Slow Man

'I don't know nothing about this key,' says Marijana. 'You give Drago keys?'

'Drago had a front door key during the time he was living with me. During the time he was using my flat. You have one key and Drago has another key. He can take things out of the flat and he can bring things back. Whether I am at home or not. Using his key. I don't see how I can express myself more clearly.'

There is a chrome cigarette lighter on the table in the shape of a nautilus shell. Marijana lights a cigarette. 'You also have complains?' she says to Elizabeth. 'You also think my son is thief?'

Elizabeth shrugs theatrically. 'I wouldn't know what to think, I am sure,' she says. 'The young are subject to so many temptations nowadays… That word thief… So large, so heavy, so final. In America they use the word larceny. Grand larceny, petty larceny, and all the grades between. My guess is that what Paul has in mind is a petty larceny, one of the pettiest, so petty that it merges into mere borrowing. Is that not what you would want to be saying, Paul? That Drago or more likely one of Drago's friends borrowed one or two items that you would like returned?'

He nods.

'That is what you come for?' says Marijana. 'No telephone, just bang on door like police? What he take? What you say he take?'

'A photograph, from my collection. A Fauchery. A copy has been substituted for the original, a copy which has been doctored, for what purpose I can't say. And we are not the police. That is ridiculous. The police don't come by taxi.'

Marijana waves towards the telephone. Are they being dismissed? He has not even finished his tea. 'Original?' she says. 'What is this thing, original photograph? You point camera, click, you make copy. That is how camera works. Camera is like photocopier. So what is original? Original is copy already. Is not like painting.'

'That is nonsense, Marijana. Sophistry. A photograph is not the thing itself. Nor is a painting. But that does not make either of them a copy. Each becomes a new thing, a new real, new in the world, a new original. I have lost an original print which is of value to me and I want it back.'

'I talk nonsense? You make photograph, or this man, how you say, Fauchery, make photograph, then you make prints, one two three four five, and these prints all original, five times original, ten times original, hundred times original, no copies? What is nonsense now? You come here, you say to Drago he must find originals. For what? So you can die and give originals to library? So you can be famous? Famous Mister Rayment?' She turns towards Elizabeth Costello. 'Mr Rayment offer us money. You know that? He offer to take me away from nursing. He offer us all new life. He offer Drago new school, fancy school in Canberra. Offer to pay. Now he say we steal from him.'

'That is only half true. I offered to take care of you. I offered to take care of the children too. But I did not offer a new life. I am not as stupid as that. There is no such thing as a new life. We have only one life, one each.'

'So why you say Drago steal?'

'I don't believe I ever used the word steal, and if I did I take it back unreservedly. Drago, or more likely Drago's friend Shaun, removed a photograph from my collection, borrowed it, and made a copy which he proceeded to doctor, I don't pretend I know how, you understand these things better than I do. Now I would like the original back. After which there will be no more questions and everything will be as it was before. Drago can come visiting, his friends can come visiting, he can stay overnight if he likes. It is not good, Marijana, to get into habits of borrowing and not returning, not good for a growing boy. They won't stand for it at this new school of his, Wellington College.'

'Wellington finished. We have no money for Wellington.'

'I offered to pay for Wellington, my offer stands. Nothing has changed. I will pay for other things too. Money is not the issue.'

'So is not money, so why you so angry? Why you come bang on door? Sunday and you come bang on door like police. Bang bang.'

He has never been good at arguments. Women in particular run rings around him in an argument. That was certainly true of his wife. In fact, now that he comes to think of it, perhaps that was why the marriage ended: not that there were too many arguments but that he was always losing them. Perhaps if he had won an argument once in a while he and Henriette might have stayed together. How boring to be tied to a man who can't even put up a fight!

And the same with Marijana. Perhaps Marijana wants him to try harder. Perhaps in her secret heart she would like it if he won. If he could tip the balance back he might yet hold on to her.

'No one is angry, Marijana. I have a letter to deliver, and I thought it would be quicker to bring it in person. I will leave it here.' He places the letter on the coffee table. 'It is addressed to Mel. He can read it at his leisure. I also thought' – he casts a glance at Elizabeth Costello – 'we also thought it would be nice to drop by for a cup of tea and a chat, as one used to do in the old days. It's a nice practice, sociable, friendly. It would be a pity if it died out.'

But Elizabeth Costello is no help. Elizabeth Costello is leaning back, eyes shut, abstracted. Thank God Ljuba is not around to treat him to one of her glares.

'Only people which come bang on door is police,' says Marijana. 'If you telephone first, you say you come for tea, then you don't make frightening, like police.'

'Give you a fright. Yes. I'm sorry. We should have telephoned.'

'I agree,' says Elizabeth, rousing herself. 'We should have telephoned. That is what we should have done. That was our mistake.'

Silence. Is that the conclusion of the bout? Plainly he has lost; but has he lost honourably, honourably enough to get a rematch, or has he lost abjectly?

'You want taxi?' says Marijana. 'You want to call taxi?'

He and the Costello woman exchange looks. 'Yes,' says Elizabeth Costello. 'Unless Paul here has something more to say.'

'Paul here has nothing more to say,' he says. 'Paul came in the hope of getting his property back, but as of now Paul gives up.'

Marijana rises, gives an imperious wave. 'Come!' she says. 'You want to see what kind of thief is Drago, I show you.'

He tries to get up from the sofa. Though she can see what an effort it costs him, she makes no move to help. He casts a glance at Elizabeth Costello. 'Go on,' says Elizabeth Costello. 'I'll stay here and catch my breath before the next act begins.'

He struggles erect. Marijana is already halfway up the stairs. One step at a time, gripping the banisters, he follows.

PRIVATE, says the glaring sign on the door. THIS MEANS YOU. 'Drago's room,' says Marijana, and throws open the door.

The room is functionally furnished in blond pine: bed, desk, bookcase, computer workstation. It could not be more clean and orderly.

'Very nice,' he says. 'Very neat. I'm surprised. Drago was never so neat when he stayed with me.'

Marijana shrugs. 'I say to him, Mr Rayment let you make mess so you will like him, but here you don't make mess, is not necessary, is your home here. I also say to him, you want to go to navy, you want to live in submarine, you learn to be neat.'

'True. If you want to live in a submarine you had better be neat. Is that what Drago wants to do: live in a submarine?'

Marijana shrugs again. 'Who knows. Is young. Is just a kid.'

His own opinion regarding Drago, an opinion he does not voice, is that if he keeps his room shipshape, that is probably because his mother is always breathing over his shoulder. Quite intimidating, Marijana Jokic, when she wants to be. Quite a presence to bear with you into the future.

Pinned to the wall over Drago's bed are three photographs blown up to poster size. Two are Faucherys: the group of miners; and the women and children in the doorway of the wattle hut. The third, in colour, shows eight lithe male bodies caught in midair as they dive into a swimming pool.