Steeplechase (19 page)

It is easier to ride than to walk. Just a quick lap of the
hutong
. I step up onto the rusty frame. The chain creaks, the tyres are sluggish. They are probably flat or else I am too heavy. Fat white girl on a bicycle. Still, the slight breeze that is generated by my body moving through the air is pleasant. A car beeps behind me and I pull over to a shop door, rest my foot on the stair. Nothing happens fast here; I am struck by the lack of road rage. Cars beep, bicycles chime but this is to warn the rest of the traffic, a little burst of care, not impatience.

I sway through the strolling throng, light headed. A fug of stench wafts from a
hutong
toilet. My guts turn, I breathe through my mouth. I will not be sick. To do so I would have to walk into that wall of stench to vomit into a vulva-shaped ceramic hole in the ground. I ride past as quickly as I can. Breathe in the slightly cleaner air of a Korean cold noodle restaurant. Another barrage of unfamiliar smells, but I am holding up well. When I see him I have regained my confidence. His hands are thrust into the pockets of his shorts, sweat under the arms of his T-shirt.

Raphael. I know it is Raphael. I also know that it can't be Raphael.

Shared Delusional Syndrome. Folie à deux. I know what was wrong with me. I have been diagnosed and there is a certain relief in having a name for your troubles. I am cured now. The madness belonged to Emily, and I borrowed it from her for a while but now I am sane. This cannot be Raphael but here, looking at him close up, there is no question. This is him, here, after all these years.

A gaggle of teenagers run in front of me pointing into the window of a shop and I am forced to step off the bike before I tumble off it. He has ducked into a shop. That is the only place he could go. I walk my bike slowly past the rows of windows. I know he will be here somewhere, but when I walk the length of the street I haven't seen him at all. I turn, and perhaps that is him, vanishing down another alleyway. I climb back on the bike and ride after him, past him, but it is not the same man. It is someone much older, not the man I saw moments ago. Not Raphael. Not my Raphael. Not Emily's Raphael at all.

I suppose this foray is too soon. I am not well. There are toilets on every street and alley in the
hutongs
. That stink of human shit, the steady reek of urine. I will have to use one now. There is no helping this. Inside, I breathe through my nose. There are little porcelain recesses in the floor but no partitions between them. Squat toilets, rows of them. No toilet paper anywhere and I will need toilet paper. In the corner there is a basket of soiled tissues. I have tissues in my pocket. There is no one else in the room. If I hurry I can be done with it before anyone comes in.

I ease my pants down and squat at the furthest porcelain bowl from the door. It is the closest I can come to hiding. Still, I find it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. I am almost ready when an old woman shambles into the toilet block. She looks as old as my grandmother, perhaps older. She is small with a face wizened like a fallen apple. You can barely see her face through all the wrinkles. She is hunched almost in half and at first I imagine that her sight has gone because she shuffles over towards me. There are rows and rows of these toilet holes and yet she moves past them all and stands facing me where I am squatting. She lifts her skirt a little with one hand and then she lowers herself, rocking forward, backward, I imagine she might fall but when she is at her most precarious she reaches out with both of her hands and holds fast to my shoulders and makes the last of the crouch in this way.

I let her hold me. I close my eyes and clench my bowels despite the pain. I breathe through my mouth. When she is done she pushes herself up, using my shoulders. I keep my head bowed and my eyes closed and only open them when I hear her shuffling steps disappear out the entryway. And then I feel the embarrassing hot rush from my own bowels. It is some relief but I find that I am crying anyway. There is only a handful of days till the exhibition opening and then I will leave. I will go home and never accept an offer from Emily ever again.

I lean the bicycle against hers. It takes up all the courtyard. I have to sidestep the bikes to reach the door. There is something slipped under it, a letter. I recognise the handwriting because I have marked enough of his exam papers. He has tiny writing, the
g
is old fashioned, looping back on itself. He has a neat script and it is easy to read his name printed on the back.

I open the door and sit at the small table, rushing to open the envelope, tearing it, wrestling the paper out and onto the flat surface in front of me.

Inside John has written a short letter.

Dear B
I find that I am missing you very much. It is a shame you left exactly when you did. There was no time for a reconciliation. I have regrets. I think you do too. Classes are not the same without you, Old Paddy makes us do cut and paste like in kindergarten. Collage he calls it. What is this? The seventies?

Anyway, I walked past your place the other day and noticed that your jasmine was drooping. There has been no rain. I came back with a jug of water and now your jasmine and I have become great friends. She opened some flowers for me the other day. I enclose one here. I do hope the inclusion of this bud does not mean we have trouble with customs.

I hope you are enjoying your time with your sister. I hope you don't mind that I tracked down her current address. The internet is an amazing thing is it not?

I hope to see you on your return. I miss you greatly. I have already mentioned this but it is worth repeating.

Regards,

J

I fold the letter and put it in my pocket. I feel slightly better now. Still light-headed, still dizzy. Collage. The thought of it makes me smile, and the way he would say it, what is this? The seventies? He writes exactly as he speaks. Another one of his endearing qualities. I take the letter out of my pocket again. I read. His voice in my head. His clear, unique voice. I want him to be here. I want him to be sitting at the table with me, joking, lightening the mood. His cheerfulness protects me. I hold the letter to my nose. Sniff the paper. There is no trace of the scent of him at all. It smells like paper and perhaps a hint of dust, and I am strangely disappointed.

Incantation

We sit at the table and wait for Emily. Oma has her binoculars by her plate. She stands once again and moves to the window. She stares out into the growing dark. There is nothing to see. The rain alone would be enough to obscure the fenceline. Our mother seems agitated. She stands, and Oma grabs at her elbow, pushes her roughly back down to her seat. She opens the pot steaming on the stove and there is a deep rich smell of cardamon, basil, onions. She dips the ladle and scoops up the vegetable stew and slops it onto the plate in front of mother, who picks up the spoon and stares at it as if she has never seen one before.

I know how she feels. Dinner is ridiculous. Emily is still outside somewhere in the dark and here we are sitting down as if everything is ordinary. I chew at a mouthful of the stuff. Everything tastes like this, the same spices every night, the same vegetables, pumpkin, carrot, celery. I put my spoon back on my plate and chew until there is nothing I can do but swallow. The food is all in a lump. I feel it travelling too slowly down my oesophagus. I feel it stopping, swallow several times in an attempt to get it down. Just this one mouthful is a struggle. I look at the pile still on my plate. I glance out the window. It is almost completely dark. There is no moon. Rain is a blanket between us and the sky.

‘May I be excused for a moment Oma?'

She frowns. She was already frowning, her head tipped in the direction of the window as if waiting for something to appear in it, some spectre of my sister, pressing her hands against the glass.

‘Why?'

‘To use the bathroom?'

I do not need to use the bathroom, but I need a moment to myself before I attempt another spoonful of food.

She nods. Pushes her own food around on her plate as if the whole pot is spoiled. I shove my chair back and walk down the corridor to the bathroom. It feels like the house is a boat. I touch the wall lightly with my fingers for balance. The world is on a tilt but I am not sure which way it is tilting. It feels like the brushing of my fingertips against the faded paint is the only thing keeping me upright. The close walls of the toilet are a relief. I can lean one way and the cool wall is there to meet my shoulder. The other side is equally close, and if I lean forward far enough I feel the top of my head brush comfortingly against the door. I have been alone with a boy and Flame is dead and my sister is missing and nothing will ever be the same again.

I lean far enough forward to push the top of my skull against the door. I reach out with my elbows and press against the walls. Blood thuds in my head. Blood rushes to my face. I feel dizzy but there is an odd calmness in this feeling of suspended motion. Perhaps I can just sit here and do nothing for a while.

John and Raphael

When Emily does not return I wander back to the little café down the road. The waitress seems to remember me, although perhaps she is just over-friendly to any middle-aged western woman. I suppose we all look kind of the same.

I have his number on my phone. The phone itself is dutifully unlocked for overseas calls.
If you need me for anything.
Ed raised an eyebrow.
Go, Bec. Go. The university won't fall down without you.

It is a simple thing to call his number, adding the appropriate prefix. I could ask him about the jasmine.

I dial and the ring tone is unfamiliar, a reminder of the distance between us. Even his voice seems far away, shrouded in static. It reminds me of the voice I dug out of the silence between the disconnected tones. It reminds me of Raphael. John is real, I remind myself. Raphael is not.

‘Hey.'

And I say, ‘Hi.' There seems to be a delay, but when his voice comes it is a sweet solid thing.

‘Nee how,' he says. ‘That's hello isn't it?'

‘I think so.'

‘I've been practising in case you decided to call me. Invite me to run away with you to China. I assume that's why you're calling me now?'

‘Sure it is,' I tell him. And then, ‘Actually I'm just checking on my jasmine.'

‘Oh.' The delay is thick with all the miles between us. ‘Really?'

‘Maybe. I just got your letter.'

‘I like letters. Don't you? Better than emails, except you have to wait a while.'

‘Unless you send them priority post.'

‘Yeah. It is kind of expensive but if I sent it regular mail you would be home before it arrived.'

‘It was a nice touch. Despite the expense. Thank you.'

‘My plane ticket will be more expensive. I might have to borrow some money from my mother.'

‘Well, don't go borrowing it just yet.'

‘That's a shame. I was hoping this would turn out to be that call. I've been poised for it, you could say.' I smile. This banter is normal. John is normal. This is the world I have come from and the one that I will return to afterwards.

‘My sister's a bit crazy,' I tell him.

‘Oh really? Emily Reich is crazy? You should tell the media about that. Stop the presses.'

‘Yeah, okay.'

‘Your sister is a schizophrenic, Bec.'

‘I know.'

‘So does everyone.
Women's Weekly
knows that, Channel Nine News. Basically everyone in the western world knows that. Maybe half of China by now.'

‘I suppose I'd forgotten.'

‘Are you okay though? She hasn't hurt you?'

‘No. She hasn't.'

‘Cause I am not joking. My mum will be happy to buy me a ticket. I can be there in twenty-four hours—except waiting for the visa. God, how long did that take? Ages.'

‘I'm fine.'

‘It's no problem. I would love to come to China.'

‘So you can see Emily Reich?'

‘No,' and then a little pause. I can hear him breathing, a real live person breathing. ‘To see you actually.'

My turn to pause, my turn to breathe into the phone. His turn to listen to my breath grow heavy with worry.

‘John.'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you have an imaginary friend as a kid? Someone you really believed in?'

‘No. But I jumped off the roof of a car once because I thought I could fly.'

‘What happened?'

‘I fell down.'

‘Did you hurt yourself?'

‘Of course I did. Bec, is there something wrong? Because if Emily hurts you I am going to come over and kill her. And then I'll steal all her paintings and flog them off on the black market and be really rich and marry you and live happily ever after.'

I should be laughing; would be if it wasn't for Raphael.

Raphael is all grown up now. He is a flesh and blood man settling down on the chair across from me.

‘Hello?'

Too long a pause this time I suppose, but I open my mouth to reassure John and find that I am lost for words.

‘Bec?'

‘John.' A thin sound summoned from the sudden void in my chest.

‘Seriously, I am hours away. Should I hit Mum up? She'll be so cool with it. If I tell her I have a girlfriend she'll mortgage her house for joy.'

‘No, John. It's fine. I'll call you later.'

‘You better.'

‘I will.'

‘Bec?'

Raphael reaches out a hand and touches mine. His hand is warm and real. John's voice is a little distant thing on the end of a bad line, barely audible at all as he tells me, ‘I love you Bec. I really do. I miss you a lot.'

‘Okay,' I say, and then, hurriedly, ‘Bye.'

Raphael is here at the table with me. He turns and with his free hand, the one that isn't slipping his fingers between mine, he waves to a waitress. She sees him. She can see him. Raphael speaks to her in Mandarin and she nods.

‘She can see you.'