He gritted his teeth and held tight to the armrests as the aeroplane surged. In a few seconds the wheels would touch earth, the moment he always feared, the point where the hubris of this mass of steel and wire defying gravity would end in calamity for all on board. The bronzed gentleman farmer sitting next to him, with the open-necked polo shirt and the clearly expensive Italian loafers, stifled a yawn. The wheels of the craft touched asphalt, the plane pogoed, swayed from side to side, then righted itself and screeched forward on the runway. They were safe.
The drive from Coolangatta to Mullumbimby cut through some of the loveliest forest in the country. Saverio could see that if one believed in deities, one could call it God’s country, could imagine that the hills and coves and vast open space were the garden and sky of Eden. From time to time, as the rental car climbed into the hinterland, he would catch sight of the ocean sparkling in the rear-view mirror, the silvery light of the sky touching the glimmer of the sea. It was beautiful. No wonder his brother had made this part of the world home. But as he veered off the highway onto Demons Creek Road, Saverio felt a knotting in his stomach. He tightened his grip on the wheel.
Money had clearly been put into the communities that dotted the verdant hills. Eleven years ago the road had still been gravel. Now it was shiny black bitumen. Architect-designed houses jutted out of the greenery, all with prominent verandahs overlooking the sea.
When Leo had first moved there in the early nineties there still existed the remnants of a commune, the property itself owned by a septet of academics who had been radicalised as students at universities in Sydney and Melbourne. The commune had disbanded soon after Leo had moved there with Julian but, nostalgically loyal to their old politics, the landlords had all agreed that Leo could live and paint there rent-free. Saverio and Rachel had urged him to buy some land when it was still going cheap, but Leo had scoffed at their capitalist avarice. To the end he had refused any of the money left to him by his parents.
‘I don’t believe in inheritance,’ he had said brutally to Rachel when she phoned after his father had finally died and they needed to know what to do with the portion of the estate left to Leo.
‘But what do you want to do with the money?’ she persisted.
The answer had come a week later in the form of a letter. Half of the money, it stated, was to go to the Aboriginal community centre in Redfern, the rest to an outreach centre in Kings Cross.
The lawyer had raised her eyebrows on reading the letter and whistled out loud. ‘Are you sure your brother is fully cognisant of his responsibilities?’ It was intended as a joke but they did not miss the appeal in her question.
‘Just do whatever he says,’ Saverio had replied. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to speak to the prick.’
The car nosed its way up the dirt drive to the cottage. Eleven years before there had been an immaculately maintained herb garden, a fig tree, and lime and lemon trees. The garden was now overrun by weeds, and rotting fruit covered the ground underneath the untamed foliage of the trees. Saverio wasn’t surprised. The garden had been Julian’s project and once he’d gone Leo wouldn’t have had the gumption to keep it together.
The chassis of the car scraped along the ground as the front left wheel sank into a pothole. Frigging Leo, Saverio thought, he couldn’t look after anything. Five or six cars were already parked haphazardly across the yard.
There was music coming from the cottage and Saverio could see people standing and sitting on the wide verandah. He felt as though every eye was on him, and his hand trembled as he turned off the ignition. The sun was setting behind the mountain and the crowd on the verandah was in shade. He was dreading the small talk, the hours to come. For a moment he contemplated simply turning back, weaving down the mountain back to the coast, to get the last plane home to Melbourne. The seatbelt was still buckled up, his foot still rested on the accelerator.
He started at a tap on the window. Julian’s cheery tanned face was smiling down at him — some grey stubble on the chin, the buzz-cut hair speckled salt-white at the temples, but his skin still smooth and his shining eyes still youthful.
Julian opened the door and the two men hugged awkwardly. Saverio couldn’t help thinking, what are we to each other? Not really friends; ex in-laws? Was there a new language, as yet undiscovered by himself and Rachel, that covered such relationships? He was relieved when Julian stepped back.
•
Within the first half-hour Saverio was deeply regretting coming up north. He was sure he wasn’t imagining the suspicion and disapproval directed towards him. He wished that Julian could have been the only one there; he alone seemed to bear Saverio no ill-will.
The others he had not seen for decades. Hannah Wiszler, who used to wear workers’ overalls and shave her head, was now a journalist at the ABC; Siobhan F, who had dropped all but the first letter of her surname in the late seventies when she was sixteen and playing electric guitar in a three-piece called Penis Envy, was now a doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières. Dimitri Alexandropoulos he knew of, a playwright and scriptwriter; Ben Franks was a noted visual artist; Dawn Sallford was a parliamentary secretary; and Tom Jords was still a poet and still a drunk. They all had to be reminded of his name, and none of them were the slightest bit interested in him or his life.
Saverio took the wine offered to him by Julian and sat on the top step of the verandah listening in to their conversation, their reminiscences of Leo. Leo at university, Leo at protests, Leo as an artist, Leo’s jokes, Leo’s feuds, Leo’s insults.
‘Wasn’t he fabulous?’ That was Dawn Sallford, her voice a rasp from the cigarettes she still chain-smoked.
You’ll be dead soon as well, Saverio couldn’t help thinking. He hated himself for descending into the pettiness of the past, instantly transforming back into the unconfident, awkward older brother who never knew the right books to read, the right films to quote, the right music to have in his collection. They had all been so erudite, so opinionated, so intelligent. Even his father, who had despised the effeminacy and pretension of Leo’s university friends, had reluctantly granted them that. ‘They’re smart,’ he used to spit out. ‘That’s all they are.’
Dawn was launching into another story about Leo, some political meeting which had bored them both and in which she had dared him to strip naked. It seemed Leo had taken the dare, had stood up in the middle of the room and begun to undress.
The rollie in Dawn’s hand swung wildly as the tale unfolded. ‘And I’m going, Dah-dah-DAH dah-dah-DAH dah-dah-dah-DAH — you know, that frigging strippers’ music — and Leo is down to his jocks and he pulls them off and throws them at the facilitator, who was this dumb-fuck po-faced Stalinist who bored you shitless with quotes from Lenin and deadshits like that.’
Except for Saverio, everyone was laughing, Dawn so hard that she couldn’t continue.
‘And then? What else happened?’ Julian’s face was eager, expectant.
For Christ’s sake, Saverio thought, he must have heard this story, must have been bored by it a hundred times already. But no, he was like a child anticipating his favourite moment from a well-loved storybook. He was so young compared to them all, at least ten years younger than Leo.
‘Come on, Dawn,’ said Julian, ‘tell us. What was so funny?’
Dawn straightened up, sniffed, took a breath. ‘Now, what was that prick’s name? Nick? Nick Tate? No, that was the actor.’ She looked triumphant. ‘Nick Simmonds. Anyway, Leo’s white jocks are flung over Nick’s face, everyone is looking at him, so shocked, Leo’s standing starkers in the middle of the circle — getting a stiffie I might add. .’