Quipu (19 page)

“Piffle. Australia sends millions of tons of wheat to Asia.”

“A pittance and you know it. An effective solution’s going to need more than shipping off our surplus grain on time payment. There’s just not enough caring. That’s why we march. Tom, it’s your generation that’s been brainwashed. You’d rather spend billions on weapons and useless pollutive gimmicks than on saving half of mankind from hunger and disease.”

“Be realistic,” Nourse says, stoking his pipe. “They’d just go on breeding like rabbits and starving in even greater numbers.”

Ray Finlay can scarcely credit this. Is the man literally deranged after all? But abusive invective wins no converts. “Indeed, that’s possible. If we keep them so poor they can’t spare resources for education. If we cut off their markets, distort their economies, force them to sell their oil and produce dirt-cheap by pointing a gun at their heads—”

“It’s the way of life they’ve chosen, Ray. Look at Japan, a miracle.”

“Propped up with American money. But yes, Japan shows what can be done if we’re prepared to spend the cash.”

“Why should we?”

“I could mention ‘Love thy neighbor’.”

“Be practical, Ray.” Nourse squints at him with amusement. “Anyway, I thought you were rather proud of giving up your religion?”

“Religion crap,” Marjory says angrily. “It’s simple justice. Listen, we did it to them! Just like we gave the aborigines poisoned flour and poxy blankets. We’ve got rich on their backs. We sailed in with gunboats and smashed up their economies, we gave them the elementary techniques to cut child mortality without allowing them to industrialize properly…I mean, these are clichés, for God’s sake, truisms—”

“You’re both talking like bloody communists.”

“Facts, Tom. No interpretation necessary. Left and right can exploit those facts but they didn’t create them. We have dues to pay,” Ray says, conscious of his overwhelming moral superiority to this dreadful barbarian. “Our first duty is to get our damned sticky fingers out of what remains in the pot. Instead, we toss the change from our pockets into the crowd and put our fortunes into military dictatorships.”

In the tired silence, Marjory rouses herself to pour fresh tea. Ray lights a cigarette. Have to give them up. Useless pollutive gimmicks indeed. He coughs.

“You see, Ray,” Tom Nourse says, “I’m sorry, but that’s the way the world is. There are no simple solutions.”

“Nixon thinks half a million troops is a simple solution. The Pentagon and the Kremlin think there’s one buried in concrete silos, waiting for someone to light the blue touch paper.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to use nuclear weapons,” Nourse says judiciously. “We all agree that’s a very bad way to fight a war. Some of my friends in the Defence Department are working on chemical methods that are much more humane.”

And Marjory flares finally. Ray feels his skin tighten. It is almost terrifying. It is like magnesium igniting in a darkroom.

“Yes,” she says in a funny high voice, “that’s the difference isn’t it. Between us and you. We just can’t get it into our silly heads that one way of killing people is more humane than another. It’s sad for your balanced evaluations, but we have a strange notion that war is absolutely filthy and utterly unjustifiable. We reject the whole thing and the whole society that wants it right from its stinking foul premises.”

An intolerable desolation darkens Ray’s spirit.

What she says should be true, but where does morality lie? Confounded in a bad pun. He knows he will rejoice when and if the revolutionary warriors march victorious into Saigon and Phnom Penh. If there are bloodbaths of reprisal, likely enough, despite the bland assurances of the spokesmen for the left, he can see that he will shrug them off in calculations of justice and
realpolitik
. It is a matter of estimating consequences, his old bugbear. Like Joseph Williams, he yearns for tachyons to carry messages from the future. Or the realization of his dream of a calculus of systems, an authentic basis for sociological prediction, a scientific theory of history that works on the fine grain. But where then would be freedom? In the absence of utopia, he knows there is no simple pacifism. He has read Fanon, who teaches that the black man can regain dignity only by killing his white persecutor.

Tom Nourse takes no offence at his daughter’s quivering outburst. “It’s man’s nature,” he explains. “There’s no sense in getting angry about it. The whole universe is competitive.”

It is a point Ray will concede, in his bleaker moments. Is it not the impulse behind his fascination with I.Q. tests, with the Burt dogma of inherited gifts? Marj, true to form, can’t see it that way.

“Oh, right. Human beings are just another stack of statistics. Punch them into a Balance of Payments computer program.”

“You’ll understand when you get older,” Nourse assures her. “But don’t misunderstand me. The difference between the society we enjoy and what you propose is that you want us to give up our high standard of living. My friends want India and those other countries to have the same high standard of living. Level up, not down, you see.” It is dark outside now. Time for dinner. Nourse gets to his feet. “It’s been nice seeing you again, Ray. Come round and visit, Marjory. If there’s a program you want to watch on the television.”

Doris Nourse, hiding at the edge of the table, gathers her things together and gives Marj a kiss and a hug. “Now don’t get too near those mounted policemen,” she warns. “The horses sometimes get frightened by all the people.”

At the door, Tom Nourse turns and extends his hand. “And thank you for the discussion. I might be an old square, but I always like to hear both sides.” The door clicks shut. There is a hysterical silence. Ray Finlay dumps cups and glasses into the sink and hopes Marjory will wait until her parents have reached the street. Behind his shoulder, he hears a strident, torn, high-pitched laugh.

1970: foreign aid

Blessed Saint Kilda

May 12 70

Look love it’s like this:

A certain quantity of money has come into my hands. I’ve got more than $1300 in the bank right now and my need is not great. So herewith, five hundred bucks so you can stop shoveling shit.

I’m being awfully presumptuous, and if you’d rather not, just send it back. But I thought it’d be pleasant if you had the option to piss your job off and study full time, or at least work only one day a week (say) waitressing. I assume you can get the full $200 student loan mentioned in the handbook. I won’t want this back for a long time, and if worst comes to worst I can always use my degree to get another job.

The Moratorium here, as you will have read, was luverly. Vast and very peaceful. Bumped into a bunch of first-year kids, recognized one of them (lives up the street from my parents, I coached her brother in physics last year), went sadly away full of yearning for the coming force of Wimmens Lib when the silly creatures started an excited conversation about palmistry (some buffoon on telly, evidently): who they were fated to marry, when and where. Looking into the future was apparently, for them, limited solely to that blissful and inevitable consummation. Hell’s teeth.

This household is giving me the shits—just sitting around, I mean, reading a bit but bugger all else. Martha’s seriously considering giving up teaching, which I find a vile prospect: the baby home all day too, mewling and puking. Absurdly, I can’t think of anything else to write about. There’s been nothing dramatic or tragic for miles in any direction. Visitors from Sydney; big deal, you see them all the time, or don’t know them. Karen’s given up screwing for two weeks until her twat heals after some unnameable operation. Gray gray and nothing’s afoot. So I’ll bid thee good night for the nonce and to bed.

love to all

J.

1970: taking it

May 16

My dear Bandersnatch

The check was all a bit much. My spontaneous reaction was to send it back, but, thinking about it…I haven’t. Probably because I’m so stuffed, feeling dreadful. I’m at the end of my tether & I’ve got exams in June & my only real hope of scraping thru is to chuck the job.

I have friends in Paddo who are opening a shop where I can sell stuff I make—they have a sewing machine, maybe I can make clothes or toys out the back of the shop. Any orders?

The Socialists’ Scholars Conference begins on Thursday so if you’re coming up I’ll expect you Wednesday.

Got the photos I took of you. They’re pretty bad, you’re so tense you look as though you’re about to crack in two.

Hope to see ya. Any of the Shakespeare Grove people are welcome, but will have to bring blankets & sleep on the floor.

Terribly tired.

Caroline

boxed in

IRON LUNG

Certain diseases and injuries can paralyze the muscles of the chest to such an extent that breathing is impossible. Since respiration is essential to life, machines have been devised to take over the job of the muscles for such patients.

The iron lung is a large, air-tight container with a pump or diaphragm allowing internal pressure to be increased or decreased in a regular cycle.

The patient’s body, with the exception of the head, is totally enclosed within the iron lung. As the internal pressure builds, the air inside the patient’s lungs is forced out. When it drops, the chest expands and draws air in.

Naturally the machine has to opened from time to time, to permit washing, excretion and medical attention, and during these intervals the patient’s head is enclosed by a dome or mask attached to the pump.

The iron lung was invented by Philip Drinker, an American, in 1929. With the control of poliomyelitis (a severe paralyzing illness) by the Salk vaccine, the machine became less important in medicine.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of its use is that people can tolerate such an existence. But the human spirit can flourish in infirmity. Indeed, one Australian woman doomed to spend her life in an iron lung has actually conceived and given birth despite her affliction.

1970: civilization and its discos

5 Rozelle

June 2nd

Dear Pog,

A day late, I just finished a 3000 word essay (rang them with the news that I’d had a minor car accident) on Conflict in Societies. I’m awash with it. Got in my bit on glorious western civilization (My Lai) versus controlled hostilities in savage tribes. I was so bold as to say that egalitarianism is fascist—you’re familiar with the argument. Pretty old hat, but still…

Cockroach Tavern is full of loonies and screaming nutters and boring turds and interesting passers-through. Aggression and bad vibes resound in the halls.

After the few days visiting with you in Melbourne I felt nothing but happiness. Contentment, warm inside. Hope you felt the same. I came down almost immediately with violent bronchial flu. I know, I know, you warned me—so? I don’t care, I’m happy sharing your yoghurt and licking your spoon.

A local photographer has offered to use some of my crocheting in a color spread for
POL
, when I have enough of it done. My God! Lanie nude in
Chance
(maybe, if she gets her nerve up) and me in
POL
!

I visited Martin Sharp’s exhibition this afternoon. Exciting, very phallic stuff, brilliant colors, cartoon twists and satiric images splashed over traditional prints. I wandered around exhilarated by the pumping music and zany words scattered and resounding. All of that was rather shrouded, I admit, by the blaring black prices—$50 for a print poster in an edition of 10 or 20, $1200 for a painting, $1100 for a collage—Christ, he’ll be the wealthiest hippie in London!

Evidently his prices were lower at first until he discovered the impact he’s made in Australia, the charisma sparking from his name. So he bumped the prices up. Can’t blame him. While I was there I spotted him wandering through the crowd, the artist in full bloom. You’d have enjoyed his satiric obscenity.

Margie has found a new gentleman friend and is thoroughly In Love. From this I deduce that he’s neither tugging her pants down nor biting her boobs.

no more, no more,

Caroline

1983: pants and boobs

On Brian’s express orders, Joseph accompanies him to a Saturday afternoon barbecue. Everyone there is glossy with social competence. No red sauce runs down their chins, no sausage leaps to the dried-out grass from seared fingers. How is it that Wagner knows people of this stamp? Good God, one of them is Howard, editor and appliance-fancier from Science Today Publications. All those years ago. Balding, bland, cheerful.

Nice to see you again, Joe. You’ll have some Chablis?

It’s true. Howard remembers everything and knows the meaning of nothing. Rather like Joseph’s own case, put that way.

Must go on my hostly way, Joe. Glad you could get here.

Joseph retreats to the farthest extent of the yard, gazes down on the pool and its sagging nylon cover, safety net for leaves, dust, pensioned-off spiders.

Hello, I’m Mandy.

She is plain, short, female.

Brian tells me you used to work with him.

Not exactly.

It’s too difficult to explain, so he smiles at her instead.

Come away with me Mandy, and we shall all the pleasures prove. But his ears redden, how can he carry this sort of thing off?

Naughty.

She’s scribbling on a piece of notepaper.

Call me about the middle of next week. I’m just too exhausted right now, just got back from Bali.

I like your suntan, Joseph tells her in a frenzy of hope.

He inveigles Wagner into accompanying him by taxi (Wagner’s car is on the point of death) to Mandy’s apartment on the following Friday night. Trembling and full of preposterous terror.

She gives them coffee. A very plain young person, when all is said and done, but she’s been to interesting places. In her car they dash into town for a bit to eat, a movie. Wagner insists on a monstrous and pretentious pub in the middle of the city. Joseph is rather shocked. He has always assumed that the inner metropolis is dedicated entirely to nasty department stores and yawning glassy caverns of finance. Beaten copper, Aztec patterned carpet, dark wells of snug seduction.