‘Then come with me.’
They retrace some of the route they have just taken. Then they are in the corridor into which Audran had led her and she can only imagine that Puccini intends to guide her to his own room. The implications of this seem too momentous to comprehend. Her head is buzzing from the wine.
‘Come,’ he says again. He has opened a door on to a staircase. He pulls a cord that turns on a dull light, just enough to show the way up. She follows him, her eyes level with his polished black shoes. He reaches into a pocket for a key that he uses to open a door at the top of the stairs. Then they are on the roof. He takes her elbow to guide her over a pipe near the door.
‘It is so dark,’ she says, ‘I can barely see my own feet.’
‘No matter,’ he replies. ‘Look up. I hope to show you something magical.’
A warm breeze carries cooking smells. From below she can hear an engine clattering, a dog barking. The sky is grey-black, streaked with clouds, some of which have obscured the crescent moon. There are few stars to be seen, yet still Puccini studies them, trying to get his bearings.
‘If my comet comes tonight it will be there, I think,’ he says, gently taking her shoulders and turning her so that she is looking away from the moon. He leaves the palms of his hands high on her back. She stares in the direction he has indicated. There are stars, threads of clouds, nothing more. Then she realises he is not scanning the night sky himself. He is looking down at her, studying her face with the same concentration he previously applied to the heavens. And when she returns his gaze he does not look away.
She thinks he will kiss her. She knows she will let him.
He does not kiss her.
With the fingers of both hands, he traces the outlines of her face, from her hair down to her chin, passing over her lips with a touch as soft as starlight.
She shivers, though she is warm.
24
HARRY cannot sleep. The low camp-bed that Brassac prepared for him is welcoming when he settles on to it that evening, after loosening his collar and removing his shoes, but he is unable to get comfortable. There is no pillow. Only a rolled-up sack that is rough and smells of onions. And he suspects that his thin blankets were used as wadding for parts of the Voisin when packed in crates: they feel oily, though he can see no stains. He expected to be weary enough to ignore any discomfort, but his mind is a candle that resists being blown out. Eyes closed, trying to will himself into slumber without his black silk eyeshade, he hears the clatter of plates as the fastidious Brassac attends to the remnants of their dinner. Otherwise it is so silent – no cable-trams, no automobiles or people calling out, not even any animal sounds in the paddock – that he can also hear Brassac walking some distance away and a contented sigh as he relieves himself. The mechanic’s boots scrunch back towards him and Harry lies beneath tangled blankets, listening to the Frenchman taking off his apron and then, with muffled curses hinting at sore toes, his footwear. Harry hopes that Brassac will now be silent in his corner on the other side of the Voisin, which looms above them both, but there is a minute or so of muttering. Brassac is either saying a prayer or reflecting on the events of the day.
Harry is about to protest when the sound stops. Soon the mechanic is asleep. Harry knows this because he is snoring, a sonorous rattling and snorting that suggests his moustache is being inhaled. The noise is bad enough, but worse is knowing that Brassac has been granted the rest denied himself.
In the dark, trying to ignore the prickliness of the onion sack, Harry seeks comfort in thoughts of his wife. Jordan has reported that he was able to pass on a message from the Diggers Rest store. But had he explained why a delayed return was necessary? He knows that Bess is unhappy about being left alone so often. Surely, though, when he takes the Voisin up and claims the record she will appreciate that all the time apart was necessary.
Yet if Banks succeeds in his Wright machine in the morning …
No, he cannot think of that. Will not think of it.
He tries lying on his other side. He is hot. Brassac’s snoring has subsided, replaced by a rhythmic gurgle. Harry’s left leg itches: an insect must have burrowed inside his trousers. He scratches and tries again to think only of Bess. How pretty she was when they first performed together: forever on the road, from Canada to California, in carnivals and circuses and every dime museum in between. Her huge eyes and elfin form gave her the perfect combination of charm and grace: she was an alluring assistant, a skilful accomplice, readily spirited in and out of boxes and crates and canvas bags. Now it is past midnight and she is alone in a hotel room in Melbourne while he is lying under canvas in a near-deserted paddock.
His thoughts shift now to the boy they call Mayer Samuel. He would have enjoyed it here in the paddock. Harry pictures himself showing the lad over his Voisin, letting him climb inside to hold the rudder handle. He would allow him to borrow his goggles, which reflect the light and make the wearer appear sightless.
Sightless …
Now he can see it again: a bloated floating thing the colour of clay, its face turned up to the sky, gaping holes where eyes should be. He can feel its cold soft surface. The memory is as unwelcome as the biting things that plague him. It is as real to Harry as his son.
This woman, this thing, is haunting him, denying him rest just as surely as he disturbed hers. The uneasiness he feels, the constant sense of being frustrated and thwarted – in the swimming pool and now in the paddock – must get back to what happened in the river. He recalls again the edict from the Rabbi, his own father, about honouring the dead. Somehow he must make peace with her. Yes, he must. But even this seems less pressing than the need to evade insects. He buries his face in the sack. He’d rather have the onion smell than endure more bites.
He forces himself to keep his eyes shut. Now it is Banks he sees. Banks the transplanted Englishman; a chancer, a lowly mechanic out to make some money from the schoolmaster. Damn Banks and his smarmy cocksure manner. Damn his unshakeable confidence in the Wright machine and his ability to handle it. Damn Banks and snuffling, timid Brassac with his matches held aloft to gauge the breeze. Damn this inability to rest …
Harry admits defeat, rising from his crude bed. Feeling his way with his hands in the gloom, he works both feet into his shoes, which he does not lace up, and steps through the canvas flap that serves as a door. It is somewhat lighter outside. Wisps of cloud surround a sliver of moon. There is a rich scattering of stars, as if every spark from their fire had risen and attached itself to a black cloth canopy. Everything has been bathed in a soft even greyness. There are no colours, except for a few glowing coals.
Harry smells earth and crushed grass. In his shirtsleeves, and without the blankets for covering, he feels slightly chilled. He folds his arms across his chest for warmth and walks slowly towards the fire, hoping not to wake Jordan, who has elected to sleep in the open. Harry can make out his shape on the ground. Closer now, he can see that the driver has cloaked himself in an assortment of sacks, with only the top of his head showing. His cloth cap is lying next to him, suggesting he was wearing it when he turned in.
Jordan stirs, scratches the top of his head. Harry moves away. He yawns and looks up at the stars. It seems inconceivable that any man-made machine will ever be able to intrude upon this ethereal world. Maybe he has no business even trying.
Low down, far off over the entrance to the paddock, he sees a flash of light. A streak in the sky, like a bright lantern swung in the distance to warn of a coming train. Harry has no idea what it might be, so he barely thinks about it and looks away. He knows he must rise again within a few hours.
He retreats with care, stumbles back inside the tent, and allows himself to fall face-down on his rough bedding.
25
HARRY feels as if he has been asleep for a matter of minutes, no more, when Brassac shakes his shoulder. The mechanic is fully dressed.
‘No,’ Harry replies, longing to close his eyes again. ‘Too early. Dark still.’
‘Already dawn,’ Brassac says. ‘Voila!’
He folds back the flap of the tent, allowing in pale yellow light. Seeing the outline of the Voisin so close to him reminds Harry of the significance of this morning.
‘Banks,’ he groans.
He rises, is surprised to find he already seems to be wearing shoes (though they are loose) and accepts the flask of water that Brassac passes to him. He swallows deeply, but his mouth still tastes of onions. He would like to perform his usual morning callisthenics routine, but on stepping outside he senses that he is the last man up. He quickly ties his shoes, splashes some water from the flask over one hand and rubs it on his face and hair, then jog-trots to the nearest tree and unbuttons his trousers. His urine, he notes, seems unusually yellow. He must try to drink more water. Then he hears the sound of an engine, full-throttled, getting louder.
‘Is that Banks already?’ Harry calls out, running back towards the camp.
But the sound is not coming from the Wright machine, which is standing as it was the previous night, though now it has a multi-coloured sky as a spectacular backdrop. Harry can make out the silhouette of Banks himself near the front of his machine. He appears to be looking towards the entrance of the paddock, as are Brassac and Jordan, who has his cap pulled down low. A motor car is approaching, travelling quite fast, the sound of its engine suggesting that the driver does not mind putting stress on his vehicle. As it climbs the hill the early-morning light burnishes the metal of the motor car, making it look as if it had been dipped in gold.
‘What a beauty,’ says Jordan, braces hanging loose from his trousers. ‘One of them new Oldsmobiles.’
