as the engine struggled up the thousand-foot climb through the dense eucalypt forest on the slopes of Mount Gibraltar. The towns of Bowral and Mittagong lay below, but Maroubra’s eyes were searching for the name BLACKBUTT LODGE on a fence or gatepost.
It had been a curious, disturbing call that had brought him here. Late at night, on his home phone, his wife asleep, him dozing, asleep but awake as he often was now, jerked into consciousness by the night call that always rang of disaster. He hadn’t recognised the voice at first. He was attuned to voices, always knew if a friend was sick or troubled from the voice, or if a lie was sliding down the line, or a hand reaching into his pocket. And there were few words to decipher; just ‘Come tomorrow. Bowral, on the mountain, look for Blackbutt Lodge. Be there at eleven.’ But it was the Pope’s voice, flat and strangled and lifeless, nothing like the steady, calm tone he’d heard for so many years-there was no mistaking the timbre underlining the half-whispered instructions.
He saw it now, the name, not on a pretentious assemblage of inappropriate grandeur, but on the cross-pole of a simple frame of undressed trunks. He drove slowly down the steep road of crushed granite and parked in a turning area. No buildings were visible but he could make out strange shapes hiding in the dense copses, organic shapes or twisted, contorted metallic-looking objects. The view through the clearing was a hundred kilometres or more across to a hazy mountain range with honey-coloured escarpments. He stopped to drink in the colours and shapes. Suddenly he realised he was looking through the Jamison Valley to the Blue Mountains, without a structure or a road or any sign of human presence, other than the ghosts lurking in the trees, to interrupt his view.
He didn’t hear or see the spare figure step from behind the tree until the voice startled him. ‘You can look a long time.
There’s a lot to see.’
Maroubra turned at the familiar voice, stronger than it had been in the dark hours, and saw the lean face, lined with tension. ‘Yes. It’s a surprise after all the clipped grass and rose gardens.’
The Pope attempted a smile, but it was thin and unconvincing. He was dressed more warmly than seemed necessary, in a thick woollen jacket and knitted cap, although Maroubra realised the breeze carried a sharp chill here on the mountain. ‘Let’s walk. I’ll show you some sculptures. We won’t go to the lodge, if you don’t mind. I’d rather we weren’t seen together.’
He led the way through the tall, straight trunks, rising thirty feet before the first leaves kissed a branch. Maroubra could see the shapes more clearly now, decipher the forms of something he might expect in an art gallery, if he ever went to an art gallery. They stopped in front of a commanding piece, claiming its right in the centre of a wide clearing, a bronze mask atop a tall wooden totem staring out into the mists of the valley. The base was a roughly cut block of granite, but where the stone met the wood even Maroubra’s untrained eye could discern the skill in the fitting together of the two. The Pope stood back, waiting for a response.
‘It’s a wonderful thing. I don’t know anything about sculpture, but even I can feel its presence.’ Maroubra reached down to rub the joining places with his bare hands. ‘And this work, it’s alive somehow, the way this is done.’
Now the Pope’s face broke into a wide smile as he came forward. ‘It’s morticed, you see. The stone is cut almost like the joints in a fine drawer. And look here at the pinning. They’re cast bronze, cast to fit exactly.’ He also knelt to place his gloved hands on the cold stone. Maroubra raised his brows inquiringly. ‘It’s my son’s. It’s his best piece so far. And he’ll do better things yet. He’s in his stride now, works all day from before breakfast till the light’s gone. He’s mastered the technical skills, now it’s all the images springing up, all the emotion emerging through the hands into the wood and the stone and the bronze.’ He rose and turned to Maroubra. ‘You’re right. They’re alive. And so is he.’
It was the longest speech Maroubra had ever heard from the Pope, almost feverish in its intensity. He felt there was nothing to say, so he rose quietly and they both stared at the sculpture. He could hear the wind in the high trees but there was no other sound, not even a bird call, as the two men stood, almost like carved figures themselves, on the sloping ground.
Finally the Pope shook himself, as if emerging from hibernation, and took a folded envelope from his coat pocket. ‘Here. Take this. Use it for Jack and Louise.’
Maroubra opened the envelope. He could see it was the corporate filing for a company, listing its headquarters, directors, assets and liabilities, but the name was unfamiliar to him. ‘What is this?’
‘Just take it. I saw they were charged.’ Maroubra examined the document more closely. ‘Your name is here as a director.’ He read on and looked up at the Pope in surprise. ‘And that Trudeaux woman. What in God’s name would you be doing on a company board with her?’
The Pope held up one hand. ‘No questions. You take that and you follow wherever it leads you. Whether you’ll find the person you want in a way that will pin him to the wall, I don’t know. It’s the best I can do.’
Maroubra watched his face as he spoke and read the strain. ‘And what will happen to you if I do pursue it to the end?’
The Pope shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now. Get on with it, and quickly.’ He turned to go. ‘I have to teach a class.’
Maroubra stopped him, shook his hand, then watched him walk away into the forest. He remained in the clearing, staring into the distant mountains. He knelt and ran his hands again over the joints in the stone and wood before stuffing the envelope into his trouser pocket and hurrying back to the car, shivering in the thin air.
Popsie Trudeaux was in heaven. At least she assumed heaven would largely resemble this haven of pink houses with white roofs; with suntanned, attractive people strutting about in excitingly cut shorts; with dark waiters carrying colourful drinks on glass trays; with bougainvillea cascading over white walls and oleanders hiding money behind high hedges. The whole place was pink and white and rich. The smell of money was stronger than the scent of the flowers.
She’d loved it from the minute she’d arrived at the cute little airport and been escorted through customs by a handsome, young, darkish man who told her he was there to look after her during her stay. How thoughtful of her host, whoever he was. She’d really no information about him other than a name and the name of a boat and a time to meet. She loved the idea that the board meeting would take place on a boat. She loved everything about this company Sir Laurence had introduced her to. They paid their directors fees in advance and all she had to do was sign a few documents, share transfers and bank drafts, and come to Bermuda. The hardships of corporate life were bearable. Obviously it was a cover for someone who wanted to stay hidden. Fine. She hoped he’d stay that way forever. Although, probably, he’d be on the boat tomorrow.
Her hotel suite was pink and white-oceans of pink and white. Although the ocean itself was, of course, blue. It was spread before her through the tall French windows and the sun jazzed from it when she lay on one of the pink and white striped lounges on her vast terrace. She looked down on people below who did not have such vast terraces, but did not feel sorry for them. Try harder was all you could say.
She barely needed to try at all anymore. What a delicious feeling of comfort and security to know you could do absolutely nothing for the rest of your life except eat chocolate and have massages. What a sense of accomplishment. The money poured in and now the bucket stayed full. She’d won the Grand Prix contract, hired the most wonderful manager who produced graphs and accounts and full buckets, and wasn’t bad looking either- although she’d vowed never to fuck him. No distractions for that little moneymaker.
She, however, was very much distracted by all the waiters and houseboys wandering about in their crisp uniforms, white shorts on dark legs. They were all that sort of light chocolatey colour, not black at all. Absolutely edible.
The last few months had been the most exciting time of her life. She’d barely had a minute to speak to Angus, not that she would have had much to say if a spare minute arrived. Angus was irrelevant. She was a woman of complete independence now, with her own business, her own money, carefully sequestered away from any joint assets in her own accounts, beholden to no one. Although she was terribly grateful to Sir Laurence for the chance to arrange the Biddulph Gallery opening party. And the suggestion to start her business. And that help with the Grand Prix contract, not to mention being here in Bermuda. Yes, all in all, she owed a great deal to Laurence Treadmore. She would find an opportunity to repay him, she was sure. Indeed she was anxious to see Sir Laurence. Not least because he would have the inside story on the latest with the Mac Biddulph opera. It was an opera, with great arias and sweeping scenery and even some bad acting. All of Sydney was in its thrall. The auction had merely confirmed it as the number-one news story of the year. Popsie had drunk in every minute of the auction night, despite the absence of any beverages. She’d even bought a small Aboriginal painting she’d had no intention of buying and didn’t much like. It had some sort of serpent twisting across a brown background covered with small yellow dots. Perhaps
