Asylum Part Two (cont)

To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts

 

In which Yvette battles on in her dismal Maylands flat and makes an unexpected discovery…

2.4

 

With a mug of tea in hand, Yvette was sitting on the balcony floor, back against the wall, warming her legs in the morning sun, squinting at the small ads in the local newspaper she’d grabbed in the supermarket yesterday. A Turkish café in Leederville was looking for waitresses. She pushed aside her misgivings, based on a rather superficial loyalty to the original inhabitants of her beloved island, Malta. She’d acquired a tendency to be wary of all things Turkish, largely from Carlos who held a number of bombastic prejudices, especially towards those descendants of the Ottoman Empire. She knew at the time her attitude was ludicrously inconsistent. Following that path, she ought to be wary of the French, the Lebanese and anyone from England. And she was hardly inclined to be wary of herself.

She went inside and looked up Leederville on her street map. It was just a few train stops away. She went back outside and dialled the number provided in the ad and arranged an interview for later in the day.

The newly-opened café was in a newly-opened shopping mall, pristine and smelling of fresh paint, with glass walls looking out on the car park and the main road. Muzak blended with all the chatter and bustle in the mall, culminating in a wall of loud but muffled echoes. A nominal attempt had been made by the interior designers to instil character into this intrinsically characterless box, towering philodendrons in large terracotta tubs book-ending park benches. But for Yvette, the singular attraction of the place was the air-conditioning.

Rows of circular tables filled the café’s spacious interior. Three o’clock and there were no customers. The counter was long with an espresso machine at one end and a cash register at the other. Behind the salad bar a petite woman of about forty with smooth black hair pinned back from her face was piling baklava onto a large platter.

Yvette approached wearing a cheery smile and said, ‘hi. I’ve come about the job.’

The woman looked up, her eyes sliding to Yvette’s apparel, taking in the loose, thigh-length frock and leather sandals that Yvette had thought until that moment adequately smart.

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and Yvette followed her to a small table positioned against the back wall beneath a lively crewelwork wall hanging. The kitchen door swung open and a solid-looking man, also wearing an apron, carried a platter of sweetmeats to the counter. The woman smiled over at him before returning her gaze to Yvette.

‘My name is Pinar,’ she said in a strongly-accented voice. ‘My husband and I looking for nice waitress.’

She asked some questions. Yvette fabricated vignettes, holding Pinar’s gaze, doing her best to exude charm. Pinar seemed doubtful. Yvette wondered what to say to clinch the interview. Glancing up at the wall hanging, she said with a measure of sincerity, ‘What a beautiful tapestry.’ She placed a hand on her chest. ‘I wish I knew how to make something like that.’

Pinar’s face lit with interest. ‘My mother made it.’

‘Really? I adore it.’

Pinar looked over at a woman with four children walking towards the counter. Then she leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘You work for cash?’

‘Yes.’ Yvette was at once relieved and bemused. Pinar must be taking an enormous risk in this regulation-bound nation. Still, she was not about to question her new employer’s subterfuge any more than she questioned Brenda’s at the Cobargo hotel.

‘You start work tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘You be here at nine.’

Pinar told Yvette to wear black with closed-in shoes. On her way home she went to Vinnies and bought a pair of black drain-pipe jeans and a loose-fitting black T-shirt.

It was a mistake.

When Yvette arrived at the café for her first shift, Pinar was neatly dressed in black tailored pants and a pressed cotton blouse. She looked at Yvette with mild disapproval before ushering her behind the counter. Humiliation pinged in Yvette’s guts. Already she regretted insinuating her way into a job she knew she’d despise.

Yvette followed Pinar up and down the servery, watching attentively as Pinar taught her how to use the espresso machine and assemble and wrap kebabs. She served her first customers with Pinar watching her with equal intensity.

Yvette was keen to impress. She split the pitta bread with finesse. She rolled kebabs tightly. She was polite to customers. Pinar seemed satisfied and left her alone. Determined to convince Pinar of her worth, Yvette cleared tables without being prompted. She cleaned. She re-stocked. She did everything well. She even managed to make acceptable lattes and cappuccinos. But Pinar prided herself on perfect coffee, the milk topped with velvety foam, and decorated with a love-heart pattern. Yvette applied all her training and determination but whenever she passed by with a cup in her hand, Pinar looked disappointed.

 

2.5

 

The customers didn’t seem to mind Yvette’s distorted love hearts. One woman of about her age had come in every morning in that first week, ordered a latte and sat at a table by the window. She was a large woman with a kind face and she’d opened a book the moment she was seated. She seemed self-contained; Yvette hardly gave her a second glance. Their only interaction occurred when Yvette set down her latte and the woman made a brief comment about the haphazard brown shape floating on the froth.

On Friday, as Yvette set down her cup the woman chuckled and said, ‘Different every time eh?’

‘I’m not good with love hearts,’ Yvette said, apologetically.

‘I’m sure you are.’

The woman beamed good will. She was dressed today in a flowing burgundy frock. Long beaded necklaces rested on her full bosom. She closed her book and held Yvette’s gaze. Framed by locks of curly black hair, she had a round face with a pert nose, cupid lips, and blue-green eyes. Yvette felt a vague pulse of recognition. ‘Do you live near here?’

‘I work in that building across the car park.’ The woman pointed out the window at a white office block.

‘What do you do?’

‘Holistic counselling. I’m Heather.’ She held out her hand.

‘Yvette.’

‘Yvette?’ Heather paused and looked wistful. ‘I went to school with an Yvette.’

‘Rockingham Primary School?’

A look of amazement appeared in Heather’s face. ‘You’re never Yvette Grimm?’ She looked at Yvette closely and with genuine regard.

‘That’s me.’.

‘You do remember me?’

‘Heather? Heather McAllister?’ She repressed a cascade of feeling, at once cautious and intrigued. ‘You are still McAllister?’

‘Yeah. After a spell as someone else. And you’re still Grimm?’

They both laughed.

Heather still exuded the same maternal vibe. She had been, even at six, motherly and protective, shielding Yvette from the playground bullies. Heather wasn’t rough, but her bulk and the fiery look of her when roused were enough to arrest even the keenest thug. Heather had been Yvette’s fortress. School life hadn’t been easy back in London; she’d had little success on her own fending off the toughs.

‘We must catch up,’ Heather said, eagerly. ‘I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to all these years.’

‘We must,’ Yvette glanced back at the counter. Pinar was watching. ‘I better get back to work.’

 

A lonely, wispy cloud meandered across the face of the afternoon sun. Her phone rang. It was her mother.

Yes, she was settling in. Yes, she was enjoying the job. No, she hadn’t heard anything yet. Then Yvette mentioned Heather.

‘I went to school with her. I used to go to her house for sleepovers.’

‘That fat girl with the green eyes?’

‘She was my best friend.’

‘She was Scottish, wasn’t she?’

‘She was lovely and kind.’

‘I’m sure she was. You had a nice time with her anyway.’

A far, far better time than I’d had at home. She didn’t say it. She told her mother she was about to take a shower and hung up her phone.

 

2.6

 

Yvette’s shifts at the cafe brightened when Heather appeared and dimmed again when she left, snatches of conversation arousing flashes of fond memories. Of the day Heather’s father had taken them to Underwater World, and they’d held hands in awe of the sharks circling above them, all grey menace beyond a thickness of glass tube. Sting rays, with their ribboning fins and barbed tails, looming shadows gliding by. The sea horses adorned with befuddling ornamentations hovering above friezes of pretty coral. Heather’s older brother Angus had come along too, a sullen, spotty teenager interested only in spooking his little sister and her scrawny friend. Despite his efforts, they’d had a fabulous time. There were ice-creams and fish and chips and then the long drive home.

Back at the flat she applied herself to cockroach extermination. She placed baits in strategic corners, left trails of powder along every crack, crevice and skirting board, mashed borax with jam and put dollops in cupboards and under the fridge. Nothing worked. For every roach she killed, another ten appeared to replace it. She considered borrowing Kafka’s Metamorphosis to develop some empathy but thought better of it.

One morning, as day broke into the room, she noticed a cockroach crawling up the wall beside her bed. And another ambling along a skirting board. She’d thought cockroaches were light averse but this lot were in no hurry to escape back into the dark. And they’d become accustomed to her presence. They were familiar, like cats, wandering up to her inquiringly. Perhaps she’d like to chat?

Had the entire contingent of cockroaches in this wretched building moved into her flat? Or were the other residents plagued with the critters too? She had no idea. Two weeks and she hadn’t met her neighbours. No-one passed her in the corridor or on the stairs. She might be the only person in the entire block, a single human representative fending off a plague.

She went to the bathroom and glanced at the basin. One of her unwanted housemates was taking an interest in her toothbrush. Revulsion moiled through her. She declared war. She’d bomb the lot of them to oblivion.

It was nine o’clock when she exited the building and marched down several suburban streets to the hardware store. She returned about an hour later with two insecticide bombs.

Reading the instructions, she felt like America: Open every cupboard door, shut all windows and move furniture away from the walls. She had to stay away for eight hours. She scanned her street map and found the nearest library, about half an hour’s walk away. She stuffed a peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of tap water into her shoulder bag, set off the bombs and left the flat.

This time, when she opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell she was confronted by a barrage of hot air, the concrete car park radiating the sun’s ferocity. There was no breeze. Heading north, she walked along the nondescript suburban street ignoring with dogged intent the brick-and-tile houses with their verdant lawns. She crossed through a park where a few gum trees provided brief relief from the sun and the lawn was as lush as the lawns she’d just passed.

Back on the pavement the heat was excoriating. She crossed the dual carriageway at the traffic lights and walked along an arterial road bereft of shade and lined with a splash of crassly-presented car yards, petrol stations, pizza bars, milk bars and tacky discount stores. She ached for the streetscapes of Malta, berating herself for not returning with Carlos. She still could. She had a return ticket from Djakarta to Rome that didn’t expire until May. But there was a voice inside her adamant she had to stay. A voice she heeded convinced it represented the sensible part of her.

She turned down a side street and walked through another brick-and-tile housing estate. There had to be more to Perth than this. She couldn’t imagine the man in the palm-reader’s prophecy behind the windows of suburbia.

She walked through the library’s automatic sliding doors into the resurrecting cool of the air conditioning, determined to occupy the whole day here. She started towards the main room, passing through the foyer where shelves of reference books lined the bottom half of a wall, when among an array of encyclopaedias and dictionaries with dull dark spines, one volume caught her eye. She sensed the book didn’t belong there. Glossy white with Profits of Doom in bold black lettering down the spine, by someone called Antony Loewenstein. It was the word ‘doom’ that first caught her eye, thinking ironically that perhaps the book would explain how she might profit from her circumstances. She pulled the book from the shelf and went through to the back of the library where several arm chairs faced a low melamine table.

Ten pages in and her senses came alive. She was right there with Loewenstein in first Curtin then Christmas Island, with the refugees who come to Australia by boat. She’d had little idea till now the tragedy those people suffered. It was rapidly becoming unfathomable that she should have managed to remain so ignorant. Bowing to the demands of her art degrees, trapped inside her obsessive love then caged in a chamber of grief, all her adulthood she hadn’t once paid attention to the plight of boat arrivals. Still, she gave herself no shrift.

Large chunks of the narrative slipped by without her full comprehension. She knew little of neoliberalism and had never heard of Pilger or Klein. Hers was an empathic response. Amongst all the data there was embedded in the narrative the tears of the prisoners, their anguish, their loss of hope. The author was restrained.  Yet she could feel his frustration. She read, on and on, slipping outside to eat her sandwich in the violent sun, then heading back to the same seat, to journey on to PNG. Here she stopped. There was too much to absorb. She flicked back and re-read the descriptions of interviews with prisoners and the prison staff. Then she requested the use of one of the library’s computers and Googled images of both locations.

Curtin was located in one of the hottest places on earth, in a flat plain of scrub and red dust. A high chain link fence fringed with coils of razor wire contained a concatenation of grey demountables. Inside the prison there was little shade save for that cast by the buildings and the odd tree here and there. The Christmas Island centre was no better. Surrounded by lush forest, but the beauty stopped at the fence. Absolutely every feature of all the squashed-together buildings was grey, the roofs, walls, awnings, the concrete paths.

How could she be sitting here in this cool library, when her status was no different to those people? If anything, those refugees had a greater legitimacy being here than she. Men, women and even children, herded in, locked up and stripped of their identities. To be addressed, she noted with significance, not by their names, but by a number, their boat ID number. This was Auschwitz without the gas.

Already forming in her mind was a sketch. But she needed inspiration. She was out of practice so long had it been since she’d felt creative. She wandered around the stacks and found a small collection of art books in the non-fiction section. Setting aside her prejudice for all things Antipodean, she fished out a number of books on Australian art at random and returned to her seat.

She laid out the books on the table: Cubism and Australian Art, Joy Hester and Friends, a book on Sidney Nolan and another on Russell Drysdale. The Arthur Streeton she soon closed, and the Tom Roberts she set to one side without opening.

Soon she was gazing at plates and descriptions of the works of Arthur Boyd and Grace Cossington-Smith, Danila Vassilieff, Hester, Nolan and Drysdale. She had little idea what she was searching for. These were some of the Modernist painters whose works challenged the traditional realism staunchly favoured by the Australian art establishment of the early twentieth century, so said an introduction, the turning point coming late, but that was to be expected. Australia, she had long since decided, had always been culturally backward.

She derived little from Cossington-Smith’s work, finding the paintings too soft and cosy, almost quaint for all their post-impressionist technique. Hester’s work piqued her interest, portraying intense emotion in brush and ink, her use of expressionist strokes reminiscent of Picasso, the artist’s engagement with the news reels of Nazi concentration camps striking an inner bell. Yet she knew she had no capacity for such renditions of human tragedy.

Saving Drysdale’s landscapes for last without knowing why, she went on to contemplate the raw emotion of Vassilieff’s urban street scenes, followed by Nolan’s Ned Kelly series and Boyd’s Bride series, savouring each artist’s engagement with their subject, impressed with the way the artists conveyed the anxieties, the tensions and the alienation, noting as well the embedded social critique. Yet their expressionist renditions left her aesthetically unmoved.

It wasn’t until she studied Drysdale that she felt she’d found a home. His combination of realist and surrealist techniques in his depictions of the outback echoed her own love of O’Keeffe’s scenes of New Mexico. Both worked in oil on canvas. Both conveyed a stillness that was stark and evocative.

She was reminded of the day in her first year of university, when one of her lecturers, Dr Faultone, a wild-haired, bra-less woman in her fifties, required her students to research Modernism. The students were to select from three major artists, one that best represented their own artistic direction, Dr Faultone insisting that all art was derivative, there being no such thing as absolute originality, even innovators relying on their exposure to various cultural and intellectual currents and pre-existing works. For Dr Faultone’s previous assignment, students had to keep a journal of gallery visits and log their impressions of a range of works down the centuries. Yvette’s most memorable entry recorded a moment of epiphany she experienced while gazing at Stubbs’ Whistlejacket in the National Gallery, at once astonished that a painting of a horse could arouse in her such an intensity of emotion.

For Dr Faultone’s latest task, Yvette had sat in the university library surrounded by art books, discarding the works of artist upon artist, many of whom she had been forced to emulate at high school, succumbing to a mounting frustration, convinced she would never find a single Modernist artist that matched her own aspirations. Until she found and fell in love with O’Keeffe.

Now she’d found Drysdale and through his work gained a speck of appreciation of Australia.

Her senses aroused, imagination sparking, she went to the main desk and asked a librarian if she could join the library. The librarian handed her a leaflet. Yvette soon found she didn’t have enough ID. She returned the leaflet to the counter in disgust. You can’t fart in Australia without photo ID. She went back to the computer she’d been using and quickly checked her emails, disappointed a second time when she clicked on her inbox and found no word from Malta.

The moment she was back at the flat she opened all the windows wide and propped open the front door then sat out on the balcony. A magenta hue brushed the western horizon, accenting the rigid lines of the high rises on the city skyline. The sky to the east darkened, revealing the stars. Impressive, but not equal to what was occurring inside Yvette, who was succumbing an extraordinary sense of awe, her ordinary reality cracked open, revealing a human tragedy of unconscionable proportions, here, in Malta, no doubt in many lands the world over. She’d adopted unquestioningly the view promulgated by the media that people smugglers were to blame, and believed governments’ claims that if they didn’t impose severe deterrents their nation would be overrun. She’d paid no attention to the plight of millions, held the flimsiest of an understanding of the various causes – war, famine, natural disaster. Now she was beginning to question everything. She wanted to face it.

Later, she phoned Thomas and told him in a string of hurried sentences a blow-by-blow account of her day – the cockroach massacre, the book, her inspiration – she was soaring.

‘There’s a library about five minutes from your flat.’

‘I’m glad I didn’t know that.’

‘Why?’

Why? Hadn’t he heard anything she’d said?

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he said, quickly.

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m having coffee with a friend, Dan. He’s a lecturer in journalism. Want to come along?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘I’m meeting him in Northbridge. I’ll drive. Come over around two.’ And he hung up.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, free novel, illegals, modernism, profits of doom