century and revisit your childhood in Tasmania. Any early memories?'

‘When I was born,' says the satirist, ‘the doctor held me up to the light and said that it was unfortunate. I was Libran, he told my mother, with Satirist rising.'

‘You mean Sagittarius.'

‘No.'

The interviewer shifts in her seat and scans her notes. She clicks a button on a small remote, and an image appears on a large screen behind her.

‘This is a photo of you as a child,' she says. ‘A very pretty girl.'

‘I was extremely vain.'

‘You look quite different these days.'

‘I grow uglier by the second.'

‘How is that possible?'

‘My work is a special kind of demon. When I point out ugliness, I, too, grow ugly. When I cripple with my words, I, too, become lame.'

‘What do your friends say when you come to dinner with a new deformity?'

‘Dinner? Friends?' The satirist snorts. ‘Nobody stays friends with a lady devil.'

‘It can't be that bad. There must be people who haven't abandoned you.'

‘I keep myself clean of responsibilities to individuals. I've shed friends in order to protect them.'

The interviewer raises an eyebrow. She clicks the remote again. The next image appears on the screen. It is the cover of a book – black with the title in bold, white capitals.

‘This is, by far, your most famous work,' says the interviewer. ‘
The Self-Fulfilled Prophet
,
first published in 2015.'

‘You mean
The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
.'

‘Sure. Talk us through the origins of the book.'

‘Where to begin?' The satirist leans back in her wheelchair, crosses her arms. ‘The
Prophecy
was a satirical future history. It purported to be based on the movement of the planets. It was structured as a day-by-day, month-by-month and year-by-year account of the future, arranged by star sign. But as the world lost its imagination, the book was reinterpreted as actual prophecy. People began to remake the world in the image of the book. They started nonsensical wars that I'd plucked out of my arse. The Six-Point Pan-Amphibian Crusades. The Smaller Greater Peninsularis Conflict. History repeated itself in progressively absurd iterations. News headlines were copied straight from my work.'

‘It's rather a sweeping claim, isn't it? That the world might have religiously copied your fiction?'

‘Have you even read the thing?'

‘So you're saying the landscape of your satire has been mapped out before your very eyes.'

‘Worse still, the world has gone beyond the
Prophecy
, to a point of no return. It's a headless beast that keeps on charging. I'm to blame for a future I sought to prevent.'

‘Speaking of guilt,' says the interviewer, ‘you've been on wanted lists all over the world. Tell us about that.'

‘In the early years, assassins hoarded copies of the book. Those who lost the wars wanted to lynch me. They saw my pen as a bloodied sword, not the scalpel of a surgeon.'

‘How then were you able to travel here?'

‘I've been in hiding for many years. But when there's a need to travel, I do so under false identities. The instability of my appearance is helpful in this respect.'

‘How have you felt about your exile from Australia, in particular?'

The satirist shrugs.

‘How does anyone feel in exile from their homeland? One never fully adjusts. One always yearns, forever adrift. I laugh at my country from afar so that I don't have to weep for it.'

‘If you could go back, would you?'

‘Revisiting could be a mistake. I suspect that all that remains of the place is an intellectual black hole. Besides, as I grow older, I wonder if my exile isn't merely geographical. When I think about it, I've been in exile my entire life. Always on the fringe, never at the centre.'