Spotted Lily (20 page)

—31—

We bought the
Herald
at a kiosk in front of the post office. The show wasn't on the arts pages. It was splashed on Page One. There was a convenient bench nearby.

 Two pictures showed respectively, the defaced banners, and Brett's largest drawing (this picture spread over half the front page). The headline read 'ART SHOW BANNED AS OBSCENITY: Demands for artist to be charged with blasphemy'.

Brett was prostrate. After an initial stare at the pictures, he handed me the paper. 'Read it to me.'

'"Following the direct intervention of Communication and Arts Minister—" Oo, hoo! And
you
think you have intervention problems!'

'Just read please.'

'"... after heavy lobbying by the bible study group of Federal MPs and the Reverend Malcolm Rowd, NSW state Upper House MP and leader of the Christian Democracy Party, the management of the Art Gallery decided 'with deep regret, in the interests of the institution's future' to axe the exhibition, despite announcing a few months earlier that the Lily Retrospective would be the centrepiece of the museum's program this year." Did you get that, Brett? The centrepiece?'

'Is there more?'

I skimmed. 'You have much support. The public is on your side.'

'Who?'

'Well, the Arts Council is outraged. We are the laughing stock of the world ... You've got a lot of scientific heavies behind you ... Kew Gardens, lots of people you wouldn't know. The Wilderness Society ... Ooh, Prince Charles. If he sends a letter, can I keep it? And the Labia Lovites is holding a demo on the museum steps at two o'clock. Wanna go?'

Apparently not.

'The rest of the stuff is technical. You're not interested, are you?'

'Yes, my dear. If I'm to assimilate, I need to understand.'

'Well, it seems as if you might be able to win in the courts if you want to fight, as this falls between departments. They are quoting some statutory authority's right to ban something if, and I quote, it offends the standards of morality, decency and propriety generally accepted by reasonable adults.'

A sardonic laugh interrupted me. 'Excuse me,' he said.

'Laughing's healthy.'

'Then make me laugh.'

'Technically the standard that must be met is "discrete genital detail".'

'Hell isn't a good place to learn to be discrete,' he apologized.

'Bigger isn't always better,' I explained.

'I've always been in the larger picture.'

'Size isn't everything.'

'It seems to be, here,' he said, and pointed to his trunk. 'Nobody would ban that book, would they? Or would they?'

'Where'd you find it anyway?' I asked, narrowly catching myself before letting on what I thought of it.

'It's a library discard. I bought it at what you call Saint Vinnie's. For twenty cents.'

'Well, that just shows how hot a property you have in that trunk of yours.'

'And who says it's genital?' he asked.

'The eye of the beholder. By the way, did Percy marry?'

'No.'

'What a fascinating man.' I rustled the newspaper. 'Want to know more?'

'There's more?'

'The plot thickens. The labia thing isn't even law. It's an interpretation made by the Office of Film and Literature Classification, a government-appointed body that decides which films, books and magazines can be viewed by everyone, which by those over eighteen, and which are banned outright. If your show opens again—'

'A widdle old woman of Tyre—'

'Don't,' I laughed. 'I'm serious.'

'You're making it up!'

I lowered the paper. 'My dear Brett. I wish I had the imagination.'

'Is there more?'

'The yummiest part. It would be illegal to even advertise the exhibition anywhere in Australia, with fines of eleven-thousand dollars and one year's jail for individuals, or two-hundred and fifty-thousand big ones, for companies that defy the ban. You could be jail-meat! And you with your lovely tail.'

He touched his crotch, a reflex action.

'Then, Section seventeen of the Victorian Summary Offences Act makes it an offence to exhibit or display an indecent or obscene word, figure or representation in a public place within the view of any person in that place.'

'What does that have to do with here? We're in a different state.'

'Nothing. But it's added weight.'

'Then, and this is the blasphemy part...'

I couldn't read it. I was laughing too hard.

'Oh, Flabberdeephoo!!' he cried, and grabbed at the paper, thereby ripping it in two.

'Patience is a virtue,' I continued. 'Now, the Reverend Rowd, our hard-working Upper House MP,
your
MP if you become a resident of this state, wants anyone satirizing the church to be charged with blasphemy.'

He slapped the back of the bench so hard, a flock of pigeons exploded into flight. It was a healthy explosion for us, if helpless laughter is healthy.

'If I'm convicted?' he sputtered, 'what's the sentence? ... No!' His hand stopped me mid- mouth-open. 'Which is worse? Spending time in one of your jails, or rotting in hell for all eternity?'

'With your looks, Brett...'

Eventually he asked, 'Does your stomach hurt, too?'

'Mm hm.'

'A good hurt, isn't it?'

~

During our conference on the bench, many people had stopped for a bit to look at us—Brett, actually. A little boy now stared at Brett. The kid was so close I could have kicked him. Brett was slumped on the bench with his eyes closed, a smile on his face. A little meditation to digest the stomach-aching ways of us mortals.

The boy emptied the rest of a box of Smarties chocolates into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and threw the box. Its edge hit Brett's mouth.

The brat knew crowds well. He stepped back to be just out of kicking range, and grinned.

Brett sat up abruptly. 'The little fiend!' he muttered, but he did nothing.

'Flick him the Bic!' I whispered.

'Say what?'

'Your flaming hand! Flick your thumb, goddamit, before his blasted mother pitches up.'

His voice was low, and it shook. 'Angela, I am not a mere conjurer!'

As my hot blood mottled my cheeks and the brat watched, entranced by the results of his experiment, Brett disappeared in a puff of stench.

~

No one noticed but myself and the boy.

I grinned.

He ran, screaming soundlessly toward the newsstand where his mother was just leaving, clutching her
New Idea
.

There was nothing to grin about.

Our few moments, after all our time together, when we finally clicked—fhuff!

I had hurt his feelings. Well, he hurt mine. He thought that his exhibition was for me, but didn't think of how I would feel—a nothing.

It was good to have those admiring eyes on me. But afterwards, it was Brett, the artist. Brett, Brett, Brett. No one asked me about my book. I was goggled at, but not interested in.

Three people now shared my bench, digging into their takeaway lunches. Fruit salad, falafel roll, prawn sandwich. A pigeon with one leg picked up the falling bits.

I had half a newspaper, torn lengthways.

In my bag was nothing. It was part of the clothing that Brett had supplied, but it was just a bag—just something to hold on to. Being with Brett, I hadn't needed anything in my bag.

It was anybody's guess when he would return, but the hotel was two blocks away.

—32—

'The Hartshorn suite.'

'Do you know which number, madam?'

'I wish you wouldn't call me madam, you little worm in a bad-fitting uniform,' I said. Actually, I didn't, but I wish I had.

'No,' I said. 'I didn't notice.'

'Well, we'll look,' he said, all warningly camp. 'And here you are, Missus Hartshorn,' he announced. 'Suite four sixty.'

I put my hand on the counter to take possession of their stupidly dumb-belled key.

'Thanks, and...' I corrected him. 'I'm not Missus Hartshorn.'

'Mizz,' he corrected, over-correctly.

'I'm not Mizz Hartshorn either,' I snapped, bitch to bitch, and a moment later, regretted that I hadn't bitten my tongue off. What did I care what he called me, anyway?

'I do apologize, madam. I'll just be a moment.'

He turned to a screen that faced toward him. 'Your name, madam?'

'Lily.'

'Surname, please.'

'Lily.'

'Ah, yes. And Christian name?'

'Desirée. Or Angela.'

'Um ... hah. I'm afraid you are not registered with Mister Hartshorn.'

'Try Pendergast.'

He went
click click
on the keyboard and turned toward me.

'For our guests' protection, you understand. I'm afraid you must wait for Mister Hartshorn.'

'I came in last night with Mister blinketyblink Hartshorn!'

His delight was so blatant, his little butt wiggled. 'We respect our guests' tastes, madam,' he said, examining the pores on my nose, 'regardless ... but you can't expect me to open the door of his suite to someone he slept with last night who is not accompanied by him now.'

We gazed at each other until I blinked.

'I'll wait,' I said, turning towards a sofa.

'Would madam like a cup of coffee or tea?' he chirruped. 'It would be our pleasure... on the house.'

Madam had a cup. It was bitter, and no one had remembered the sugar or cream or milk, or even artificial whitener. That was lunch.

For an hour, I watched the hotel lobby traffic—as interesting as an airport lounge. I watched a man read a whole, untorn
Sydney Morning Herald
. When he left, dropping it in his chair, I nonchalantly pounced.

Page One, I knew.

Page Two, local and uninteresting.

Page Three, World, unmitigated war, and more expected. Turn the page fast, so as not to fall into that abyss again.

I was in the middle of turning the page when a man sitting next to me, whose stomach rested on his thighs, accidentally on purpose jolted my elbow. I rooster-winged outwards, but he didn't move. Blazing unmistakable unfriendliness, I eye-balled him.

'Maw bad news,' he said, digging his mass deeper into the cushions. 'Hear about yestiday?'

'Nope!'

He sighed with the sound a walrus must make. A walrus that eats donuts for breakfast. 'Not inter-rested?'

'Couldn't give a shit, mister.' That should do it.

It didn't. He smiled so big, I could see his tonsils out of the corner of my eye. 'Least you're not one a them wah protestahs.'

I beamed my full force of personality straight into his little blue eyes. The problem was, they were closed, and his face was in a state of rapture.

'The lawd is a man of wah,' he said, 'Exodus, chaptah fifteen, verse three.'

'There you are, Orin.' A person who was his match, but of another sex, bustled up and though she stood on my foot, I felt blessed.

'We gotta go,' she apologized to me. 'The bus.'

The sofa rose at his rising, and he waved in parting. 'Nice talkin to yuh.'

Their package-tour travel bags were printed with that fish that folks display who aren't inter-rested in fish.

Another of their group vacated a nearby chair, so in a trice, me and mah newspapah were nestled between its arms.

'Enough of the
goddamn
news,' I muttered loudly, and no one gasped. They must have all boarded.

I flicked to the Arts section.

Simone—Simone of Kate's place, Simone of the dress to suit the man, Simone of the black satin sheets loaned to Brett, with her wish to be inserted between them, and him between her legs. Simone, now taking up a good part of the arts section column space, smiled out at me. Simone—straddling a thick, black, headline:

KITCHEN'S TALES SPARK BIDDING WAR

Australia's wildest publishing success, "Barbara" is at the centre of a bidding war involving 10 publishers.

Simone Kitchen's faux diary of a serial diarist is iconoclastic, unambiguously ambitious, a tour de force. A stunningly written send-up that is part picaresque, part Bildungsroman. With the wry courage of a clear-eyed cynic, Kitchen's deadpan prose makes us squirm ...

I was squirming, all right. When did
she
begin to write?

Simone Kitchen's faux diaries look set to be a high point in annual releases, for years to come. Kitchen plans to give her international following one uproarious "journal" a year, delving further and further into the life and times of her unforgettable anti-heroine, "until I get bored with her", she quips.

Kitchen herself is famously coy about ending the Barbara series. "Like vegemite she will! Barbara is a serial diarist!" avers her manager and now husband, wedded last month at the Isle of Jersey, Gordon Thirk.

Gordon! My Gordon! The unfaithful bastard! And that bitch!

Barbara Heart, Kitchen's invention of Sisyphean ambition, is a character as contemporary as a boiling hot glass of latté, and as classic as Lolita herself.

My heart was pounding so loudly, I couldn't hear myself think. Putting down the paper, I composed my thoughts.

Then I ran three blocks to the nearest bookstore. On the window:

FIFTEEN WEEKS ON THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LIST

The window display was stacks of her book, the cover imitation-journal, in the style of a book meant for sequels, instantly brand-recognizable.

I ran into the store and wasn't the nicest person in the way I elbowed to the pile near the door. Grabbing a
Barbara
, I made my way to the dictionary section, where I could read in peace.

The dedication was
To Gordon, simply

The next page had only one line, a faux disclaimer so witty that I grinned, despite myself:

The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

There was nobody near me, so I sat, the better to read.

The book was phenomenal. A completely realistic journal, the exact way that someone would write up every single day, every plan, dream, success, every bedding, longing, thought, every soggy wad of rumination. It was a masterpiece of realism, down to this scrawled snaking-around-the-margin note:

TRY-ON NUMBER 5: James asked again if he could sleep with me. I again rejected him with gentle élan. He asked if I had saved my hair. My hair! I think if I had said yes, he would have asked for a dread as a fetish. Eeew!

Only the names had been changed.