The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

About half an hour later, just before he left, I reminded my father that I’d found the charger for his mobile phone and I’d charged it fully and left it on top of the bookcase in the living room.

‘Don’t forget to take it, will you!’ I called, while he was in his bedroom, cramming a few things into an overnight bag.

‘Don’t worry,’ he called back. ‘I’ve already got it. I’ve got it right here.’

And, stupidly, I believed him.

And now here he was: back in Sydney, little more than twelve hours later, taking his seat opposite me on the restaurant terrace while the water and the lights of Sydney harbour shimmered behind us. Apart from the Chinese woman and her daughter, we were the only people left out here. A cool breeze was blowing in off the water. It ruffled my father’s hair and as it did so I thought that he was lucky still to have a full head of hair at his age. Thinking about this, I ran a hand through my own hair, which was almost entirely grey now, but – like my father’s – still full and thick, and I reflected that I had probably inherited his hair and I should be grateful for that because there were a lot of men my age who were already practically bald. I looked at my father while I was thinking these thoughts and realized that I was like him in many ways – the colour of my eyes, the line of my chin, the way we both liked to swirl our drinks around in our glasses before we drank them – and for the first time, this knowledge felt welcome, a good thing, and it gave me a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach: like a kind of homecoming.

‘I was hoping that I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘Have you finished eating? Will you join me in a drink? Because, believe me, I feel like a drink.’

I told him that I would certainly join him in a drink, so he called the waiter over and asked for two large amarettos (except that he called them ‘amaretti’).

‘So, how did it go?’ I asked, although I could see already that something must have gone wrong. ‘How did it go with Roger? Did you manage to recognize him, after all these years?’

The waiter brought our drinks over (that was another thing I liked about this restaurant – fantastic service) and then went to the other table to settle up the bill with the Chinese woman and her daughter.

My father swirled his amaretto around in the glass before taking a hefty sip.

‘Whose idea was it that we should meet in the tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens?’ he asked. ‘Was that your idea, or Roger’s?’

‘That was my idea,’ I said. ‘Why, was there something wrong with it? Don’t tell me they were closed for renovation, or something.’

‘No. No, there was nothing wrong with the idea, really. Those gardens are beautiful. I’m just surprised you were the one to choose them, because I didn’t think you’d ever been to Melbourne.’

‘I haven’t,’ I admitted. ‘Actually, I’ve got a Facebook friend who lives in Melbourne, so I asked him to suggest somewhere. So I suppose it was actually his idea, not mine.’

‘Ah. All right then. Well, that’s fine.’

I could sense that it wasn’t fine. That something about it wasn’t fine at all.

‘But … ?’ I prompted.

‘Well …’ My father took another sip, while he thought carefully about his words. ‘Well, it was a lovely idea, Max, but there’s just one problem.’

‘Yes?’

He leaned forward, and said: ‘There are two different tea rooms at the Botanical Gardens in Melbourne.’

I had been just about to take a sip of amaretto. I lowered the glass slowly.

‘What?’

‘There are two different tea rooms. At opposite ends of the gardens. One is up at the main entrance, opposite the big war memorial, the other one is down by the ornamental lake. I went to the one down by the lake.’

‘And Roger … ?’ I said, although I was barely able to speak.

‘Well, it seems he went to the other one.’

The full absurdity, the full horror of it was dawning on me.

‘You missed each other?’

My father nodded.

‘But … I gave him your mobile number. And I put his number into your phone. Didn’t he try to call you?’

‘Yes. Fourteen times. As I found out when I got home. Here.’

He took his mobile out of his jacket pocket and showed me the little message on the screen which said: ‘14 missed calls’.

‘So why didn’t you answer?’

‘I didn’t have my phone with me.’

‘You didn’t have your phone with you? Dad – you … idiot. I asked you whether you had your phone. And you said that you did. I asked you that this morning.’

‘I thought I’d got it with me, but I hadn’t. I had this instead.’

He took something out of his other jacket pocket, and laid it on the table between us. It was the remote control for his new flat-screen TV.

‘You’ve got to admit,’ he said, positioning it next to his mobile on the table, ‘they do look similar.’