The baba, buried in her coat and scarves, sat down on the bench where the dog was tied. The woman looked over at Darcy as he appeared from the trees, narrowed her sunken eyes into their creases. Seduced and abandoned, said Darcy, then he remembered Fin’s other warning. Don’t trust anyone here.
The dog’s tail curled under its crouching loins, its pelt a brindled silver. It greeted Darcy cautiously as he felt the ridges of its spine through the blanket. He pulled out the camera and unfolded it, took a close-up of the dog’s fine face, one ear forward, one back, then a second, better one, with its head slightly cocked and both ears pricked. It had no tag on its collar—Darcy wasn’t even sure if they did that here.
He flapped the polaroids dry and the woman looked over, confused but unmoved. She had a postcard face, so he took a photo of her too, felt a certain guilt about his foreigner’s presumption. At least she wasn’t a bridge or a reservoir; still she shot him a look of distaste that chilled him.
With the whippet on its lead by his side Darcy felt less foreign, as if this could have been his city. Together, they walked through the snow-fleeced park to the wrought-iron arch at the main entrance. A woman in a woollen balaclava was opening the flap on an old yellow van. She uncovered a row of red sausages on buns. Darcy reached for his wallet but the dog lifted a paw, its leg as fine as a knitting needle, and began to whine, snatching at the leash and pulling. Darcy felt conspicuous. He caught sight of the delicate man in the distance, returning, and Darcy unclipped the lead, let the whippet loose before it barked. It rippled across the frosted ground, galloping low like a racing dog, and the man leaned down to greet it. Darcy gazed at them, suddenly alone, the fine leather dog leash in his hand.
Mount Eliza
Summer 1969
Darcy’s mother was doing her best; she had her shiny housecoat on, buttoned up over her nightie, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her hands looked thin coming out of the sleeves to serve dinner, but she didn’t eat. She sipped her brandy and dry; she switched to brown drinks after dark. Darcy’s father had returned from the egg run, he’d showered and slicked back his hair. Did you have a good day? his mother asked. Spreading your eggs around? But his father never looked at her. He lifted a chop and chewed it. Darcy didn’t tell him there was something wrong with the chops, that she’d fried them before they were thawed. Darcy pushed his food about his square plate; the instant mashed potato looked lumpier than usual.
His mother held an unlit cigarette and observed Darcy’s father as if daring him to eat. We had a visitor, she said. Didn’t we, Darce?
Darcy felt his stomach churn. He didn’t think she’d mention it; she was always good at secrets.
His mother sipped her drink. Jesus in tight pants, she said.
Darcy’s face was being searched by his father to see if he should believe her but Darcy looked away from him, down at the radiogram. He was just a missionary, said Darcy.
Not just a missionary, his mother said, raising her chest as if offended. A Mormon. She turned to Darcy’s father. He took your son for a drive.
Darcy’s empty fork froze in his hand and then his mother reached and gently took it from his fingers. She smiled to herself. Didn’t he, Darce? Under the table Darcy felt her bare toe stroking his calf, a quiet back-and-forthing.
You let him go off with a stranger? his father asked.
What could I do, she said, here on my own?
The feel of her toe on his leg gave Darcy an eerie feeling. He wished he could disappear, the way his father did after dinner on nights like these, off in the kombi.
He didn’t have clothes on, his mother said.
Who? asked Darcy’s father, suddenly flustered.
Darcy shifted his legs from her touch. I covered myself, he said.
What with? his mother asked, surprised.
A Bible, said Darcy. He looked at his father. It had a picture of Jesus in America.
His mother guffawed. I never saw Jesus when I was there, she said. I suppose he’ll be coming here next.
Darcy’s father stood, irritated; he hated being teased about Jesus. He took his unfinished plate to the kitchen and started washing up. Darcy lay down on the rug and put his ear to the faintly crackling radio.
Go help your father, his mother said, but Darcy listened to the distant static as if it were life on a capsule in orbit, felt himself begin to sway. Then there was a kick in his ribs. Where’s the Bible? she asked, suddenly conspiratorial.
Darcy pretended he couldn’t hear so she kicked him again, her bare foot against his back. For God’s sake leave him alone, his father said, returning for Darcy’s plate.
It’s just a love kick, she said. She put her silver cigarette lighter against her cheek. If you were a Mormon, she said to Darcy’s father, you could have multiple wives.
I wonder if you’d be one of them, he said. He took the plate and the placemats back to the kitchen.
Darcy’s mother lit one of her Virginia Slims. Bring me the Bible, she said, or I’ll tell him everything.
Darcy got up, flustered, wondering what she meant by everything. He went out in his socks, let the flyscreen bang shut because he knew how much she hated that. Like a car crash, she called it, but her ears were always roaring anyway, something called tinnitus. His father thought she imagined it but she said it’s the same, whether you imagine it or not.
In the Austin, Darcy opened the glove box. The small light flickered inside it as he took out the Bible from under the Melways. Inside the cover it said The Book of Mormon. The picture of Jesus in white, standing on a rock, the Indians in feathered headdresses. Darcy wondered if the missionary would visit again.
Through the lit kitchen window he saw his father hang the frying pan on the hook by the sink and put his hands on his hips, staring out into the dark. Darcy could see the creases in his father’s cheeks that he knew were supposed to be from all the smiling, but his father didn’t smile. Darcy suspected he only came home because he had to, and he wondered if his mother had once been different, when they met on the beach near the Mornington pier, or before she left America.
Darcy’s father closed the flyscreen quietly behind him, and Darcy slid through into the back seat as his father got in the driver’s side, sat with his hands on the wheel. Did anything bad happen today? he asked without turning around.
No, said Darcy, not moving.
Can I see the book? his father asked.
Darcy passed it around the edge of the seat and his father examined it in the dark. Jesus Christ in the Americas, he said, I never knew about that. He put the book down and ran through the gears and Darcy sat up to watch him, then he left it in neutral and looked at Darcy in the rear-view mirror. What are we going to do? he asked.
Darcy wished his father were talking about the American Jesus but as his mother opened the door and slipped her empties quietly into the box by the rubbish he knew he wasn’t.
Are you going to leave? whispered Darcy.
His father shook his head slowly.
Ulitsa Kazakov
Monday afternoon
When Darcy returned to the apartment it was unlocked. A vague bituminous odour came up from the central heating and the place was hot again. He tried to forget where he’d been, his already broken promise, and yet all he’d really done was take care of an animal briefly. He hung the leather leash on a coat hook as if it belonged.