Asylum Part Two (cont)

The Edge Will Do Just Fine Reality Check

Asylum Part Two (cont)

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

In which Yvette receives a surprising gift and takes action in an effort to fulfill her destiny…

2.7

It was another hot and breezeless day, the sun burning a dazzling hole in the vast canvas of the sky. After half an hour of navigational bickering – which way right, which left and the correct manner to hold a street directory – Yvette was relieved when Thomas drove down an open tree-lined street in the evidently trendy suburb of Northbridge, pulling up outside Café Mocha. Housed in a neo-gothic building sandwiched between two low-rise concrete shopfronts, the café exuded cosmopolitan glamour. She admired the façade, the stucco quoining, the tall and narrow windows, while Thomas fumbled with the steering lock. She had to repress an urge to tell him she was sure the car would be fine, they’d be able to watch it through the café windows.

Inside, the café was cool. Fans whirred in the high ceiling. A long glitzy counter stretched along the side wall and sofas accompanied standard café-style tables and chairs. There were books, magazines and newspapers for the patrons’ edification and vibrant artworks covered every inch of hanging space: Expressionist in style, desert-scapes and seascapes, riotous dances of wild flowers beneath ubiquitous blue skies; thick smears of ochres and cadmiums untamed by white or grey, overbearing, and yet she was envious of all that paint at the artist’s disposal. The paintings taunted her.

Thomas headed for the back corner, where a good-looking man was seated at a table.

The man looked up from his newspaper. ‘Hey Thomas! How’re you doing?’

‘Good thanks.’ They shook hands.

The man turned to Yvette and smiled broadly. She smiled back.

‘I’m Yvette.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

His handshake was firm and she warmed to him immediately. He was tall, sun-tanned with sandy-hair and a friendly open face.

They sat down as a waitress approached, and ordered the coffee and cake special.

‘Yvette, that’s a French name’ said Dan.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you have any French connections?’

‘Afraid not.’

She caught Thomas stifling a snigger. Then he shot a glance at the newspaper and asked Dan what he thought of the new Prime Minister. Dan rolled his eyes. The two men began to chat about various public figures Yvette hadn’t heard of and she soon stopped listening. She hadn’t engaged with local politics since she’d arrived in Australia. She was of the view that one incumbent was as bad as another and since she couldn’t vote, she had no need to form an opinion. She stared past the other diners and out the window at Thomas’s car, wondering who out of the fresh-faced throng that walked by would want to steal a Honda Civic.

She was drawn back to the conversation when Thomas mentioned asylum seekers.

‘It’s Tampa again,’ Dan said, sourly.

Yvette looked puzzled.

‘The children overboard debacle. Weren’t you here when that happened?’ said Thomas.

‘When was it?’

‘Twelve years ago.’

‘Um, no.’ She was in London, adjusting to her mother’s new husband.

‘The government of the day made false allegations that refugees had threatened to throw their own children overboard in a ploy to secure rescue and passage to Australia,’ said Dan. ‘That was when asylum seekers, so-called boat people, were taken to a detention centre on Manus Island for processing.’

‘The Pacific Solution,’ Thomas said.

Yvette leaned forward. ‘Some solution.’

Dan caught her eye. His face wore a solemn expression, the harsh and unfair treatment of asylum seekers clearly an offence to his sense of justice. She liked the man.

‘It’s getting worse,’ he said. ‘These people might now be denied any sort of permanent residency or even access to Australia. Seems the unenlightened many, or at least the present government, wants refugees to live the rest of their days on some remote island that can barely sustain its own people.’

‘Dreadful.’

‘Worse. They want to close all avenues of justice.’

‘You mean rights of appeal?’ Thomas said.

‘Yes. And any free access to legal representation.’

‘Sounds like Guantanamo. Held forever then tried by a military court.’

‘Not quite, but might as well be.’

‘A kangaroo court then.’

‘Yeah. Welcome to fortress Australia.’

‘I heard the government want refugees to sign a code of conduct.’

‘You are kidding?’

‘Nope. Anyone on a bridging visa will have to comply.’

‘What? Thous shalt not spit?’

‘Or swear, or annoy. Or be in any way anti-social.’

‘We might as well all leave now. That would apply to everyone in the country.’

‘Everyone except a saint.’

Thomas looked thoughtful. ‘Ethically and logistically brilliant,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

‘Worthy of the Adolph Eichmann Memorial Prize,’ Dan quipped.

They all laughed, yet Yvette felt guilty. It didn’t seem right that she was entirely free to sit here in this café, walk out the door and on down the pavement, work, shop, eat and sleep, all without any sort of censure. ‘It’s unconscionable,’ she murmured, not sure as she spoke if she was referring to the treatment of asylum seekers or her own comparative freedoms.

‘It is,’ Dan said in reply.

There was a moment of silence. At last the waitress, dressed neatly in bistro black, came with the cake and the lattes, topped, Yvette noticed with a wry twinge, with a flower exquisitely sculpted in brown.

‘Is Anthony here or in Kalgoorlie?’ she asked Thomas, watching him give his sugared latte a rigorous stir, the froth sliding down the sides of his glass.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘He’s spending the weekend at my place.’

‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’

Thomas didn’t reply.

‘Is he planning on teaching out at that school when his placement expires?’ Dan said.

‘Placement?’

‘The only way to get staff out to rural schools in Western Australia is through special placements for qualifying teachers.’

‘Incentives,’ Thomas said, setting down his glass.

‘No-one wants to go out there.’

‘Is it that bad?’ Yvette said, spooning the froth on her latte.

‘I wouldn’t call it bad. But even so, teachers used to be bonded.’

‘Bonded? Sounds like slavery.’

‘It was in some ways. Hence Wake in Fright.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Brilliant movie.’

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Anthony’s favourite.’

‘It is a good film. If you don’t mind the slaughter.’

Thomas shovelled into his mouth a hunk of mudcake. Dan stirred his coffee and levered the tines of his fork into the slice of lemon cheesecake on his plate.

‘So, is Anthony going to stay out there?’ he said, between mouthfuls.

‘I doubt they’ll keep him on,’ said Thomas.

‘Oh?’

‘He’s crafted quite a reputation.’ Thomas demurred, his eyes darting back and forth from Dan to Yvette. He lowered his voice. ‘On a school trip to Perth he took a group of students to a strip club.’

‘Outrageous,’ said Dan. ‘They were boys?’

‘He sees himself as the Pied Piper.’

‘Luring the young to take a leap into the unknown,’ Yvette said.

‘And he’s still employed?!’ Dan shook his head in disbelief.

Yvette was astonished that a person charged with professionalism would choose to behave so recklessly. Still, she’d have benefited from the maverick. Instead, in her primary years she suffered Mrs Thoroughgood, whose wrath descended on tender hearts for the mildest misdemeanour. She was a dreadful introduction to Australia.

Thomas slurped the dregs of his coffee and glanced at his watch.

‘I better go. I’m meeting him in half an hour.’ Something like guilt flitted across his face.

Yvette gave way to disappointment. She had no idea she’d be making her own way home. Not that she minded catching the train. But the thought of entering that flat to spend another evening alone was depressing. Her despondency must have shown on her face. The moment Thomas left, paying his bill on the way out, Dan said, ‘You’re in Maylands?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can drive you home if you like.’

She hesitated.

‘It’s on my way,’ he said, standing.

He went to the counter and paid for the two of them, refusing her contribution with a wave of his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said, following him outside to his car.

Dan’s driving was smooth. She sat back in the passenger seat and relaxed. They headed to Mount Lawley along Beaufort Street, a flat straight road through another uninspiring thoroughfare. The stark light of the Western Australian sun bouncing off concrete and glass gave the whole place the look of an over-exposed photograph.

They were both silent for a while. Then Dan said, ‘What do you do?’

Yvette was disconcerted by the question. She didn’t know where to take it. She answered, tentatively. ‘I’m an artist.’

‘Amazing! Painting, sketching, sculpture?’

Now she felt embarrassed. ‘Um, painting. Or I would, if I had any paint.’

‘Did you train?’

‘Goldsmiths. I did my masters at the Royal College of Art.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t be. After five years of study I’d had enough and took off to Malta.’

‘Why Malta?’

‘At first to work in a bar. Then I met a man and my whole life changed.’ She explained her story, from Carlos right through to the cockroaches. His interest seemed genuine and keen.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ he said. ‘I’d like to swing by my office. I have something that might interest you.’

‘I’m in no rush,’ she said, her curiosity aroused.

His office was a featureless rectangle crammed with the paraphernalia of an academic life. He knelt down behind the door and pulled from a bottom shelf a large box. ‘I’m not using these. Take a look.’

She knelt on the carpet and opened the lid.

Art materials!

She was quivering like a dog forced to sit before its dinner bowl. She wanted to devour the contents in one gulp. There were tubes of acrylics of every hue, a tray of oily pastels, charcoal, watercolours, bristle and sable brushes of all shapes and sizes, a pack of Derwents, a small bundle of acquerello and, most thrilling of all, tucked in one corner, a tray of high quality oils.

‘Are you sure?’ she said, amazed by his generosity.

‘I’m never going to use them.’

‘But…’

‘I insist.’

‘Thank you so much.’

‘Don’t mention it. I did a couple of introductory art courses at my local community centre. I bought all the gear then discovered I had no aptitude. I was about to take the box to Vinnies.’

‘You’ve no idea what this means to me.’

‘I think I might. All you need now is paper and some sketching pencils.’

‘I have the pencils.’ She’d never been without her tin box of assorted pencils. That tin box had for years been part of her miniscule collection of favoured possessions, surviving, along with her pink alarm clock and a green comb, every one of her pre-move culls.

2.8

The sunset muted from crimson to a diffused apricot. Back at the flat, Yvette had arranged her art materials in a row on the sofa. A soft glow infused the room. She gazed at her paints covetously, still stunned by the gift, at once marvelling over the surreal unfolding of her new life in Perth: Already filled with chance encounters and good fortune, it had taken on a sort of mythic reality, as if she’d slipped between the covers of a fantasy novel simply through her chosen quest to fulfil a prophecy. She couldn’t fathom the cause of the events. That inquiry seemed to her taboo. She absently stroked her chin, before reaching for the charcoal.

Her preferred medium was oil, but she had so far sketched nothing worthy of the concentration and labour required for an oil painting. Besides, she lacked a canvas.

Ideas buzzed around her like flies. At art school she’d gravitated towards precisionism upon her early encounter with O’Keeffe’s works, and inspired as well by Sheeler, the portrayal of the industrial landscapes of 1920’s modernity seeming to her then, apt: London’s cityscape had changed with the millennium. There was the Dome, the Eye, the Gherkin and Broadgate Tower. Precisionism went with the cool indifference of the modern corporate world. Yet what had once appealed to her, the clean lines, the exactitude, the at times photographic quality of her work now seemed sterile and devoid of emotion. And here, reverberating around the walls of this drab grey flat were the moans and cries of all those who’d passed through Curtin and Christmas Island. She would never be an expressionist painter, that would be going too far in the opposite direction, but she had to find a way to convey the raw dark emotion, the images that ferried her way like boats on Acheron.

She looked up. Something small and black scuttled down the kitchen wall. She switched on the overhead light and opened cupboards, drawers and doors to find the cockroaches had survived their Armageddon and taken up their stations throughout the flat.

She groaned. She was a prisoner in this concrete cell, trapped in an underworld six storey’s high. She was a modern day Persephone. And, she noted with bitter irony, she first came across the Queen of the Underworld shortly after she’d met Thomas. In a pub one night they’d been listening to the Persephone track by The Cocteau Twins on her iPod, sharing the ear piece. She’d mispronounced the name, (she thought the word rhymed with telephone) and Thomas, after sniggering to himself for a humiliatingly long time, corrected her. Per-seph-oh-nee, he said, then sniggered on for even longer, before giving her the gist of the myth. She couldn’t have known it then, that he’d install her in his own pestilent hell.

Later, unable to sleep, she spent the whole night sketching, occasionally looking up to check on the occupiers’ movements.

2.9

Her creative upwelling vanished with daylight. After a shower and breakfast she packed away her art materials and cleaned the flat, leaving for Leederville before the sun had begun scorching the day.

At work she was dreamy and distracted. When she wasn’t serving, she wandered around the café absently wiping tables. Heather didn’t appear and she was surprised to find herself disappointed. She viewed the diners, mostly women and retired couples, not an eligible-looking man among them. She couldn’t imagine meeting a half-decent man in here. She wasn’t likely to meet a suitor through Thomas’s network, and as for Heather, she seemed too matronly for girl’s nights out on the pull.

When a mother walked in cradling a new-born baby, Yvette’s longing for a child of her own returned with force.

Towards the end of her shift two plump, middle-aged women sat at a table near the counter. Yvette tidied the kebab wrappers, listening to their conversation.

‘You should try it. My aunt met the love of her life through Love Station.’

‘Yeah? I bet she had to sieve through a load of creeps before she met him.’

‘What have you got to lose? It’s free.’

‘Aw, I dunno.’

‘Everyone’s doing it. These sites are filled with profiles.’

After the women left, she cleared their table. The West Australian was folded open at the personals column. There, below a string of chat-lines and massage services, was a large listing for Love Station. She glanced over at the counter. Pinar was standing beside the till, chatting with a customer. Yvette quickly tore out the page and stuffed it in her trouser pocket.

On her way back to the flat she went to the library, the one five minutes away that Thomas had mentioned. This library was smaller and there were few visitors. She was able to secure a computer session without a wait.

Ignoring the corpulent, balding man seated to her left, she logged on and found the Love Station website. Joining was free as the woman in the café had said, so she filled out the registration form and scanned through the other profiles. There were thousands of hopefuls of all ages. Kind, fun-loving forty-something women without ties seeking adventurous, sincere gents for romance. There must have been hundreds like that. The financially secure seeking the well-groomed. GSOH essential. The generous looking for loyal, the natural looking for fit. Already she was composing a profile in her mind.

The man beside her shifted in his seat so she leaned forward, placing her shoulder bag on the desk, hoping it was between his line of sight and her screen.

She filled out her details in the fields. She found a photo attached to an old email, taken in Malta, and uploaded it. She looked good in that photo, suntanned, round lips spread in a comely smile, hazel eyes lively and inviting, wavy copper hair cut short. What sort of man was she looking for? Must have artistic interests. She didn’t want to be more specific.

She clicked submit then scanned her emails. There was nothing of interest, nothing but junk, nothing from Malta. Nothing.

The fat man, whose presence beside her was making her feel sleazy, rose laboriously from his seat and walked away. She sat back with relief and placed her bag on the floor at her feet.

Ten minutes later she clicked back to her profile. There were thirty-two hits.

She was flabbergasted. She had no idea she’d be so popular.

With anticipation moiling in her belly, she scanned the photographs and immediately eliminated half the contenders – Men too old, too fat, too showy, too geeky. She examined the others more closely. Three computer programmers, a welder, a pig farmer, four public servants, two science teachers, a lawyer and a real estate agent ended up on her reject pile. She doubted any of them knew a thing about art.

The remaining three seemed promising: Frank, a fund manager from Applecross with an interest in Renaissance portraiture; Dimitri, a professional photographer from Cottesloe; and Lee, a music teacher from Scarborough, who made no mention of visual art but music was close enough. She wondered how these men would view her.

Doubt shimmered briefly in her mind, doused by an upsurge of excitement. Two weeks and all she’d managed were a few outings and dinner at Thomas’s place. Time was running out. She knew it was crazy to attach so much significance to the words of a palm reader, but some irrational part of her thought otherwise, determined as ever to have its way. So, she reasoned, if it was preordained that she’d meet the father of her children before she was thirty then she mustn’t be obstructive by isolating herself. She needed to be out and about making friends. A heroic figure in a black polo neck wasn’t about to abseil down to her balcony with chocolates, red roses and a declaration of eternal love.