Mended with Gold Read online

  But nothing reminded him of Laos. Nobody bothered him. And the photography studio where he sometimes picked up work seemed to accept that he couldn’t appear at a moment’s notice any more. He went running in the hills, spent a lot of time just sitting, watching the sea and the birds and the wind-whipped grasses. He changed the locks, just in case, and found that in the afternoons it was impossible to stay awake on that faded old Chesterfield in the sunroom. Peace crept closer.

  Best of all, he felt like taking photos again. He wanted to. On a rare, still day he went down to Makara Beach and spotted a tern diving repeatedly, a white arrow into a swirling bed of kelp. Nearby, also in the water, a woman in a black wetsuit collected something, maybe crayfish, maybe the abalone the locals called paua. He set up his camera and tripod. If he timed it right, he’d get a shot of the silver diving bird and the glistening black woman, both inhabiting the same space for an instant.

  He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that someone was collecting firewood on the beach behind him, but the guy kept his distance, dark hair blowing across his averted face. He wouldn’t be coming over to make comments or ask questions. Alex could always tell.

  So, Alex didn’t notice, until the guy was well past him, that around his waist, partially hidden by an old grey coat, was tied a hideous sweater with green and beige snowflakes. Alex froze over his tripod, shot forgotten.

  Sleeping beauty was carrying his driftwood bundled in a ripped piece of tarpaulin. He cradled it against his chest in an odd defensive attitude, as if expecting thieves to dart up and snatch it away. He walked without grace, hunched like an awkward teenager, stumbling over rocks. He got to the place where people parked their cars, put his wood into the boot of a shitty-looking white Honda with one red door, got in, and drove away.

  Alex turned back to his shot, but the woman had come to shore and the moment had passed. Everything felt flat and grey. Sleeping beauty’s spell had been broken. He was a gawky local with no dress sense. He probably used paperbacks as kindling and his girlfriend threw him out when he drank too much. The memory of him asleep in the sunroom warred briefly with reality. Funny how the way a guy moved and held himself could be such a turn-off. The tern was still diving further out, but the light had gone. Never mind. Alex lived here now. Plenty of chances to get that shot another day.

  He was starting to meet the locals. The people who ran the café in Makara Beach. The old guy in the towelling sunhat, who checked Alex’s water tank and pronounced it sound. Frank, who lived on the estuary and was fond of herons and native grasses. Matire and her kids, who offered Alex a taste of a raw sea urchin—kina they called it—on the beach, and laughed at the expression on his face when he tried the salty, gritty, slimy stuff.

  Juleke was Dutch and ran a tiny art gallery from a converted garage in Makara Beach. He met her out fishing one day. She had a bucketful of stinking bait, masses of greying blonde hair tied back with a rubber band, and a pleasant, if talkative, manner. She also ran a local art group once a month, and Alex found himself being roped in to giving a talk about photography.

  “We love guest speakers. Any sort of art. We had a quilter once; I think that’s an art, don’t you? We’ve never had a photographer before. There’s a lot of talent around here, you know. We meet at Edith’s house. That’s the grey one on the corner in Makara Beach. You know it? Well, Edith used to be a big set designer on Broadway. And you’ll meet Linda and Margaret.” She was ticking people off on her fingers, fishing rod wedged into the rocks. “And Albert. And Beryl, who has the place with the paua shell fence. And Joe, who keeps the gallery in business.” She had a lot of laugh lines and they all crinkled. “No one buys my stuff much. You must come to the gallery next time you’re passing. Maybe you’ll see something you like? Anyway, it’s great you’ll give us a talk. Thursday at six. At Edith’s. Makara Beach. You know where to come.”

  He walked away with a sinking heart, wishing he’d said no. But these people were his neighbours and this was a small place. Kahawai Bay had only six houses, Makara Beach about thirty. Best to be agreeable about the art group. Especially since he had no intention of going into the gallery. He knew what he’d find: over-bright acrylics and tentative water colours. Earnest sunsets. Fussy painted beach pebbles that would have been nicer left alone. He’d have to look around, pretend to like stuff, profess lack of funds and buy a postcard before he could leave. The idea exhausted him. He was reverting. Turning back into the teenager with acne who hid behind a camera at gigs because he was too shy to talk to people. And what good is a professional photographer who can’t put people at ease?

  He went home, locked the door, and lay on the old Chesterfield. He wondered if sleeping beauty’s name was Albert, and if his paint-spattered pants meant he frequented art groups with middle-aged ladies. Then he laughed at himself and, glancing up, noticed the insect-nibbled paper lantern. He fetched a light and a camera and the afternoon became about shutter speeds and angles, and that night he slept, all night, for the first time in a long time.

  §§§§

  Edith’s house was big and square and storm-scoured grey. The blinds were always drawn. Approaching it on Thursday evening felt like walking towards the creepy house he’d passed every day on his way to elementary school. But inside it was all cups of tea and old ladies and a convivial hum of conversation. It was like being at Grandma’s house. Nothing mattered. There was no one to impress. It felt like a larger version of his own place at Kahawai Bay. He was the youngest person in the room by a decade.

  Edith was tiny, with enormous Iris Apfel glasses and bright red lipstick. Her accent was resolutely Kiwi, except for the occasional surprise vowel, which she flattened like a New York native. There was a semi-circle of chairs, most of them occupied, and a coffee table for his laptop. He accepted a cup of tea, and chatted to Edith about New York in the seventies. On the wall was an enormous Warhol; bright, simple flowers. Edith had met Warhol several times. And Diane Arbus, too.

  Then a young man came in clutching a sketchbook, and Edith could have been speaking Tagalog for all Alex understood her next few remarks. Because it was sleeping beauty. Except, awake, he wasn’t a beauty at all. He could have been, but he hunched like a teenager trying to hide new height. His hair straggled in his eyes and curtained his cheeks. He looked mostly at the floor. He’d ditched the green snowflake sweater and wore a plain black one, black jeans, and a pair of ancient Dr Martens boots. But he wore it all with zero style. The green snowflakes were clearly no ironic gesture; he probably just wore the thing because it was warm.

  He made for the kitchen with the air of a regular visitor, got a mug of tea, then hovered in the doorway uncertainly, sipping tea, sketchbook still pressed to his heart. He glanced at Alex. His eyes were brown, with dark smudges beneath them as if he still hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Then he caught Edith’s eye and smiled, and was gorgeous again. Damn.

  “There’s Joe,” Edith said. “We can get started.”

  Joe. It seemed an old-fashioned nickname for a guy in his twenties. As if aware of being considered, Joe glanced at Alex again and ducked his head, blushing. Interesting. Kind of cute. If only he would stand up straight and show that handsome face to the world. Was he shy? Or did he know Alex was the new owner of the house in Kahawai Bay? Perhaps he felt guilty for trespassing?

  Joe sat in a chair a bit behind the others and curled over his tea, now appearing sulky. Perhaps he was annoyed at having been banished from the warm sunroom. Alex had once liked sulky boys. They were more of a challenge, and he felt a deeper sense of triumph when he made them whimper and wriggle like puppies. What on earth was Joe doing here, like a crow in a flock of partridges? Fulfilling a social obligation? Yet, he was far too old to be made to go somewhere with Grandma, so he must be here by choice. For art. The uncared-for hair gave him a hippy-ish vibe. Maybe he painted mandalas? But it could just as easily be pictures of cars with flaming wheels, or fantasy sunsets with dragons and women in metal bikinis.

&nbs
p; Juleke called for quiet and introduced Alex to the group. She’d done her homework, read out a bit from his website, mentioned the awards he’d won. His stomach gave a sick lurch. Was she going to mention Laos? Why had he not thought ahead? Should have asked her not to.

  But she didn’t. Either her search hadn’t thrown that up, or she had some tact. All the same, when he opened his laptop, his hands were shaking.

  He’d selected three photographs to discuss: a Cartier-Bresson, an Arbus, and one of his own—a shot of some dancers from the New York ballet, hanging about backstage, bored and beautiful, sharing a bag of corn chips. After the photo discussion, he added a bit about the use of photography by painters, figuring that would be relevant. That took him up to twenty minutes. He hadn’t been sure how to pitch it, but it went down fine. Except with Joe, who seemed to be struggling to stay awake.

  Alex felt the same spike of irritation as he did when students texted in class. Usually, he’d say something pointed, or ask a question to see if they’d been listening. Thus far, he’d managed not to shout at any of them. But losing his temper here would be just as bad. Or maybe worse, because this wasn’t a class. It didn’t matter whether people listened or not.

  Afterwards, while everyone else stayed to chat and discuss their work, Joe slunk out. Alex watched him go, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Or neither. Because he had zero interest anyway in any kind of entanglement whatsoever. Zero.

  Chapter Two

  Alex was outside, the winter sun warming his back. He was sanding windowsills the old-fashioned way, by hand, with sandpaper. Old paint flaked and crumbled and made his fingers chalky; the red-blonde wood came clear, inch by inch. His arm ached in a good way, and the sea breeze whipped the white dust away. The rasping connection between sandpaper and wood filled his ears.

  “I’m really sorry,” a young man’s voice said behind him. Something about the tone told Alex it wasn’t the first thing he’d said. He turned, taking off the face-mask he wore to stop himself breathing in paint dust.

  Joe stood there in his green snowflake sweater. He was barefoot, a pair of gumboots clutched against his chest, and a fishing rod and bucket in his other hand. The tail of a fish protruded from the top of the bucket. He stood hip-shot, one foot cocked in an odd, balletic pose. His eyes were the colour of dark chocolate and his cheeks were pink. Even under that ugly, too-big sweater Alex could see the lovely lean lines of his shoulders and hips. Joe wobbled, appearing flustered. Well, now. Not so balletic. Pretty devastating all the same.

  “Hi,” Alex said, heart beating faster, mouth suddenly dry. I want you. And this is the second time you’ve blushed at me; maybe you want me too.

  “It’s just, I can’t get it out by myself,” Joe said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The fish hook.”

  “What?” Alex glanced at the tail of the fish in the bucket. He hadn’t been fishing in years. Why would—

  Joe wobbled again, stretched out the bucket and rod and the gumboots for balance. “Sorry, do you mind if I sit down?”

  He took a limping step and sank onto the concrete slab at the front of the house.

  “It’s all right, though,” he added. “It’s not all the way in.”

  He angled his left foot up, balanced it on his right thigh. Out of his foot stuck the straight metal part of a fish hook, the beginning of the curve still visible. There was a smear of blood where the metal went into the flesh. Metal in flesh. And the curve of a bare foot, sole to the sky.

  And a severed foot lay sole up before Alex on a ploughed field. An electric jolt of fear made his skin crawl, his heart race. There’d been an explosion. A bomb. The foot was so close he could see that the skin of the heel was a little cracked. All the toes were still there.

  Blood flecked his bare arms, his sweat-soaked shirt. There was wet stuff on his camera and splinters of white. Grit in his mouth and a coppery taste. He checked his body mechanically: arms, legs, feet, hands. He was all right. Birds were screeching, or maybe monkeys, but it was muffled, unreal. He’d stopped to take a picture of women planting rice. Aoife and Khamane had gone on, across the ploughed field. He could see Aoife’s white shirt. She lay on the ground, but something was wrong; she seemed to have no legs. He couldn’t see Khamane.

  He must go to Aoife. This field was supposed to be safe. But if there was one bomb there might be another. He took a step towards her, and as his boot pressed into the earth the fear pulsed through him again, so strong he believed for a split second he’d stepped on another unexploded bomb. He stood gasping, unable to believe that the world was still going on around him. But Aoife was hurt. She was down on the ground. There was no choice. He must go to her. He took another step, and another, clutching his camera, as if that might keep him safe. Someone grabbed his arm; a tiny woman in a black face-mask and conical hat. She was gabbling at him in Laotian, voice high-pitched, the terror in her eyes so naked that he stopped.

  And he was staring at a man’s bare foot with a fish hook embedded in it. The owner of the foot was the guy who’d been sleeping in the sunroom and he was no threat. He sat there, holding his foot, gazing at Alex open-mouthed, white-faced.

  And still Alex was rooted to the ground. He shook his head. I can’t help you, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. I would help you if I could. How long had he been standing here, sandpaper in his hand, gawping at the guy’s foot? How long, with his heart pounding and the taste of earth and blood in his mouth?

  The guy with the fish hook was talking, but Alex couldn’t hear him. He was still deafened by the explosion that had killed Aoife and Khamane. A bomblet from a cluster bomb, decades old. Laos was littered with them. But the field had been cleared. Ploughed. It should have been safe. He’d had to wash splinters of bone from his hair. When he got back to London, he’d opened his camera and found blood still on the lens.

  They’d been on assignment for the Irish Times, for a piece on how climate change was decimating rural communities around the world. The papers had called the explosion a tragedy, which was ironic considering how many Laotians got blown up in the same way every year, and that was seldom reported. There had been protests outside the American Embassy in London for a time afterwards, because the bombs were all American, left over from the Vietnam war. They’d been blowing people up since the 70s. But Alex had come out of the incident entirely uninjured. Not a scratch. Lucky.

  The guy’s mouth moved again. Joe, his name was.

  “Really, it’s not that bad. Maybe I should go. Would that be better?” He took his foot off his thigh and put it down to the ground.

  Alex closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. Or maybe it did, because when he opened them again, he heard himself say, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. Things like this freak some people out, don’t they? I didn’t mean to gross you out. It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Uh, yes.” Alex didn’t know what he was saying yes to, but he had to respond because that’s what people did when they had conversations. He closed his eyes again.

  Joe said, quietly, “Actually, do you mind if I sit here for a few minutes? Is that okay? I don’t know if you remember me, but I saw you the other night at Edith’s. I should have said hello, but anyway. I’m Joe. I liked what you said about light as composition.”

  Alex opened his eyes to see Joe half-turn, gazing up at the house.

  Joe said, “Before you moved in, everyone was saying a flash American had bought this place and was going to pull it down. But you’re not American, are you? You’re Canadian. I suppose people get that wrong all the time, although, actually, I think your accent is quite different. Anyway, if you’re sanding windowsills, you’re probably not going to demolish this place.”

  Sanding windows. Yes. Alex had been sanding. His heart was slowing, breath slowing. But he couldn’t stop trembling. His right hand hurt. He had the sandpaper in a vicious grip. He let it fall and concentrated on Joe’s voice. Joe had a Kiwi accent that mad
e Alex think of straightforward things like sheep and green grass and small country towns. An accent without pretensions. Joe hadn’t run away. Not that he could with a hook in his foot.

  “This used to be the Addison’s place,” Joe said. “I used to come here as a kid with my grandma. Mrs. Addison would give me Fox’s glacier mints. Did you ever have those? I never ate them, but I liked the polar bear on the wrapper, so I took them anyway. She loved this house. She’d be glad you’re doing it up.” He seemed to have forgotten the hook in his foot. He looked at Alex as if they’d been sharing secrets. “You okay? I can go now, if you like.”

  Alex took a deep breath, let it out. “I can’t. Sorry. I can’t.”

  “No. No problem,” Joe said quickly.

  With an effort, Alex tried to think of something sensible to say. “I could take you to a doctor. If you like. In a bit.” His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

  For the first time, Joe seemed nervous. “No, that’s okay. I’ll try Matire’s place.”

  “Sorry. You picked the wrong person.”

  Joe gave him a half-smile. Not pitying, but maybe a little sad. “It’s fine.”

  Alex rested his back against the house, and took a deep breath, and then another. A couple of years ago, he would have just helped. Like a competent adult. Like a grown man. He would have taken charge. He would have made the right kind of jokes, been the right mix of matter-of-fact and sympathetic. He would have done whatever was necessary, made Joe a cup of sweet tea and given him a lift home. Probably got his phone number. Maybe got himself invited in, if that was on the cards.

  Now, of course, he was a fuck up. The guy with the hook in his foot was calming him down. And Joe was half his age, which was its own humiliation. It was sort of acceptable to be a mess at twenty-five; lots of people were. It could even be sexy. But at forty-five it was inexcusable. Not that Alex felt forty-five. He felt simultaneously about ninety and about nine. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He was like a grotesque hybrid of a palsied old man and a kid freaking out.