Mortaumal - 24. Midas, Calypso & Preparations for the Show

They ate out on the verandah as before, the few mosquitoes not putting a serious damper on things.

‘Tomorrow I’ve an audition with some insanely wealthy potential clients. Do you think you’ll be able to amuse yourself for a couple of hours?’

‘Can’t I come and watch? I’ll be a good boy.’

‘You’d be bored.’

‘I would not! Who’s the audition for?’

‘The Church of Fumutie are planning fifteen fundraising concerts in greater Brisbane.’

‘What’s Fumutie?’

‘Forgiveness, Understanding, Modernity, Unbound Tolerance and Indefinite Ethicality.’

‘Makes no sense.’

‘What religion does?’

‘And what on earth is Indefinite Ethicality? Sounds like a recipe for doing whatever you feel like.’

‘As far as I can gather that’s exactly what it is. They’re as wealthy as Croesus and want to put heated swimming pools in all their day-care centres and other schools, as well as professional quality lighting and staging in all assembly halls—or something equally pretentious and insane, so if they approve of me I’ll be the second half of the program and the main drawcard for all fifteen shows.’

‘Now that really is putting their money where their mouth is. Preach unbound tolerance and indefinite ethics, and demonstrate it with a naked performer as your major act. What a hoot! Doesn’t sound anything like the religious school I went to for a couple of months. Against their wishes I played a naked Adam in a short skit I wrote, so the teacher in charge ran like a headless chook all over the stage trying to cover me.’

‘This group’s very different. Whereas narrow minded bigots join rabid fundies, and middle of the road middle classes join mainstream sects that espouse their mild prudery, mild sin, mild god and his gentle Jesus alter ego, the Fumuties tout for business by endorsing the internet-age obsession with free sex, pornography, nude selfies, endless consumption, egregious self promotion, the certainty that you are the centre of the universe and as good or better than everyone else, and the accumulation of wealth as desirable aims. Do all that and their god will reward you.’

‘Sounds like a smart move.’

‘Judging by their visible wealth, it’s super smart.’

‘On the other hand… Although I’d really love to go and watch, I can’t help wondering if I should keep out of the public eye for a few days.’

‘Ah yes. You were going to tell me about that.’

‘Later?’

‘No, now. So prepare your thoughts while I bring my accounts up to date.’

Twenty minutes later they were sitting face to face across the dining table, sipping weak tea.

‘I don’t think in segments,’ Mort began, ‘for me everything is a continuum so I’ll give you a quick rundown of my whole life that’ll help explain my actions today. And one day I hope you’ll tell me about yourself.’

Hale smiled softly. None of the guys he’d invited home over the preceding ten years had ever asked him a personal question. He liked to learn about them and could remember lots of interesting histories, but it seemed he wasn’t of interest to anyone else. ‘I would like that, Mortaumal.’

Mort smiled in his turn at the use of his full name. Usually he didn’t like it, but the way Hale said it—softly as if it was an intimate secret—sent tingles of pleasure through his loins.

Half an hour later, having learned what Mort considered the significant events of his sixteen years, Hale sat in silence gazing out the French doors into the darkening garden for several long minutes, then shook his head and turned to Mort. ‘Whoever named you was clairvoyant.’

This wasn’t the expected response. ‘It was my grandfather; what do you mean?’

‘Mortaumal. Mort au mal... Death to bad things in French.’

‘Yeah, he used to say he hoped I would live up to the name.’

‘Well you did this afternoon with those two assassins. He would have been proud.’

Mort nodded seriously. ‘Yeah, he would have.’

‘And the abbreviation, Mort. Death. Very apt. All those deaths. Most intriguing.’

‘Creepy?’

‘Not in the least. But as the last three of the nine deaths with which you’ve been intimately involved occurred today, I understand why you’re reluctant to venture forth.’ He gazed speculatively into Mort’s troubled eyes. So, Mortaumal, what’s the best thing to do with a problem?’

‘Face it?’

‘Exactly. Get your phone and call Lydia to see if she let you down.’

Mort closed the phone with a smile. ‘Stephan’s at the morgue and the doctor wrote a death certificate, no questions asked. Therefore no police were involved. He died a natural death and she sounds very happy to be a widow. When I said I wouldn’t be returning she said, ‘That’s a good idea,’ and asked what to do with my belongings. I said I’d let her know.’ He sighed in relief. ‘One down, two to go.’

‘That motorcycle cop should have some idea what’s happening about those two who tried to kill you, so give him a call too.’

‘I didn’t tell him about them, just warned him about Wiley, so he has no idea I might be involved.’

‘Ah yes. That was wise. So it would be stupid to ask him; it would only create suspicion where none now exists.’ He reached round and took a tablet from the sideboard. ‘Here, take this and check the news headlines. ‘

Mort browsed ABC then Seven News and a couple of online newspapers, then shook his head. ‘Not a mention. That’s odd, don’t your reckon?’

‘Didn’t you tell me those self-styled protectors said they worked for the Premier—among others. Cleansing the city of sin, or words to that effect.’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘So it’s probably being hushed up. The law only applies to little people like you and me, not to the moneyed guys or those with political clout. They sounded like loose cannons, those two, taking on jobs their minders knew nothing about, like working for that fellow Wiley, so you’ve probably done some official person a favour. Looks like you’re in the clear, as long as I’m the only person on the planet you’ve told.’

‘You are.’

‘Then we are safe.’

Mort’s heart leaped. Hale said we are safe. Not you are safe. Crazy, but suddenly the world seemed a much more pleasant place and his burden became light enough to bear with ease.

‘So, as there’s no manhunt for you, you don’t have to avoid the public gaze.’

At that moment the front doorbell rang loudly causing Mort to jump.

Hale frowned. ‘Odd. I’m not expecting anyone.’ He stood and pressed a switch beside a small monitor screen Mort hadn’t noticed. A man’s face appeared. ‘Ah, it’s Midas Geld, the chief witchdoctor of Fumutie. I hope he hasn’t come to cancel.’

‘Shall I go?’

‘No, I’ll only be a minute.’ Hale pulled on a pair of shorts and went to the door.

‘Mr. Lightfoot, I apologise for visiting you without an appointment.’

To Mort in the dining room, the voice sounded full and deep. Unctuous as if the witchdoctor was conferring a blessing.

‘Not at all, Mr. Geld. Come in.’

‘Call me Midas.’

‘Thanks, Midas. Call me Hale.’

The well-lubricated voice, Mort discovered, belonged to a tall, lean, somewhat theatrical looking fellow wearing a dark green tracksuit and white joggers. He looked to be in his early forties with thick, light brown hair springing from a wide forehead, straight eyebrows overhanging deep-set pale blue eyes, and a generous mouth filled to overflowing with perfect teeth that he enjoyed displaying. If he’d said he was selling insurance Mort wouldn’t have been surprised.

Midas Geld took one look at Mort, whose knees had suddenly jammed together when he remembered he was wearing nothing but a singlet, and thrust out a large, strong, hairy hand encrusted with several rings. ‘Midas Geld, Miss. Do you know you are the most beautiful young lady I’ve seen for years?’

Mort laughed aloud and shook the hand. ‘No, Midas, I wasn’t aware of that, but now I am I’ll record it in my little book of interesting facts.’

With a fruity chuckle, Midas turned to Hale. ‘Where did you find this superb creature? Introduce us at once.’

Hale stood behind Mort and placed his hands possessively and rather more firmly than necessary on his shoulders. ‘Midas Geld, allow me to introduce you to Calypso, my fiancé. Midas is the priest of his church.’

‘Oh, ha, ha.’ The laugh was forced. ‘I’m not a priest; my full title is Facilitator of the Church of Forgiveness, Understanding, Modernity, Unbound Tolerance and Indefinite Ethicality. The word priest smacks of esoteric rites, secret codes, sacrifices and magical incantations. My church is just a simple, down to earth bunch of ordinary men and women trying to make sense of the modern world.’

Despite the discomfort of having his balls crushed between his thighs, Mort managed to sound genuinely impressed. ‘How interesting. Please, won’t you sit down, Facilitator, Geld, so you can tell me more about yourself.’ He pointed to a chair on the far side of the table, giving himself time to rescue his testicles and send Hale a look that would have shrivelled his spine if he’d known Mort longer.

‘What’s the problem, Midas?’ Hale interjected before Mort could speak his mind.

‘The problem is that our success has brought out the fire and brimstone brigade, who are denouncing us in the media as godless heathens; much as the Catholics denounced Anglicans and Protestants, and they denounce every new version of Christianity that rears it’s head. Unfortunately, this criticism has created a great deal of nervousness among our female elders—my wife in particular, and as what she says is parroted by most of the females, it’ll be touch and go whether or not we can employ you. They’re wondering if having a naked acrobat might be counter productive when it comes to retaining and gathering members.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘They’re crazy! Our members joined precisely because we’re in favour of everything today’s men, women and teenage sons and daughters love to think, watch and do. Our continued success depends on keeping ahead of the pack, on constantly introducing new and more daringly popular activities. He who stands still get’s crushed by the juggernaut of conformity. Religion is big business in Australia, and we’re on the way to joining the big boys. Hell, if the Catholics can make a ten billion dollar annual tax-free profit, we should be able to too.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The feedback supports me. Members are constantly telling me they felt dead before joining us. Now they feel alive, sane and free of all the crap posing as morality. They enjoy themselves without guilt trips.’

‘It sounds as if you are doing the world a valuable service,’ Mort said brightly. ‘Is keeping fit and slim also part of your dogma?’

‘Absolutely! How intelligent of you to realise it. One of our sub-dogmas is “Keep slim, young and beautiful, if you want to be loved by god.” It works a treat. No obesity, lots of fit people—at least the men. The women do their best, but they’re fickle creatures. Present company excepted, I’m sure,’ he added, tossing a boyish smile at Mort, who wondered what he was getting at for a minute.

‘Tell me, Midas,’ Mort asked as if he cared, ‘how and why did you get this church of whatever it’s called, going?’

‘It’s a long story…’

‘We’ve plenty of time, haven’t we darling?’

Hale smiled a silent snarl.

‘Caterina, my wife, spent her entire inheritance on the construction of a huge house in the country—a white elephant, a great box that ate money. My work as a white-goods salesman and lay preacher for a traditional religion left us with not enough money to pay the bills. Then I read about Ron Hubbard, a Science Fiction writer who, for a bet, started a pseudo scientific religion that tapped into the new interest in popular science in the 1950s. For a joke he called it Scientology. To his astonishment, thousands of people believed it and he became a multimillionaire. So I reckoned we should tap into the zeitgeist of today and do the same thing. To her credit Catty’s been with me all the way.’

‘How brave; I can’t imagine how you went about it.’

‘Six months with a good taxation lawyer and a journalist was all it took to invent the name and write the history, creed, dogma, beliefs and liturgy. A brilliantly planned Internet site attracted a paid up membership of thirty-seven thousand eight hundred and twenty-five people in the first two weeks! We submitted the details to the Taxation Department, claiming we are a religion and therefore a charitable trust for taxation purposes, and from then on it’s been like printing money.’

‘How? I mean, why? I mean what made it a religion and not just a club? And how is it like printing money?’

‘It’s a religion because we believe in a supernatural overlord.’

‘What do you call him?’

‘He’s an 'it', to stop the females complaining about patriarchies. Tryadd is a triple sexed, three headed, six-armed and legged god whose invisible presence and blessing is called down upon us once a week in a devout service during which we praise It for granting us fun, sex, money and health.’

‘Why has it three of everything?’

‘We decided to remain in the Judeo-Christian family of sects, and they believe that god is three things in one—father, son and sacred spirit. We simply made it more obvious. To be taken seriously, we needed a new name. Jews call theirs Yahweh, or something like that, Christians simply call him god with a capital g, and Muslims have Allah. I reckon Tryadd’s as good as the others. What do you reckon?’

‘Utterly brilliant.’

‘Thanks. As for making money, FUMUTIE is a corporation comprised of the assets of all premium members, who are directors and receive salaries. As it’s a charity there’s no tax on anything, their salaries are counted as losses, and there’s no land tax or local body rates to pay on their properties. Add government grants to assist with upkeep and repair, and a few extra charities that attract government subsidies, and everyone’s incomes and profits more than doubled overnight.’

‘But it’s so obvious it’s not a charity if anyone looks at the books.’

Midas’s laugh was almost hysterical. ‘That’s the best part, no one is allowed to audit, look at, or check in any way the finances of any religion. We’re safe from scrutiny.’

‘Unbelievable. Who are the premium members?’

‘They’re successful business people who will benefit from a tax-free status. The rest of our congregation, workers and other waged people with no substantial assets are Significant Members. It’s important to keep their numbers high to maintain our status as a mainstream religion, and to keep the petty cash coffers full with their membership fees, attendance at concerts, filling our schools, and supporting businesses run by fellow church members, where they get a discount. The next round of concerts are part of a drive to attract new Significant Members, that’s why I want it to be a slap in the eye to every traditional church, and a trumpet call to attract everyone who’d secretly like to undermine the mealy mouthed purveyors of sexually censorious middle class morality with its guilt-ridden platitudes about everything that’s pleasurable. I reckon we’ll double our congregation if we have Hale as the main drawcard.’

‘The business plan seems rational, but not particularly charitable.’

‘True, but it’s no different from the other mainstream religious corporations, and not illegal.’

‘So what’s your wife’s problem, is she opposed to nudity?’

‘Goodness, no! Every believer in Tryadd holds close to their hearts the principal of total freedom of body. However, what their hearts hold dear seldom triggers the physical equivalent such as the removal of clothes in public, or random rutting. And if the fathers of the church don’t do it neither will the sons and before you realise it we’ll be back to banning the body.’

‘What about mothers and daughters?’

‘Caterina, my wife, runs intimate body sessions with groups of females who get all touchy feely and practice having orgasms and so on, but until the males start running around the place with everything hanging out, they’ll keep out of sight when playing with themselves. Most of the male Elders need a kick up the crack to make them face the duties of their ideology. And I’m trusting you, Hale, to convince them that “Nude is the New Novelty”, and they have to be part of it if they want their profits to continue expanding.’

‘You’re the preacher—you do it.’

‘What do you think I’ve been doing? You’re in search of new audiences, so it’s your turn. I think part of my wife’s pig-headedness is that she suspects I want to divorce her—and suspects me of devious plots.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes I want to dump her; but no I’m not planning anything devious. But I have the impression that in her workshops, as well as organising awesome orgasms, they’re beginning to challenge male authority and wisdom. I’ve a suspicion Catty’s undermining the whole equality of the sexes thing. Some of the looks the women give their men are less than appreciative. Technically, we’re equal, but men must remain the bosses when it comes to the crunch.’ He turned to Mort. ‘I suppose you disagree with that?’

‘Au contraire,’ Mort murmured. ‘I think it is sensible. You have created an essentially masculine structure, so if you want to keep it that way it would be foolhardy to allow meddling by women.’

Midas’s eyes widened. He got to his feet and knelt in front of Mort, taking his hand and gazing up into his eyes like a puppy. ‘Dear, beautiful, sexy, Calypso, please come with Hale tomorrow and talk to my wife. Convince her to divorce me and support us in remaining true to our roots of total freedom. Remind her we have to keep ourselves firmly in the forefront of everyone’s mind by doing things no other religion would, such as these fifteen concerts. We need the new members and we need to make a profit of at least five million when souvenir side sales are included, to pay for the new schools—three of either sex.’

‘You have single sex schools?’

‘Of course, do you approve?’

‘‘Absolutely!’

‘What sort of souvenirs will you be selling at the concerts?’ Hale was suddenly interested.

‘The usual stuff, but we were hoping for half a dozen photos of you in spectacular poses. Do you have any and would you agree?’

‘What’s my cut?’

‘Give us the photos and any details such as name and website, then we’ll have them printed onto cards and sold. Say... eighty-five percent for us?’

Hale grinned. ‘You’re definitely not a charity! But I could do with the advertising. I’ll bring some photos tomorrow.’

‘Excellent.’ Midas turned his puppy-dog eyes on Mort and lightly stroked her thigh. ‘And you, oh magnificent Madonna of magnanimity, please come tomorrow and convince my wife of her duty.’

After carefully removing Midas’s hand from his knee, Mort looked across at Hale’s pleading eyes. ‘OK,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll be there, but I can’t imagine Caterina will pay the slightest attention to me.’

‘Oh, she will. She will fall in love with you and lick your feet if you ask her to. Trust me. I know my wife… you are exactly the type she drools over.’

‘Hang on! I’m not…’

‘Worry not dear lady. Apart from drooling, she is totally harmless.’

‘I’d better take a towel.’

‘Oh, very droll. Well, I’d better get back to the grind of charitable excess.’

Hale saw him to the door and returned with a grin plastered from ear to ear. ‘You are superb!’

‘Do I look like a girl?’ Mort tried to remain calm, but failed spectacularly. He had been ambushed! His whole being was outraged. It was insupportable that he, a confirmed misogynist who’d spent his entire life being as manly as possible, should be considered effeminate enough to act a female for the third time! His whole body rebelled along with his head. ‘I’m a fucking man!’ he snarled. ‘I’ve got balls and a cock. I don’t have tits. I’ve got strong legs and shoulders that are wider than my hips! You’re bloody lucky I didn’t just spread my knees and let my cods hang out!’

‘You’ve also got a sweet beardless face,’ Hale interrupted serenely, ‘and a soft, husky, sexy voice, and long hair and even longer eyelashes, not to mention kissable lips.’ His placid smile was as tranquil as Mort’s face was anguished. ‘You’re also a damned good actor... and that’s what I’m asking of you; to act a woman—not be one. Play my fiancé just for tomorrow. Look on it as a challenge. And if by some stroke of malignant fate there happens to be secret police in the audience on the lookout for Mortaumal, they’ll not see him, they’ll see the irresistible Calypso.’

‘Calypso! What a fuckwit of a name!’

‘Desirable, seductive Calypso enchanted Odysseus with her singing, keeping him away from his wife, Penelope, for several years.’

‘Do I have to sing? My voice isn’t exactly enchanting.’

‘With a face and body like yours you need not utter a note, although a sweet smile and the occasional agreeable utterance would not be amiss.’

‘What’ll I wear?’

‘Excellent question.’

‘And the answer is?’

‘I’m thinking. This sect thinks the god Tryadd rewards good people by making them rich.’

‘What happens to those who don’t get rich?’

‘I imagine they quietly disappear, ashamed at having fallen out of favour with their god. Tomorrow’s cocktail party where I’ll be strutting my stuff is for the well-heeled Elders of the Church, who consider themselves to be the crème de la crème of modern society; sophisticated and smart. It’ll be a fashion show for females.’

‘Then I’ll wear this bush singlet and boots.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have boots, however I do have a nice little cocktail number left behind by a female who joined the troupe for a few months, then left when she realised I wouldn’t turn it into a sleazy sex show and we wouldn’t be fucking on stage—wouldn’t be screwing ever in fact. Ran off after a performance with one of the audience, leaving everything behind. Last I heard she shoves a variety of fruit up her fanny in a peep show in the Valley.’

‘A fitting reward for her perfidy.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Come on then, let’s see this rag you want me to wear.’

The dress was a semi-sheath of black silk that reached just below the knees. Long tight sleeves were firmly attached at the shoulders to a chaste, loosely draped panel that covered his chest from neck to knee. Presumably there had not been enough material to cover the back, which was left exposed right down to the suggestion of a cleavage. Clusters of pearls like bunches of miniature grapes adorned the shoulders, trickled across the high neckline and around the edge of the gaping hole where the back ought to have been. A pair of low-heeled strappy sandals fitted his feet without too much pain, and it took only five minutes to firmly affix satisfactory breasts. Hale, whose talents extended to hairdressing, soon had Mort’s hair piled up in a classic chignon fastened with a pearl comb he reckoned he’d picked up in Tajikistan. This accentuation of his newly acquired fiancé's elegant long neck, gave Calypso an air of graceful sophistication. A touch of lip-gloss and eye shadow completed the transformation.

‘Well?’ Hale asked after Mort had spent several silent minutes checking himself out in the full length mirror.

‘I’d better borrow something to crush my manhood. Much as I like it hanging loose, it would probably be a bit of a giveaway.’

Hale produced an elasticised thong, which did the trick without having to massage his testicles into uncomfortable places.’

Mort continued to frown. ‘I look like a woman!’

‘Until you move. Don’t forget to take small steps, keep your knees together when you sit, and don’t wave your hands around, they’re a bit too large for a woman.’

‘So... I’m not really feminine?’

‘Not in the slightest. In fact I’m having second thoughts. I don’t think you’ll be able to carry it off. We’d better forget it. Sorry to put you through this.’ Hale began to unfasten Mort’s sandals.

‘No, no. I’ll do it. Hell, if I can’t act like a woman for a few hours then I’m not much of a performer! Any suggestions?’

Hale suppressed a shout of triumph. ‘If people talk to you, act vague, pleasant and relaxed and don’t ask questions or show intelligent interest. That’s a sure giveaway. Chatter inanely about hairstyles, underwear and makeup, and be a tad jealous of other women’s clothes, jewellery, life style. I’m sure you know how to handle females.’

‘Lydia was a dab hand at mesmerising other women into a state of unthinking extravagance. I’ll copy her.’

‘Excellent. Now, hang it over the back of that old armchair so it’ll be ready for tomorrow.

‘Is your costume ready?’

‘With a bit of luck all I’ll be wearing is a little makeup.’

‘You wear makeup?’

‘I have to under lights, otherwise I look ill. Just a little brown eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara to make the eyes seem larger and me more innocent. Sometimes a highlight on cheeks, and lip liner...depends on how I’m feeling. And I darken my nipples, but lighten my cock and balls so they’re the same colour as the rest of my skin.’

‘I still don’t believe you’ll persuade those people to let you perform naked. Do you care if you can’t?’

‘Of course not, it’s a game; a way to maintain my sanity in a civilization who’s idea of morality is declaring a penis offensive, while applauding the bombing of innocent people in countries that don’t do as they’re told by big banks and multinational corporations.’

‘I know what you mean, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it except look after myself. The guys in power are determined to bring on Armageddon—or something, that’s why their newspapers lie and, as Shaw said, the law is an ass. It is getting serious though, isn’t it? Endless wars and refugees, and the climate changing and... and all that?’

Hale laughed. ‘It is. But as you wisely said, neither you nor I can do anything about it, and those we elect to run things aren’t interested so I’m not going to get an ulcer over it. I can perhaps make people think, but I can’t make them rational. If they discover for themselves that nude isn’t rude, it might chisel a chip off their blockheaded dogmatism. They might even realise they are mortal, that birth is lethal and we don't have long on this planet even if we live to be 100, so we might want to pursue what we love instead of only pursuing the next dollar.’

‘You’re not just a pretty face. By the way, have you decided what you’re going to do tomorrow?’

‘A fifteen minute routine. If they’re vacillating, I’ll give them a bit of a pep talk, and offer to do another few minutes in a pouch, then let them decide. I don’t want to lose the booking over my unimpressive genitals.’

‘Not unimpressive when in action. If they book you for fifteen shows, how much is that going to set them back?’

‘Virtually nothing.’

‘But…’

‘I’ll get six thousand dollars, and they’ll claim it as a work-related expenditure and tax break, because, as Midas explained, they’re a religion and therefore a charitable organisation.’

‘You should start a religion.’

‘Unfortunately, I have ethics and a moral code that would prevent me from ripping off the poor people who actually pay the tax these bastards pocket. But enough philosophising, let’s go and check the gear. Never leave anything until the last minute; that leads to shame and embarrassment if an essential element isn’t there or working properly.

‘I was going to ask about that. The jungle gym out there looks a bit weighty to lug around.’

‘That’s why I had an engineering firm build me a demountable frame of an exceptionally light, but immensely strong alloy.’

‘Can’t wait to see it.’

‘It’s in the van. Come on, I always test it the day before in case gremlins have got in since the last show.’

‘When was that?’

‘A week ago at a Private Boys’ School in the hinterland.’

‘Naked?’

‘Speedos. Nude would ruffle far too many feathers when the kids wrote home about it. Seventy-five boys ranging in age from eleven to seventeen, and their six teachers, sat wrapped in wonder at my antics. Afterwards I gave them a few lessons. They were very appreciative, especially when I told them I’d had such a great time they could spend my fee on more equipment.’

‘You’re amazing. I suppose most of the teachers were women? They were at all the schools I’ve been to.’

‘Not even one. I asked how they got away with it and they simply crossed their fingers. They’d recently taken a poll of boys and their fathers, and ninety percent said if any women were on campus, they’d leave. They all imagined what it would be like if their mothers were there, and voted accordingly. They want me back next term.’

Hale removed a long, green canvass bag from the rear of the van and upended it onto the lawn. Out tumbled a bundle of thin shiny tubes. He stood and gazed at it for a few seconds, made up his mind, took one length, lifted it and shook it slightly while slowly pulling it vertical. As if by magic, powerful internal springs at every joint pulled the structure into shape and locked them in place. Two minutes after opening the green bag a cube of glittering metal rods stood firmly on the grass. Hale leaped up, grasped a top beam, flipped over and, having exerted no apparent effort, stood on one of the top bars on one leg while holding the other vertical against his belly, toes pointed, arms outstretched.

‘How did you do that? You aren’t even wobbling.”

With a laugh, Hale fell forward, grasped the opposite horizontal beam and with arms held straight, swung round and round. There was about a centimetre clearance for his feet as they swung at great speed past the grass. Letting go, he somersaulted up and over till his hands landed on the opposite beam from which he hung by one hand, pulled one leg up with the other and hooked the foot over the bar, then did the same with the other foot. Meanwhile the first foot fell off. It was very funny. After three tries, both feet were hooked over the bar and he let go his hand. His feet failed to hold and he dropped to the ground, curling up into a tiny ball on impact. Mort held his breath, but a second later the ball opened and Hale shot straight up, hands seeming to fly past the high bar without touching it and then he was standing on it. He waved down at a wide mouthed Mort as a worried look crossed his face and his feet started to slide apart. He seemed to be trying to get them under control, but they kept sliding apart. He was going to either fall or split in two. Eventually, accompanied by Mort’s suppressed laughter—ever mindful of the neighbours—he was sitting flat on top of the bar, legs spread sideways so the toes almost touched each corner, scrotum and penis just visible dangling attractively over the bar, hands up behind his head in an attitude of total relaxation.

‘Toss me up the golden balls in the box behind the passenger seat, Mort.’

Mort raced to get them before Hale overbalanced, but he was sitting humming happily when he returned.

‘Toss them up one at a time to my left hand each time I nod my head, OK?’

‘OK.’

Hale nodded, Mort tossed one, which was immediately flipped nonchalantly into the air. Another nod. Another ball which joined the first. Soon five balls were making complicated manoeuvres above Hale’s head while he gazed dreamily at the sky.

‘Catch,’ he called softly, sending them back one at a time to Mort, who dropped all except one. He glanced up to apologise, but Hale was looking very worried. Then with wildly flailing arms he toppled backwards in what seemed like slow motion, turned over in the air and with a cheeky grin, landed on his feet, then cart wheeled across to lie grinning on his side at Mort’s feet like a devoted dog.

‘I saw it, but I don’t believe it! You can fly, you can contort, you can juggle... is there anything you can’t do?’

‘I have strong ankles and wrists that flick and help me along more or less invisibly, and the rest is practise and loose joints. Want a go? You have to grip tighter with the thin bars.’

‘You bet.’ Mort practised the exercises he’d learned, then attempted to stand on the top bar, wobbled precariously and only just prevented himself from falling. On the ground once more he was shaking.

‘It’s bloody high when you get up there! The frame looks so flimsy but it’s steady as a rock.’

‘There are tiny struts in the corners that keep it in shape, and a cube is very stable.’

‘What other magical tricks does this very ordinary looking van contain?’

‘Take a look.’ Hale removed and inspected three LCD floods that could be turned on and off when he clapped. A hundred metres of electric cable. A sound system responsive to movement, a rope, his makeup box, a towel, drinking water, dried fruit, and a flesh-coloured pouch.’

‘What’s the rope for?’ ‘

‘I hang from, it. It’s wound up in a special way that takes about an hour to do and ten seconds to undo. I’ll show you one day.’

‘Can’t wait to see it. What music do you play?’

‘Depends on the audience. Tomorrow it’s Vivaldi’s concerto for two mandolins. It’s fast, harmonious, and rolls on and on relentlessly to wonderful climaxes, like an express train racing to all the places you dream of going to. Vivaldi was a priest, so that ought to please the followers of Tryadd the Emancipator.’

Having carefully replaced the metal cube in its bag and checked everything else, they locked the van and the garage and returned inside.

‘I need a shower.’ Hale tossed Mort a few brochures. ‘Read these while I’m cleansing the body beautiful and you’ll get an idea of what you’d be letting yourself in for if you join me.’

The promotional literature for “Hale Lightfoot’s Astounding Acrobatics” triggered several giggles and a couple of resounding guffaws of delight.

Hale reappeared, fresh and sweet smelling.

‘You’ve shaved your pubes—everything! You’re smooth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes!’

‘Like it?’

‘Dunno. You look... different... almost robotic... almost too perfect...l ike a shop window dummy. Why?’

‘What did you like about the hair?’

‘It’s sexy.’

‘Exactly. Hair is a clear marker of sexual maturity and draws attention to genitals. You’ve read the promotional guff, and as I told Midas I want my performances to be artistic, sensual, sexy but not sexual. Without hair, my body is a seamless costume with no distractions. I’m lucky to have tight smooth balls and a relatively small, thick penis that doesn’t flop around. After ten seconds at the most, people forget I’m naked and concentrate on the whole body. Patches of hair interrupt the line of beauty, conceal vital muscle groups, and ruin the effect I want to achieve. OK?’

‘Yeah. Yeah... I understand. So if you had a red sagging ball sack and a long floppy cock, you’d wear that flesh coloured pouch?’

‘Absolutely! I want to impress people, not make them squirm.’

‘And that problem with hair is why ballet boys wear tights, there’s nothing to distract from the perfection of their bums and thighs. Actually, you still look impossibly sexy!’

‘Thank you young man. Now, what was so funny in what you were reading?’

‘This... Lightfoot Acrobatics present an evening of astounding, internationally acclaimed calisthenics. The word comes from Greek: kallos meaning beauty, and sthenos meaning strength. The astonishing beauty, strength, grace and agility of one of Australia’s most perfectly formed men will be demonstrated through a program that includes juggling, acrobalance, acrodancing, bar and rope activities. I imagine this was written by your grandmother?’

‘Modesty forces me to admit I wrote it myself. But she read it on her deathbed and thoroughly agreed. Carry on reading, but stop laughing! It isn’t funny, it’s deadly serious.’

‘Yes, Sir! Your modesty overwhelms me, that’s all.’

‘Thanks.’

Mort cleared his throat. ‘Hale performs in the flawless costume nature provides for us all... the naked body. In a series of sensual yet austere, almost ascetic sequences of magical movement, he provides an exquisitely artistic experience never to be forgotten. ‘Exquisite? Magical? Never to be forgotten?’

‘Have you no concept of artistic license? What a philistine you are!’

‘Who’s Phyllis Styne? An old girlfriend?’

‘Idiot. I think you’ve read enough.’

‘Oh no! This is the best part. If you’d like to book a performance but think god made an aesthetic error when designing the male body, then Hale is prepared to accommodate your idiosyncrasy for a small additional fee. Please Note: We present acts of physical excellence and moral decency, so if you are looking for a sleazy sex show or strip tease, do not waste our time enquiring. Ah! Such subtlety, Mr. Lightfoot. What type of people are convinced by your message to hire you?’

‘Usually wealthy, middle-aged, ex-physical-culture aficionados who hanker after their youth, and also the younger set looking for an act to liven up their birthday party, marriage anniversary, hen party. Not stag nights though. Heterosexual males would feel threatened. Gay social clubs have employed me more than once. Unfortunately, the law requires a pouch in venues open to the public, so I waive the surcharge for shows in those places.’

‘You make it sound so normal.’

‘It is.’

‘What about the quoted reviews; are they also artistic license? “A stupendous, unbelievable show…” Barcelona Periodico. “An act of such astonishing virtuosity is not to be missed…” Buenos Aires Correro. And all those other reviews from far flung places... Exquisite, graceful, elegant, there are not enough words to describe Mr. Lightfoot’s performance; Acapulco Spiegel, Bellissimo. Il Stupendo! Urbino Osservatore...’

‘No, they’re real, from reviews when I was travelling with the Cirque de la Lune. But enough of me. Lets have a snack and listen to the Vivaldi while I wind down so I can mentally prepare; then to bed.’