Heaven

1

The roar of traffic. Summer glare on the brick and tile surgery, windows that don’t open, baffles of thick curtain.

On the desk: papers, a drug firm calendar, a thigh bone (a femur, actually) mounted on black wood. A Formica plaque: J MELROSE PSYCH.

He regards his pen. She sits on the couch.

‘In the films, they lie down.’

‘You can if you wish. It’s quite acceptable.’

She hesitates.

‘Can I take off my shoes?’

‘Of course.’

*

‘How long have you lived in the city?’

‘Two years. My parents had a farm.’

‘Why did you leave?’

She draws in her lower lip.

‘Did you have a vision?’

‘I told you, they’re not visions.’

‘Did you have — ‘ Melrose places a gentle emphasis on the word — ‘an idea that you should leave?’

‘I felt... destined.’

‘To come to Auckland?’ He clicks his ballpoint. Laughable.

‘To the city.’ She gazes out the window. ‘This was the bestplace. I would... rise up... from the ground to arrive here. My flat was on the top storey.’

‘You saw your flat?’

‘I saw everything inside it... as clear as I see you now. It had green painted walls, and postcards pinned up, and sun streaming through the window.’

‘So, it was a vision.’ Melrose reads from his notes in a flat voice. ‘You said: ‘I looked ahead... I could see where I was going to live... I saw all the people and heard them... Jennifer, Robert, you... I saw Stanner’s parties... the taxi waiting for me in the street... it was like a movie in my head playing over and over,’ — this is what you told me — ‘a perfect movie in all colours.’ ’

She rests on the soft leather couch, amazed at her own words.

‘That’s what it was like.’ Digging her fingers in her temples. ‘Perfect... and bright. In the movie — in my head — it was a clear space. Sunny. And the people were nice.’

‘But you saw what would happen.’

‘The city was the perfect place, it was... Heaven. And when I got here people said: who are you? But I thought they were asking where so I said, Heaven.’

Melrose sucks his pen. ‘And that became your name.’

‘It’s not my name. It’s just what people call me.’

*

Empty platform sling backs. She shifts on the couch, tried to make herself comfortable. He looks only at his notes — tight little ballpoints.

He wonders: ‘Did you leave your home — your local community — because you were a transvestite?’

Heaven laughs to herself. ‘I never dressed like this then.’

‘Did you come to the city to wear these clothes? Did you need that freedom?’

‘It’s not freedom. My shoes are tight.’

‘Were your friends homosexual?’

‘Can we talk about something else?’

‘Sure.’

*

‘Were your friends homosexual?’

‘No.’

‘Did you go out with females?’

‘No, girls.’

‘What did you do with the boys?’

A greedy smile.

‘Everything.’

*

‘Tell me about your father.’

‘That’s a little clichéd. They ask that in the movies.’

He writes something. ‘You like movies?’

‘I go all the time. I grew up in the movies.’ She tries to see what he is writing. ‘Is that important?’

‘I questioned you directly about your childhood, and you responded with another statement about movies.’

‘Did I?’

He nods. ‘You did. You’ve mentioned them several times.’

‘I don’t even know why I came here.’

‘Not to talk about your father.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘My father was shorter than me. He was a short, unexceptional man. He spent half the day in gumboots and the other half in socks. He had a heart condition. He came in at night asking when dinner was ready and spent an hour watching television before going to bed. Sometimes he twisted his head back, like this,’ she demonstrates, ‘and that’s when you knew he had been working hard. Really hard.’

‘Did you worry about his heart?’

‘We tried some of his pills, once.’

‘You and the boys.’

‘Me and Pig.’

He consults notes, rustling. ‘Pig... you told me about him before... he was the slow one.’

‘With the gold tooth. We swallowed the pills in a place up in the pines, a place we had... ‘ And then she qualifies it: ‘That was the first time I saw something. Saw ahead.’

‘What did you see?’

‘The kind lady Jennifer. Her little boy. You.’

He pauses before writing.

‘You and Jennifer together.’

Melrose says nothing. He busily transcribes. For prosperity. Posterity.

‘And I saw this meeting now, and what happens next,’ Heaven says. ‘You won’t say any more. I will keep on talking as you make notes, silently, until I wake up. This is the dream I have been having again and again. It shows me what’s ahead, it’s like... ‘ she wonders, throwing her head back.

He writes: subconscious imitation of her father.

‘... like a trailer you see for a movie.’

Melrose scribbled until he faded into darkness and the wash came over, the dizzy floating spin, the taste of her dry throat.

Heaven woke up in her bed, alone.

Her flat was on the top storey. It had green painted walls, and postcards pinned up, and sun streaming through the window.

‘You awake, dear?’ someone asked. ‘You having those dreams again?’

2

Ringing.

The chandelier lights burned in the sun.

Ring ring.

Robert Marling stood on the chair in his socks, frowning, the receiver in one hand and the phone and a half-glass of scotch in the other. A single elaborate chandelier hung low from the ceiling beam. Upside down. As if the room had been turned on its head.

Ring ring.

Someone at the party last night had commented, some designer he’d almost taken on as a partner a few years ago. That bloody thing’s upside down, he’d chirped, and, on closer inspection, Robert found he was right — the bloody thing was. Polished wood and brass designer-mounts from Sweden. Robert had imported them for a hotel job that fell through last year. He assumed the electrician had it right, he hadn’t even bothered to check.

Ring ring.

It was more of a basement than a flat, a chicken shit bachelor town house: big bricks, sprayed walls, designed for easy cleaning after parties. The spa filter was clogged with leaves and shit, the glass canopy mildewed, chipped, spider webs in the corners. He was scared of the spiders: big fast-moving wolf females that scuttled in from the bush next door, nesting in the heat, gathering. He thought about calling someone else, like Stanner, maybe.

Ring ring.

Answer the fucking phone, will you?

Ring.

‘... Marling Associates.’

‘Susan? Is that — ’

‘I’m sorry, Susan no longer works here. Can I get — ’

‘No, no, I don’t want Susan, I’ve rung before when Susan was there and, I thought it was her.’

‘I — ’

‘This is Robert Marling speaking, ah Jennifer’s husband, Jennifer Marling my wife, is she in?’

‘She’s in a meeting at the moment.’

‘Is that so, is that so. Well, listen, I, uh, can you leave a message for me, to my wife, saying, could she please ring me at home — at my home, that is —’

‘Does she have your number, Mr Marling?’

‘Oh yes.’ He laughed. ‘She’s got this number. Her, uh, meeting, is it scheduled, or...’

‘I’m not sure when Jennifer will be finished, Mr Marling, although she has an appointment at eleven-thirty, and another at one o’clock.’

‘She’s a busy girl, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah-hah. Well, maybe I should make an appointment for this afternoon, if there is a space available.’

‘I’ll be sure to pass on the message that you rang, Mr Marling — ’

‘Well actually I sort of rang to make an appointment, I rang for that, so if you could tell me when she’ll be free, is there a space in her book there?’

‘I’m not certain of that Mr Marling.’

‘She keeps her book at the front desk, it’s on your left.’

‘I can’t speak for her bookings today, sir.’

‘You just read from the book. It’s in front of you.’

‘Well, I’m — ’

‘How about five? End of the day, I can drop in then — she should be free.’

‘She may have a prior appointment at five.’

‘Well, you tell her please, you give Mrs Marling the message that Robert will be dropping by at five, please, and I will speak with her then.’

‘I’ll pass that message on, sir.’

‘And could you please pass the message on that — ‘ his voice cracked. He steadied himself. ‘That I received the letter from her chicken shit lawyer — solicitor, whatever he is, and my, uh, my solicitor — no, I am, I find it unacceptable and there are no grounds — ’

‘I’ll tell her that you called.’

‘ — For this entire, for her entire made up invented fantasy land bullshit thing, this is not — hello? This is not a case of. Shit. Hello? This is. Are you. Fuck.’

Robert Marling dropped the phone from where he stood on the chair. The receiver hit the carpet tiles and bounced up again like an animal that had been shot.

*

About eleven Stanner came round for a drink and sat with his arms outstretched on the white stained sofa, the shot-glass tucked in his hairy tanned paws. ‘Well well well,’ he said, impressed with the sound of his own cracked accent and the smell of his aftershave, the gold chain bridging his open-necked shirt, his size — next to Robert he seemed huge, girthed, sunlamp leathery. His eyebrows were long, flecked with grey and combed back but he looked younger than Robert who wore a dirty grey T-shirt and tight black pants and bare feet and sat forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, staring worriedly at his refill.

‘So you had a good time last night?’ Robert asked.

‘Yeah.’ Stanner wiped his mouth. ‘Yeah it was good.’

‘This place is a fucking mess.’

‘I get someone in, after parties. Never can face it.’

‘Yeah, well. Not everyone’s made of money.’

‘Am I made of money?’ Bear paws upward towards the sprayed plaster ceiling. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ve had a lot of luck at the table this month.’

‘It’s not luck, it’s skill.’

‘It’s the best run of luck I’ve ever seen.’

‘You’ve never had much luck,’ Stanner pointed his finger, ‘so you’re not one to judge.’

‘I don’t use luck, myself.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Luck and bluff get you nowhere with poker.’

Stanner nodded to his imaginary audience. ‘He’s the expert.’

‘My average return is good,’ Robert said. ‘I always have an overlay. Over a year I probably do better than you.’

‘Probably, but that’s not gambling, that’s investment. A business like mine would leave you better off. You come into the Paradise and I’ll give you a better return. Shit, a bank would.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Robert gulped his drink. ‘Don’t talk about banks. Between bank managers and doctors, that’s pretty much everything I own.’

‘I could give you work.’

‘No you couldn’t. Nobody could. Bottom’s out of the market.’ He stood, found the bottle. ‘Have another?’ He poured two glasses. ‘Nobody builds any more, Stan. Nobody employs architects.’

‘What’re you living off?’

‘Old invoices. Clip-ons. And what I win, Stan. What I win. I am doing damn well on the annual average. Better than you.’

‘And how much for Mrs Marling, Bob?’

‘She earns more than me. Triple.’ He turned. ‘Wibber’s gonna sort it out. He’s sharp. He’ll make the settlement and even if she doesn’t give anything, I won’t be owing. No payments, nothing like that.’

‘Sounds like you’re doing just fine.’

‘Stroke for stroke, Stan?’ Robert considered. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

*

Stanner imported his pornography through a K Road partnership camouflaged by the Paradise Club and a liquor importing business. He collected each bi-weekly shipment from a doorway that backed onto a strip parlour. This place, he said pulling up the handbrake, this is a great place. The two men stepped out together into the glare of mid-afternoon.

Robert followed his friend through the tall hand-painted doors: GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS The shop-minder glanced up from his black and white portable television and called to Stanner like an old friend. Stanner leaned over the counter and started talking about the cricket. Robert stood alone. The only other people in the store were a younger couple giggling at a row of bright pink vibrators. The cabinets smelled of warm plastic and carpet tiles. Robert stood and waited but Stanner was still talking. Eventually he took Rear Ender Girls down from the shelf and began to read. His head was warm and thick with scotch and the afternoon smell of the magazines themselves: the cheap, buttery gloss, bikini lines and teenage tongues, the oiled cheeks and prised, nut-brown cracks. He flicked. He thought about his wife.

Jennifer never returned his calls but she would accept them if he rang. He had to catch her between meetings or at home, and sometimes Sean rang and handed the phone over to his mother, demanding that she speak with the man she said was not fit to be a parent. He spoke to Sean more than her, maybe three or four times a week. Robert insisted Sean would lose in an outright divorce. He needed both parents, their support and attention. He was a sweet boy. He collected things and kept them in jars, filing them in their proper place: stones, toys, newspaper pictures. The jars he kept under his bed. His room was clean, everything tucked away. Robert wondered if the boy was going to grow up like his father: tidy, compulsive, a man with everything measured, carefully appraised. Drawings made with a fine pen.

Melrose cited fastidiousness as a symptom of his neurosis when Robert had finally agreed to therapy. Melrose’s office was in the center of town, drowned in traffic noise and daylight reflected by the mirror-glass office blocks across the road. If Melrose had an answer during the long analysis sessions it was to treat the symptoms and cure the disease: try to forget things, leave taps running. Try to relax, try to relax.

Robert believed him at first: he believed his gambling was an obsessive neurosis and he believed Melrose could cure it. Genetic and constitutional factors, maladaptive learning. Melrose’s colleagues were psychodynamic, he explained: they would consider his condition a manifestation of unresolved conflicts. Robert talked and Melrose buried himself in his papers, his note-making. He was writing a book. On cases such as yours, in fact.

Inwardly, Robert sneered. Melrose and his expensive surgery, the two phones on his desk, one black and one red. What’s red for, Robert quipped — the hotline to Gotham? Oh, Melrose said, does that make you anxious? I’ll disconnect one if you’d prefer. Snap. Caught. No, no, Robert shook his head, backed down. Just a joke. But when he arrived for the next session there was only the black phone on the table. And Melrose was smiling. This was the doctor’s first score, his first triumph. Now Robert was a phobic. From then on he strove to be casual. Is that a thigh bone, Robert countered, examining the mounted object on the desk. A femur, actually, Melrose said. But yes, a thigh bone. Most of us would call it a thigh bone. Most of us.

Suddenly Stanner was motioning to him. Robert put the magazine back on the shelf and approached the counter. ‘Show out back,’ Stanner said. ‘Good this week.’

*

The men were shown to separate, black-painted doors opened by string noose handles and shut by a latch on the inside frame. Each booth was the size of a shower cabinet, also painted black, and smelled of disinfectant and cockroach-spray. Robert checked that his door was fastened before sitting down on one of two plastic chairs. He waited. Music bounced on the thin particle-board sidings. The peep-window was slightly smaller than a television screen. He felt a hangover coming on from last night. He wiped his face.