The Point (41 page)

Me! Mad obsession! That’s rich. Coming from you. Hunched over a bloody computer after who knows what. The meaning of knowledge. What the fuck’s that?

At least I’m something more than a short-order cook, filling the bellies of a bunch of the undeserving rich.

So it went, unforgivable things were said, things that neither believed but could not believe the other would say. Jerome left at the height of his rage. I’ll see you when I see you, he said. And Flora screamed after him, Never will be too soon!

He went along the lake before turning up the road by the art gallery. He walked blindly along, battered with the misery of the fight. The night was quite cold, in a pleasant way, spring cold coming into summer, not winter cold, his hot face liked the freshness of the air and he could feel it cooling his anger. His swollen brain was soothed by its soft touch, as though a cool fond hand was smoothing his brow. Does either of us mean these things, he wondered, surely we don’t. If we do there’s no hope for us. They’d had a lot of tiffs lately. Tiffs. Full blown arguments. Did that mean love had died? Or was it another phase of it, this miserable impotent bashing at one another, each trying to change the other into the ideal beloved? He thought, maybe we are no good for each other, maybe we should part, make Flora’s
never
come true, but that thought pierced his chest with such a sharp pain that he did not think it could have any value in it. By the time he got to his house he was thinking that perhaps he had been unkind, that Flora was overwhelmed by this blasted Slow Food dinner, mad obsession he had said her food was and this dinner was only one manifestation of it, he did not think he was anywhere near as obsessed as she was, it was just simply interest on his part, needing busyness, his desire to know, a human trait of a quite normal kind, yes it was certainly strong in him but nothing like her obsession with her perfect dishes, and he should have understood that, when she said that silly thing about his words and coloured scarves out of a magician’s pocket he should just have smiled and let it pass, said, Yes, my love, but come to bed before too long, I do so miss you. But that might have enraged her too, the idea that all he could think of was her hurrying to bed when she had so much to do. But he should have tried to be kind, he could see that.

The moon had come out and was shining on his house, whitening the pale stucco that surrounded the dark cave of the porch. A fine example of early Canberra architecture which he usually paid attention to, but not now. He was tired, he was ready to go to bed, the argument had exhausted him, he wouldn’t be able to do any work tonight. He wondered how Flora would manage, she must be even more tired, but he knew she would push doggedly on.

The automatic light came on, dispelling the colourless silvery brightness of the moonlight, transforming the dark cave of the porch into a welcoming warm entrance. The indigo-coloured petunias in pots glowed velvety dark in the yellow light, the panel of blue and yellow Spanish tiles was as mysterious as ever. He let himself in and tapped in the code to turn off the burglar alarm. He stood in the hall, listening to the imperfect silence of the house. Then he turned the alarm on again, put the keys back in his pocket and took the path back to the lake. He would go and make sure she was all right, he’d walk back and see if he could get her to come home with him. He was still tired, but firmly walking didn’t make him any more so, there was a calm and relaxed quality in it, and there was the good feeling of going back to look after Flora. Not just good, necessary. And when he got there he could take her thin strong violent beloved body in his arms, and all would be well.

Flora washed her burning face under the tap, splashed cold water over the soft fuzz of her head to cool her brain which was hot and tight and felt like bursting. Be calm, she said to herself. It was dreadfully hot in the kitchen, or was it just her, she could feel a tide of heat surging and rising through her body. Surely it couldn’t be a hot flush? There was no way she could be menopausal yet. Though it did happen unnaturally early to some people. Maybe that would solve some problems. But choosing not to have children wasn’t the same as being past it. Being fertile wasn’t a matter of doing; it was being that was important.

She opened the window, and breaths of the cool night air wafted in. With them came the mimosa scent of the catkins on the willow sculpture. How beautiful the sculpture was, to look at and to smell, it was her doing, she had made it happen, and she could stand at her kitchen window breathing in the sweetness of its presence and its making. She felt calm, now. She took up the menu as she had worked it out so far. The carp would be okay, she was making that into a hot mousse, not so light as a soufflé, though she still needed to do some work on the sauce, she fancied it would need just a breath of chilli. And maybe some water chestnuts, for their crunchy texture and sweetness of flavour. It needed to be quite robust, carp being a robust fish. She sat on a stool at the bench, thinking, her mind clear but vague, enfolding the idea of carp, and a fish fumet, a faint hint of chilli, water chestnuts. Creaminess? A buerre blanc? No, too rich. She gazed at the willow sculpture. The moon was out now, it was shining on the slope of grass, the looming shadow-slashed bulk of the library, drenching them with its light but blanching them of all their colour. The shadows were very black, the pattern of the screen across the ground dense and impenetrable. Moon-blanched: it was one of those phrases that are somehow too poetic, you can use them in the recesses of your mind but there is something faintly embarrassing about uttering them. You wouldn’t say moon-blanched to anyone. Well, maybe to Jerome, that was the good thing about him, you could say such things. Salsify: that was a thought. Famous for its faint flavour of oysters. What about a little puree of salsify? Or possibly a small rösti-like cake, julienne strips formed into a little patty, deep-fried, crisp. Water chestnuts, salsify, the denseness of the carp … her mind put the tastes and textures together, her tongue moved in her mouth, saliva formed. Salsify would be more interesting than fennel, less obvious. But was it maybe finishing? Slow Food vegies have to be in season. She considered. Salsify should be around and fresh well into spring, but will Anabel still have any?

She was sitting in her mild ruminating daze, tasting the various versions of the dish with delicate probings of her tongue, her jaws gently moving as though she were rolling something around in her mouth, against her palate, her tongue, the roof of her mouth, nipping it with her teeth, finally letting it slide towards her throat and swallowing. Not chilli with the salsify, the delicate earthy oyster flavour demanded another edge of hotness. She imagined ginger. Or what about wasabi? There was no Eureka moment yet. She had not even got to the point where she would try the flavours with real ingredients.

A swift dark movement in the corner of her eye startled her. Her heart jumped. She lost track of carp and chilli and salsify. It took a minute for her eyes to find what the movement was. A moth. A Bogong moth.

Flora knows about Bogong moths. How they in their millions fly south to estivate in the Brindabellas. How their peanut-sized abdomens are full of delicious proteins and fat. Tasting like burnt almonds, nutty, sweet, brown. How the Aborigines cooked them, roasting them on hot stones, about a minute on each side. Sometimes using round river cobbles to grind the roasted moths into a paste to make moth cakes. Moth cakes. They sound as impossibly romantic as moon-blanched. Like something fairies would eat. This was the land of the moth hunters, once. The land of the moth hunters. The name has a mythical resonance, but there was nothing mythical about the people who stored Bogong fat in their sleek bodies to nourish them through harsh times.

Several more moths have flown in. The new Parliament House has been found to draw enormous numbers of Bogong moths, its myriad lights on the hill pulling them in like magnets, when they perish in this lost way to their summer resting camps. Now Flora’s small bright lantern of The Point is calling to them.

Several more fly in. She catches them as they blunder about in the shadowless space of the kitchen and puts them in a bowl covered with a cloth. Bogong moths. Roasted. Made into moth cakes. Tasting like burnt almonds. The food of the moth hunters. Simple, immemorial, vital.

Yes.

Jerome has arrived back at The Point. He sees her through her kitchen windows, among her dazzling surfaces of copper and steel. He sees her moving about. Sees her intense concentration. He realises he cannot disturb her. She is still working, she will be angry if he interrupts. He doesn’t want her even to see him, that will count as an interference. He wanders along the lake edge, turns, comes back. Walks around the restaurant. Stands on the point of land jutting into the lake. Looks back at the arched and glowing spaces of the dining room; all the lamps are still lit. Walks back. The willow screen smells sweetly of honey. He discerns a curled shape against the wall and realises it is Gwyneth, fast asleep. He is walking softly as a cat, he doesn’t disturb her.

He watches Flora in her kitchen, watches her like a stranger, like a spectator at a play. He feels breathless with the concentration of it. It’s a bit creepy as well. This is Flora whom he loves, who gives him the familiar quivering feeling in the pit of his stomach, the lifting turning leap in his gut that he knows as love. Yet he is watching her with the cool gaze of a stranger. He watches the swift bare grace of her movements. Wonders what it is that she is doing, sees with puzzlement that she is collecting something, examining, putting them in a bowl. Realises when she scoops her hand in the air that it is moths flying in her open window that she is catching. Her pale-gold shimmering head like the droughty bloom of Monaro grasslands. Even hears her say, softly to herself, Moth cakes, as though she is eating the words.

She comes to the front door and goes out into the garden in front of the restaurant. Jerome steps behind the screen. She searches a bit, bending over, squatting down, touching the ground with her hands, then picks up a rock, a large flat rounded river stone, smooth, not jagged or broken, and takes it inside. She lights the largest burner on the immense industrial stove, the burner used for quick searing of meat, or under the wok in stir-fries. She carefully places the stone on it, the flames roar up.

The moth hunters would have heated their stones in open fires, this fierce gas flame should do the job.

Jerome comes out from behind the screen. He suddenly feels that watching Flora like this is a kind of violation. It demeans them both. You should not spy on someone you love. He will wander silently up and down the edge of the lake, until he sees that she is finished, ready to go, and then gently he will come to her and they will walk home together, quietly and full of peace.

Flora has put on the heavy gauntlet gloves she uses for hot pans. She is watching the stone to see when it might be ready. She has her papers on the bench beside the stove, needing to write down times so she can reproduce the same conditions. She has to work out how long the stone has to be heated. She stands patiently beside the stove, her tired eyes resting with pleasure on the orderly spaces of the kitchen, everything in place, the surfaces empty and gleaming, the pots hanging, all the necessities of preparing amazing food in orderly arrangement on the shelves. It is more than the commis’ lives would be worth to leave the faintest mess.

She turns the stone over, splashes a little water on it to gauge the temperature. The way her grandmother tested the heat of her iron with spit. The stone splits, it shatters, it explodes. Shards fly in all directions. One sharp piece falls back on the stove and pierces the gas pipe. The olive oil jar shatters. So do various bottles, of brandy and Pernod and whisky, used for burning fat off, on the shelves above the bench. Slowly, in an inexorable sequence, the pieces of paper catch fire, the spilt liquids ignite, the escaped gas explodes, the fire burns back through the gas lead.

There are blankets for putting out fires, extinguishers within reach of every station in the room, but Flora has no time.

Jerome has walked along the lake as far as the ferry terminal, has turned to come back. He can see the bluish-lit rectangle of Flora’s kitchen. As he watches an intense great red flower of light flames up. For a second he can see every pillar, every arch and groin and strut and arc of steel illuminated from within by this huge blossoming light, all the fine black gorgeous tracery of it, the flaming lantern for a moment containing this impossible light, then suddenly the graceful framework does not hold, the silent welling billowing flame becomes the boom of an explosion, then a starburst, then a rain of debris against the roar of fire.

Jerome is running. From far back he can feel the heat of the flames. He’s pulling off his coat to wrap around his head so he can race into the fire and find Flora. Even before the flames drive him back he knows this won’t work. The building is destroyed, blown apart. Its iron frame collapsed forms a cage keeping him out. He will not be able to get in, there is nothing to get into, and he cannot believe but in his heart he knows he would not find Flora alive if he did. He is standing in his defeat, his coat trailing from one hand when Clovis comes beside him.

Gwyneth, says Jerome, remembering.

The screen is gone. So is the wall where Gwyneth lay sleeping. The hot red light of the fire and the cold white light of the moon illuminate the space of the grass and the promenade along the lake, changing it into an utterly foreign landscape. Jerome stares around him, Clovis squints desperately, both are running from heap to heap of the strewn exploded debris of the restaurant. Gwynnie, Clovis cries, Gwynnie, where are you, I can’t see. Everywhere there are flickering reflections of flame, and the shifting of destroyed materials not yet settled into their new shapes or places. Copper pots still gleaming and polished and hardly even battered lie where they have rained down from the sky. Gwynnie, shouts Clovis, tunnelling his hands round his eyes as though he can devise his own field glasses. Jerome remembers his mobile phone and dials triple 0.