Dome of Death - 9. Chapter 9: After the Flood

It was slow travelling back to the coast. Roads were cluttered with removal vans, utes, cars and trailers stacked with household goods, sodden furniture - anything salvageable from homes made uninhabitable by the collapse of the canal system. I suppose it had all seemed like a good idea at the time, drain the swamps, channel the water, and build on the dredged silt. Who could have predicted a rising water table turning everything into a mush of quicksand?

Well, actually quite a few people did, but no one listened. Many houses were unsafe long before the floods sent them crumbling. Acid soils, created by draining melaleuca wetlands, had been attacking concrete foundations since the canals were first dug, and insurance companies had been refusing cover on some places for years. The recent deluges simply hurried things along.

So far, only about thirty kilometres of coast had been seriously affected, but canal and coastal dwellers from Coolangatta to Noosa were shitting themselves. How do you offload a million dollar mansion that’s splitting at the seams as it sinks into a bog? With great difficulty. The roads, except for those patches along the coast that had fallen into the sea, were fine, they’d been built to last, well drained and not slap up against canals. The problem wasn’t getting from place to place, it was finding somewhere to live.

I stopped at a shopping centre and bought lunch, electric hair clippers, and a packet of hair bleach. As long as Jon liked my spiky persona it was going to be permanent - at least while I could be bothered.

As I swung round the corner my jaw dropped - literally. I’d been dreaming away and was totally unprepared for a fairy-tale vision. The gallery’s crystal dome and white buttresses were silhouetted against the blinding blue shimmer of sea and sky. A sight to inspire even the most prosaic of souls. This must have been how Max had envisaged his creation. The thought dimmed my pleasure, but not the spectacle.

From my bedroom window I now had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Every last stone of the buildings on the Esplanade had been bulldozed away to join the piles of rubble that were still being shoved, fruitlessly, into the river’s maw every time the tide went out.

About fifty metres behind the gallery the land dropped abruptly to the new shoreline three metres below. Most of the sandy soil, together with Jon’s planting, had been scraped off, exposing outcrops of the granite on which our building was constructed.

Assuming the roads remained, Frances was now the owner of a very valuable bit of real estate. She wasn’t there, of course. Obviously hadn’t been in the place since the previous Wednesday.

As I had half an hour to spare before opening and was trying not to worry that Jon hadn’t yet telephoned, I made good use of the clippers and re-gilded my spikes. Then, to celebrate the liberation of the gallery from its backstreet anonymity, I donned the same outfit I’d worn to Mad’s opening. Thus arrayed, I imagined I would be ready for anything the fates might throw at me. The phone rang and I nearly gave myself a hernia racing for it.

‘Maximillian’s Gallery.’

‘Mr Corringe?’

‘Speaking.’

‘My name is Glaze, Bob Glaze. I was hoping I could have a few words with you this morning about exhibiting some works.’

‘By all means,’ I gabbled, desperate to clear the line. ‘How soon can you be here?’

‘Ten minutes?’

‘Perfect. I’ll see you then.’ I’d no sooner put the receiver down when it rang again.

‘Maximillian’s Gallery.’

‘Pete’s paradise.’

‘You rang me!’

‘You answered.’

‘Everything fine?’

‘How could it be otherwise?’

‘Rory’s ute go OK?’

‘Rory lent me his vehicle because it had a puncture and was in desperate need of a tune-up. If you remember, I bragged loud and long about my mechanical expertise yesterday, so today I had to prove it. That’s why I’m a bit late calling.’

‘And here I was wondering what you have that I don’t.’

‘That’s a list too long to regale you with at the moment. I’m in a phone booth on my way to buy tiles and fasteners, some paint and a phone. You bearing up?’

‘What else? We’ve a clear view of the sea now. Those remaining excrescences on the Esplanade have gone. That’s something for you to look forward to.’

‘I prefer your place.’

‘Me too. How’d you sleep?’

Silence. Shit! I was being gushy.

‘No complaints. The tent didn’t leak and I wasn’t washed away. You?’

‘The same.’

‘Yeah…well…’

‘Don’t forget to ring at five.’

‘Worried about me?’

‘No. Well, yes. It’s been raining and will be as slippery as hell on the roof. Remember to have Rory or Lida there when you’re up the ladder.’

Peter…! I’m not…’

‘Promise!’

‘I promise… Mum.’

‘Hey, that’s not fair. I told you yesterday, I’m not insured and you could sue me if you had an accident.’

‘And as I said then, you’re a mercenary bugger. Got to go. Someone’s tapping on the glass. Till five o’clock?’

‘Till then.’

What an inane conversation. I hate telephones. I’m always sure afterwards I’ve made a fool of myself. Further soul searching was prevented by the arrival of a tall, lean, late thirties, vegetarian-type; long hair tied back in a pony-tail, large hooked nose, sun-aged skin, several earrings, tight jeans, expensive trainers and a pure white shirt open to the navel. He gazed around in ostentatious appreciation as he made his way across, hand out like a prow cutting through calm seas. His skin was dry, grip firmer than necessary, and I detected a slight squeeze.

‘Bob Glaze. What a magnificent space!’

I extricated my hand. ‘Peter Corringe.’

He bestowed an intimate smile and nod. ‘Great external design too. A real gold mine now it’s on the sea front. An estate agent’s wet-dream – position, position, position.’

‘As long as the roads hold out.’ I quelled an urge to hit him.

‘Look, Peter,’ Mr Glaze began in warm fuzzy tones, gazing intimately into my very core. ‘Last week a representative of the company came to see you and got off on the wrong foot. Our Mr Scumble.’

So this was the next step. Soft soap. Better than Jon’s heavy brigade. I nodded vaguely as though trying to remember the incident.

‘Oh, yes… ArtWorks.’

‘Quite. Well, look, I’ve come to apologise, sincerely, on behalf of the company for any misunderstanding.’

‘There wasn’t any. I don’t want that sort of stuff in this gallery. Nor do I appreciate being physically manhandled. I have no wish to offend you, but at Maximillian’s we are trying to make a name for ourselves as serious purveyors of fine art.’

‘Point taken, point taken. However, what you are obviously unaware of is that the previous owner, Mr Fierney, had already agreed to…’

‘The hell he had! I was his adviser on stocking the gallery and there’s no way he would have agreed to that junk coming within a kilometre of the place.’

Bob Glaze didn’t miss a beat, merely smiled candidly and continued calmly. ‘I must have been misinformed. Perhaps I meant his wife, Frances.’ The self-effacing shrug and boyishly rueful grin were captivating.

‘That’s entirely possible – even probable.’

‘Look,’ (that was his third ‘look’ and I hadn’t yet seen anything worth a glance) ‘perhaps Mr Scumble didn’t explain the incentive system. The gallery will receive fifty percent of the value of every sale, and there’s a bonus for you, personally, when sales exceed a certain number.’

My lack of response must have appeared encouraging because Bob continued to persuade. ‘Naturally, in a quality establishment such as this, we do not expect our little display to be in the main viewing area. Some quiet corner or alcove would be ideal, where only those actually looking for it would find it. What do you say?’

‘I say there is something dodgy about such an offer, Mr Glaze. What’s the truth? Trying to put a gloss on a grimy little subterfuge? Attempting to con the ignorant public into thinking the trash you peddle is worthy of the label Art? I imagine even the name ArtWorks could be challenged under the Fair Trading Act.’

Mr Glaze managed to look very despondent. ‘No, no, no, no!’ he protested sadly. ‘It’s nothing like that. Look, to be perfectly frank with you, I tend to agree about the artistic merit of some of the works, but we are not put on earth to be our brother’s keepers. Some people love those sorts of paintings, so why shouldn’t intelligent people like you profit from their lack of taste?’

Patronising sod. I gazed out the window and looked noble.

‘Mr Corringe, I appeal to your sense of fair play; to your better nature.’

I raised an eyebrow, wondering why he’d dropped first-name chumminess.

‘I…I have to confess that my job is on the line. I simply must get this deal signed and sealed before Mr Motherswell returns this evening. I tried to contact you yesterday, but you were away. Please, won’t you just give the scheme a trial? You’re on a winning wicket here, Mr Corringe. What have you got to lose?’

‘My self-respect. Good day to you and please don’t bother me again. I’m certain, when Mrs Fierney is apprised of the true nature of your… works of art, she will be as adamant as I that we do not stock them.’

I walked him towards the door and he followed docilely enough, but turned at the entrance to give me a look of such intense hatred that my blood curdled. That sounds a hell of a cliché, but it’s precisely what it felt like. His eyes penetrated to my bowels as he rasped quietly, ‘I do not envy you, Mr Corringe. Mr Motherswell is not like Scumble and me. He is not a nice guy.’ Shaking his head, he turned abruptly and walked briskly to his car.

Suddenly insecure and no longer the confident curator of fifteen minutes before, I raced back upstairs and replaced the tight trousers and daring little waistcoat with something sensible and uncontroversial. I’d felt like this often enough as a younger man. Not so much lately, but every time the nervous chill clutches at your guts you realise you’ve lived with it all your life. A sensation unknown to ninety percent of Australians, most of whom refuse to acknowledge its existence in their fair and just society. It’s fear. A cold and nameless dread of one’s fellow citizens. My sole, inadequate defence has been to attempt concealment under a shroud of conformity.

By the time I returned to the gallery it sounded as though war had broken out. The newly scraped sand and rock of our back car-park was sprouting great piles of rubble. I’d imagined that with the Esplanade buildings gone we would be left to enjoy our solitary splendour. Not so. As I watched, an enormous truck dumped a load of rocks the size of cows. Noise, dust and waste of energy - a testament to humanity’s unwarranted faith in their ability to avoid the consequences of their actions.

My tribulations were increased by an absence of patrons. Only one human crossed the threshold before lunch, a woman seeking directions. I was just biting into a slab of the cardboard pizza I’d bought in a moment of insanity that morning, when the Porsche skidded to a halt long enough to eject Frances before rocketing off again. She burst through the doors with far too much energy, a preternatural gleam in her eye and a fit of the giggles in her throat as she stumbled a little before steadying herself against a pillar.

I was nervous, tired from the constant noise of bulldozers, the lack of patrons, and having to run the place single-handed. I was also jealous that she had been, and still was apparently, having such a great time, so I merely glanced up busily from an imaginary workload. Her greeting was loud.

‘Doesn’t it look fantastic? We’re on the coast! The property value has quadrupled! I’m richer that I was yesterday!’

All I could manage was a frigid, ‘Hello, Mrs Fierney.’ Unfortunately, it was exactly the cue she wanted.

‘It’s Mrs MacFife,’ she twittered inanely. ‘We got married last Thursday and have been on honeymoon. That’s why I haven’t been in touch. We went to Kathmandu!’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Oh, Peter. You’re angry with me.’

‘Not at all. I admire your restraint. You remained a widow for nearly three weeks.’

‘Poor wee Peterkins. Is he feeling neglected then? Has his boyfriend run off with someone else? You’re all mopey dopey. There now, what is it?’ She attempted to tickle me under the chin while dribbling revolting baby noises through lipstick-smudged lips. Quite clearly, whatever she had imbibed since breakfast had set her on an unstable path.

‘Oh for god’s sake shut up, Frances. I just think you could take a little more interest in your investment, that’s all.’

‘No one could take more interest. We are on the seafront! Tony was right! And it’s all mine!’ She slid gracelessly to the floor, skirt riding up obscenely. A droplet of liquid trembled on the end of her slightly reddened nose.

‘You should lie down. Come on, I’ll help you upstairs.’

‘Would you, Petey?’ I nearly slapped her. ‘Perhaps just for a teensy weensy minute then.’

I was concerned about the effect this display could have on clients, not about the frightful Frances. If it were up to me she would spend the next decade locked under the stairs. Without creating too much fuss, she was soon lying, apparently comatose, on her bed. However as I left the room she sat up and spoke clearly.

‘Sorry about that. I’m not used to it. I guess I could use a nap. Gregor’s expecting me at two-thirty. He dropped me off to pick up my car. Give us a call at two? There’s a dear.’

‘Fine. However we must discuss something first. What do you know about ArtWorks?’

She looked blank, then laughed hoarsely. ‘You mean Mr-ah-Motherswell’s little business?’ There was something odd about the way she said Motherswell, but I put it down to inebriation.

I nodded.

‘Such a clever, clever, darling man. He wants to make me rich.’ Her mind was starting to fall apart again.

‘Have you seen the trash he wants us to carry?’

‘Who cares? He pays well.’

‘But Max’s ideals! My ideals! This was to be an art gallery to be proud of!’ I couldn’t keep the pleading from my voice and despised myself. She heard it well enough; Frances was an expert at ferreting out weaknesses.

‘Peter, Peter, Peter. Don’t be such an old fusspot. It can go out the back somewhere. All they want is to work from somewhere respectable.’

‘But.’

‘Not now, darling. I really must sleep. You just find a little corner and pop their paintings, or whatever they are, in it.’ She yawned. ‘Where’s Jon?’

‘Up at my place.’

‘Good for you. Now, wake me at…whenever I said. We can talk then.’

At two o’clock I was entangled in what the police might call a domestic. I’d read that art used to stimulate passionate debate, but this was the first time I’d seen two people come to blows over it. A youngish man, good looking in a heavy, rugby-forward sort of way, had removed a painting from the wall and was holding it above his head.

‘I will not have that thing in my house!’ shrieked his tiny, but perfectly formed assailant through collagen implanted lips painted the same pearly-orange as her earrings. Grabbing hold of her mate’s curly hair, she dragged herself halfway up his back, swinging about precariously as she tried to grab the painting.

‘Let go you stupid bitch. Christ I’ll fucking do ya! If I want this painting I’m bloody well going to have it. It’s my money, earned with my sweat. Let go ya cow! Ahhhhh!’ The howl of agony was justified - his woman had sunk her fangs into his meaty neck. At least her teeth weren’t false.

Concerned for the safety of Bill’s work, I prised it from the bloke’s enormous fingers and carried it to safety on the other side of the room. They continued with their noisy fight until he managed to shake her loose and swing her round to face him. Locking enormous hands loosely round her neck, he held her suspended, her toes just touching the floor. Amazingly, she continued to hurl abuse, albeit in a strangulated gurgle.

Having no bucket of cold water to throw over them, I sat on my desk and examined the painting for damage. It was fine, but I couldn’t imagine what she was objecting to, unless it was the title. Clitoris. It reminded me of a flowering vine we had growing over the back porch that Dad used to snigger over. If you didn’t read the label, the painting was simply a swirl of complicated shapes, textures and colours.

Silence. I looked up to see them sitting side by side on the floor, hugging, petting, kissing and murmuring sweet nothings.

‘You’re right, I won’t get it.’

‘No. I was stupid, darling. It is beautiful, I don’t know what came over me.’

‘We’ll look for something else.’ ‘

No, no. I want that one, I really do. Especially if it really does remind you of my…’ And so they made up, discovering through battle the strength of their devotion, the vigour of their love, and the limit of their power. Those who seek a calm and peaceful union would do well to consider that without deep valleys there can be no great peaks. They helped each other to their feet and peeped across at me, proudly defiant.

I sat on the edge of the desk and smiled complicity. ‘I’m glad there’s someone out there who still takes art and love seriously. What’s it going to be? This one? Another? Or none?’

They gazed at each other like soppy spaniels. ‘That one.’

I wrapped it and swapped it for cash. Bill had done his bit for romance that afternoon, and my cash-flow problems. Suddenly I remembered Frances – two-twenty! I dashed upstairs but the bird had flown. I felt empty. Jealous. Of what? Of a couple of sparring spouses? Of Frances’s love affair with someone twenty years older? I don’t know. I decided to ring Hank and Celia.

Apart from Jon, I had no close friends my own age. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Max and I used to go to discos, and bars in the hope of meeting couples like us, but the likelihood of meeting them was infinitesimal. The noise is usually horrendous and smokers make life intolerable. When we got home we used to take off our smoke-stinking clothes in the porch and throw them in a bucket of water. After Max left, I’d tried the usual meeting places, but the atmosphere’s aggressive. They’re meat markets not meet markets. Only the physically and emotionally wretched want to talk and I wasn’t that desperate. Maybe if I lived in Brisbane things might be different, but I wanted nature around me. You can’t have everything, I’ve discovered.

Celia answered on a crackly line. ‘Peter? I can hardly hear you…. The line’s very bad. You must get a mobile telephone, dear. How nice of you to ring. Did Hank tell you about my ankle?’

‘I haven’t seen Hank.’

‘Isn’t he with you?’

‘No. What’s the matter with your ankle?’

‘Just a strain. Where are you calling from?’

‘The gallery.’

‘Oh. Hank’s up at your place.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s been worrying about your cottage, as you’re so busy with the gallery, so drove over today to make sure everything was OK.’

The static became so bad that all we could do was shout farewells and give up. I called faults and a computer voice informed me that water had penetrated underground lines on the coast and it would be several days before communications could return to normal. I hoped Jon would be able to get through at five o’clock.

Although it was still early, an eerie haze had dimmed the afternoon sunlight to a yellowish glow and I had to turn on the lights. I went outside. Heavy black clouds were building on the horizon, underlined by a brassy streak of sky. The sea was leaden. Westwards, an excruciatingly beautiful patch of turquoise sky hovered above the hills.

A minibus of elderly sightseers drove past, stopped, and backed up. They dismounted and stood on the strip of lawn at the front for a minute or two, before shyly entering as though uncertain of a welcome in such a place. I greeted them warmly and they relaxed, chatting about the beautiful building, the floods, the erosion. No one mourned the loss of fast-food outlets, the busy road that had usurped the once peaceful Esplanade, the high-rise apartments, or the canals.

‘Stan and I used to fish in the wetlands right behind here. It wasn’t a swamp at all! That’s just what the developers called it when they wanted to drain it. There were dozens of crystal-clear waterways shaded by huge stands of melaleuca, lots of small lakes and pools and more fish than you could throw a hook at.’

Many similar memories were aired by some very old, very tired, very disillusioned people. The despoliation I had witnessed in my own twenty-eight years had been bad enough; how exhaustingly sad must it have been for these people? And how many times worse again for the original inhabitants of the land?

I’ve no idea if my guests liked the drawings and paintings, but they did love the building. I demonstrated the opening of the dome and, as there were only fifteen of them, it wasn’t too much trouble to make tea and offer something stronger from the well stocked bar in the office.

It was still a few minutes to closing when they left, so I mopped out, straightened the paintings, checked no one had been left behind in the toilets, and closed everything up for the night. At five past five the telephone rang.

‘Maximillian’s.’

‘Gidday.’

‘You beaut. I was worried. Lots of lines are waterlogged and I thought you might not be able to get through.’

‘Rely on me.’

‘I do. Look, (that word was catching) there’s been a follow up from ArtWorks.’

‘Tell me! Was I right? Protection racket?’

Having no idea what Glaze’s fury and warning could mean, I gave Jon as detailed an account as possible. He took it more seriously than I.

‘You know, for all your great age you’re a bit of a babe when it comes to the real world, Peter. I came across several Scumbles and Glazes in Brisbane. You can’t avoid it if you’re mixing with the bottom end of town. I even did a stint as a heavy for a bit, until the boss realised I wasn’t getting results.

What he thought sounded serious, so I promised to be on my guard.

‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘I had a visitor. A mate of yours, Hank. Wanted to see if everything was still standing. Got a bit of a shock when he saw the state of the place. Asked who did it. He seemed a genuine enough chap, so I told him your suspicions. Hope that was all right? He sure went a funny colour.’

My blood drained. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘Hank?’

‘He’s Max’s father. Patrick is his son and I’m only suspicious. I’ve got no proof.’

Silence, then, ‘Shit! Sorry, Peter.’

‘You couldn’t know. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Yeah. Well, I do open my gob a bit wide sometimes.’

‘Join the club. Maybe I’m glad Hank knows.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, the roof’s watertight. Let it rain.’

‘That’s lucky. From the look of the sky it’s going to piss!’

‘Make sure you keep out of drains.’

‘I intend to – and you.’

‘Once burned... Yeah…well... see you - I guess. I’ll ring again at seven in the morning.’

‘Excellent. Cheers.’

He hung up and I was left staring blankly at the handset, wondering what the hell I was doing stuck on a rock at the edge of the land, trying to sell esoteric little drawings and paintings to people who only wanted a bit of decoration, something to brag about, or another trinket to relieve the unending sameness of their pointless little lives. I had swapped creativity for salesmanship; my hermitage for a stage.

I enjoyed being on show, playing the glamorous purveyor of objets d’art, the specialist in all things aesthetic. And I loved my new look and the chance to wear outrageous clothes. But… how satisfying was it really? Too easy, if the truth were told. No challenge. The only positive thing had been meeting the Alconas. And Jon. That made everything worthwhile. But I wasn’t with them – I was alone and in a rare flash of awareness I understood that time spent away from people I love, is time wasted.

I also realised that sometime during the afternoon I'd lost the urge to fight for Max’s dream. If people are to appreciate the intrinsic value of things, they must detect it for themselves. Human nature seldom lets us cherish what others have pointed out. By playing the evangelist and striving to convert Joe Public to an appreciation of a ‘higher aesthetic’ I was diminishing its value. A Zen saying fell into my head. When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

For lack of anything better to do, I wandered up to the roof to stare at the ominous accumulation of clouds. Frances’s car drove in and parked beside the door to the flat, followed by the Porsche. She unlocked the door, waited on the step till MacFife joined her, kissed him sweetly, took his hand and led him inside.

I moved across to the edge of the dome where Max had stood on the night of his fall, and gazed down at the marble floor. He was dead and wasn’t going to suffer - whatever happened. Everything important to me about Max was in my head. I had no reason to stay and no reason to care what junk ArtWorks wanted to fill the place with. Stuff them! It was time to go! Time to get on with my life.

Reinvigorated, head filling with ideas for a new series of paintings, I returned to the gallery and closed the dome.