The Colour of the Night Read online

  Was there any other way? He knew of his exiled cousin who had fallen under the spell of another man. Such an abomination cast anyone so-touched into the bowels of hell to burn for all eternity. Arman would never contemplate such an idea; he would not fall prey to the evils of Sodom and Gomorrah. Better to enter into an arranged marriage, though in this new country, thank Allah, that imperative was no longer imminent.

  In the little kitchen, by the light of a single incandescent globe, Arman felt he’d discovered in Ben an enduring common interest, seated as they were, side by side observing the waiting commuters, or in their absence the passing foot-traffic. Arman was learning Western ways, Ben was awaiting something else, and from time to time even their landlord joined them. Nikos, also a bachelor, quickly fell into the spirit of things.

  ‘There’s them Asians again!’ he declared. ‘Never used to be any around here. My opinion: the Chinese are looking to take over our country. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Arman, with some confusion, attempting to juggle the apparent hierarchy of nationalities.

  Benton nodded and smiled. He liked the idea that the other two were entertained by his unusual innovation. With a flourish towards the screen he would regularly repeat, ‘What do you say, chaps, can we imagine a more thorough embodiment of reality TV?’

  Friends at close quarters. It was a new concept for Benton and it required practice. There were still times when the proximity of others elicited a strange and disconcerting nausea. On these occasions he was obliged to retreat upstairs, and it was here behind closed doors that he took out his special Irish tumbler and a four-sided bottle that shone liquid amber even in the bad bedroom light. He did not much appreciate the taste, but that wasn’t the point. With glass in hand, he would turn on his computer, log on to his regular internet site – the one with the children – and there at last he would feel truly inspired.

  2

  ADELE LIKED her new life. She’d become a different person when her husband Randall declared that they should both be leading a more meaningful existence, that they deserved happiness and that he was dating his twenty-three-year-old sales rep from Singapore. From Adele’s point of view, the suddenness of his announcement was like being struck with a large bag of bullshit, as she would later tell others. Thrown broadside, she was left disoriented but pointing in another direction – which she quite liked. She was familiar with the idea that the unexpected could cause significant shifts in a person’s life and that had summarised her situation perfectly. Within six months she had a new house, a new lifestyle, a new image, and a completely new occupation.

  On this sultry afternoon, she scanned her wardrobe for an outfit that would be appropriate for the evening’s event: an art exhibition and afterwards a formal dinner for the gallery’s new Director. She had a dozen dresses that might suit – what a change from her old life! Randall had been a disaster from the start. She’d met him at eighteen, fell pregnant at nineteen and was married a year later. Her parents were furious; she could still picture their disgust. They envisaged her making serious money in a respected profession, taking up the opportunities that they had deliberately eschewed. With everything at their daughter’s disposal, the last thing they wanted was a continuation of their own, indolent, pot-fuelled lives, the highlight of which had been the protest to save the Franklin River.

  Adele selected a Sherri Hill black dress, beaded and sleeveless. She’d only worn it once. Sheer satin, it fitted perfectly, and reminded her how pleased she’d been that Elton’s birth had not significantly altered her figure. The boy was in his first year of high school when she decided to return to college. She qualified as a Ward Clerk and scored a job at the Royal Women’s Hospital, just ten metres from where she’d given birth twelve years earlier. At thirty-one, she was at last gaining independence, but a misunderstanding caused her transfer to St Vincent’s and the Oncology department, then a move to Cardiology, Infectious Diseases, and finally to Intensive Care. And it was there, stuck behind a formica counter eight hours daily, dealing with trauma and death and other people’s snot-nosed relatives pulling clods of tissues from the box on the counter, and deflecting their demands – Where’s the doctor? Who’s in charge? Why isn’t more being done? – that the job began to lose its allure. Yet perhaps she’d still be there, processing the barely alive, if Randall hadn’t conveniently shagged his sales rep.

  She spread her beaded dress on the bed and went downstairs to the bathroom. Mechanically, she peeled off her day clothes, stepped into the shower and, swaying too and fro beneath the warm stream, she recollected how quickly she’d dropped her hospital job when the divorce settlement came through. Then she went shopping. She’d always desired the best fashion labels, though this had been suppressed while managing the two men in the house. Now she bought Marc Jacobs, Volcom and Balenciaga, shoes by Valentino, dresses by Galliano and Versace. She changed her hair from light-brown to jet-black and had it styled at Shibui. She changed her email address and phone number. She changed her surname back to her family name, Bellamy. She chose to neglect her old workmates, relatives and Randall’s dinner-party friends. Given the circumstances, some thought she was going through a depressive downtime but it was actually an uptime she was experiencing; a kind of elation that only abandonment can deliver.

  And she changed her profession: by some uncanny prescience had she foreseen it? She recalled clearly the night on the Infectious Diseases ward when she first met Tiffany Brown. That young woman was a patient who had been diagnosed with toxoplasmosis – a brain parasite that she’d probably caught from her cat – but a previous misdiagnosis kept her under supervision for nearly a fortnight. Anxious to be discharged, Tiffany wandered aimlessly and began chatting to Adele behind the front counter. Adele allowed it because she felt some strange admiration for the woman: her deportment and her ability to remain aloof of the indignities to which other patients regularly succumbed. The two talked openly about their lives, their relationships, their paths through adolescence and their career choices, but it was Tiffany’s occupation that had set Adele’s imagination ablaze. She was a high-class professional escort working for a reputable agency in the city. And before Adele quit her job, she had the foresight to take down Tiffany Brown’s contact details.

  STEFANIE MITCHELL had arranged her hair as best she could. Being short, it was supposed to be manageable, but it always seemed to spring into frizzy brown waves despite applying the electric straightening irons that the hairdresser had insisted she purchase. She and her husband Simon Warner were on their way to yet another exhibition opening at ACCA – the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art – an institution clad in postmodern, non-objective, rusted iron shards that already spoke of convoluted aesthetics and perplexing art theory. Stef didn’t particularly like art openings but Simon positively loathed them. It wasn’t as if he didn’t regularly attend them, just that he didn’t take pleasure in being there. He felt affronted if he wasn’t invited, yet when he was, he’d toss the card cursorily into the bin – after copying the date into his diary.

  On arrival at ACCA the two parted company almost at the angular entrance, one going to the left, the other to the right, a reconnoitring of sorts; a casing of the joint. Simon perused the crowd contemptuously; one glance convinced him he shouldn’t have bothered going. There was hardly a prominent person worth cultivating – except perhaps for Garth Ashton, the curator of Findings, as well as Leonie Brookes from the NGA. Juliana Engberg was also there – and Steven Truff with his elegant wife, who it was rumoured, was soon to open an upmarket commercial gallery. Perhaps his presence wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Stef disappeared into the crowd and Simon edged a little to one side where he’d be conspicuous without seeming eager, and was immediately approached by a former art student. She introduced herself as though he wouldn’t remember her – which he didn’t – before corralling him with chatter about her career choices, her forthcoming project and the fact that she’d always had a crush o
n him. The last detail Simon missed completely, concentrating as he was on the small huddle over her shoulder, where he should be, and on working out how he might extricate himself from the verbal grip of this badly-networked girl.

  He downed his wine in one go and begged her leave, explaining that he needed a refill. Hadn’t he done that a thousand times? How tiring. He moved towards the wine table and as he passed Leonie he nodded pleasantly, hoping she’d rotate towards him, but she was preoccupied and missed the cue.

  At the wine table he felt someone brush his elbow.

  ‘Hello, Simon.’ It was that fucking creep from Christie’s, renowned for on-selling work he’d gleaned from artists’ studios at bargain prices.

  ‘Gavin. Nice to see you.’ Simon turned away to the wine waiter on the pretext of asking about the shiraz. He then beckoned thoughtfully in the general direction of the crowd and moved on. He nodded to the director at the uni gallery, who nodded back, but nothing came of it. He decided then to make one last circuit in an attempt to attract the attention of someone worthwhile, but if that failed he’d find Stef and suggest they leave.

  He was about to try the other room when he spotted a well-dressed, attractive, thirty-something woman standing alone, staring into one of the paintings. He moved in beside her, leaned forward and peered intently at the picture.

  ‘You know the artist?’ he said.

  ‘No, do you?’

  ‘Not really. I know of him, of course, not a major figure by any means, but let’s hope he does well, eh?’

  ‘You’re in the arts?’

  Simon smiled wryly. ‘Well, you might say that, yes. Although one always has one’s critics who might advise a career path elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re a painter?’

  ‘Ha! Another time I might regard that as an effrontery! Painter? No, my work is far too elusive for the splash and daub of pigment applied with a hairy stick.’

  Adele recognised at once that he didn’t always talk like this. She guessed rightly that he’d probably headed some art school or other and was used to assuming the mantle of an eccentric and controversial raconteur. Provocative comment would be his stock in trade, bullying the naïve and the witless into servitude.

  ‘You don’t have regard for methods unlike your own?’

  Simon looked bemused. ‘Regard? Half the people in this room were once students of mine. What good is a lecturer who can’t have regard for the opinions of others? But let me tell you …’

  ‘Christina.’

  ‘Christina; thirty years in the game endows one with x-ray vision: one begins to look through art rather than at it.’

  Adele met his direct gaze.

  ‘And through artifice,’ she said soberly. ‘I’m beginning to doubt the motives of half the people in this room.’ She glanced over her shoulder and waved.

  Simon studied her profile. What was it that attracted one to certain strangers but not to others?

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘No, an acquaintance.’

  ‘Are you with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Want to dump him and come and have a drink with me, Christina?’ He knew it wasn’t possible but he was keen to hear her response.

  Adele stood thoughtfully. Right now she shouldn’t even be talking to another potential client. It was one of her rules: while he’s paying, give him the utmost attention. But Leon had left her to fend for herself while he chatted in the manner of those who pretend to be comfortable in large crowds.

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot,’ she told him. ‘I’m under contract.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re on the payroll?’

  ‘I’m his companion. But if you want me to accompany you another time, here’s my card.’ She smiled warmly, shook Simon’s hand and abruptly turned way. He watched her disappear into the crowd.

  JAMES’S OWN art was really taking off. It deviated far from the methods of his parents but it was just as legit – he knew of some Banksys that were valued at well over a hundred thousand. He’d picked up all the experience he needed on the job – his day job. For months he watched for interesting graf, memorising the flourishes, absorbing the language and contemplating his own style. And before long he was on his blacksnake, slipping silently through the backstreets at night, plying the craft himself.

  Like most creative types, he developed an idea that was uniquely his. Wherever he went, he looked for certain discrete features on buildings around which he could spray an ornate black-and-gold picture-frame. Fire hydrants, alleyway doors, posters, advertisements or even a vaguely interesting pattern in a paling fence was good content around which to spray his intricate rectangle of lines and flourishes, which were not unlike the gilt enrichments on a Goya or a Gainsborough.

  His day job, in recent times, was not delivering the satisfaction he imagined. He used to enjoy shoving stuff around better than the older ones, gawking at girls on bicycles, holding aloft the Stop sign to the annoyance of work traffic. In hardhat, yellow vest and sunglasses he’d felt in charge, the job requiring a certain amount of public responsibility. And he was placed squarely in the outdoors under the great expanse of blue. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that the job held less challenge than a walk to the shops.

  It was only graffiti that sustained him, though even that would sometimes disappoint. Occasionally, as he operated the vibratory roller compacting asphalt, the industrial earmuffs reducing the sound to a dull huff, he would spy through protective glasses one of his pieces. He was obliged to pause then and beam with pride. He’d watch to see how people might respond to his handiwork. Surely they’d see it and smile, surely it would lift their thoughts for the day, alter their perceptions of the city just a tiny bit. But oddly, James never saw a single person take note; it was as if there was nothing there. Yet there had to be someone who viewed his art appreciatively, even if he’d never actually witnessed it. Somebody, surely.

  BEN SHOWED Arman a sepia photo of a naked boy. The Afghan had come home early – the cab was in for service – and he found his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table with a near-empty bottle of Canadian Club. Increasingly, there were times when Arman felt unsure about their common territory, that small interior with the one pseudo-window: Benton’s prying monitor. Occasionally he was aware of a prevailing smell – stale pantry products, rancid grease or a whiff of gas – and it metaphorically represented Arman’s uncertainty. A kitchen should have the aromas of mint, coriander and cardamom; it should be filled with the tantalising essences of naan, palao or a good qorma. He longed for an appetising dastarkhan cooked by his beloved anaa. But to persevere with Benton’s companionship meant there were many things he was obliged to relinquish.

  Today he’d walked in to find Benton with a glass in one hand and the brown photograph in the other – his left hand; an insult in itself. As Arman entered, the Englishman’s head rolled slowly towards him but the rest of his slumped body remained in repose as though anaesthetised, which Arman guessed might be close to the truth.

  ‘Want a drink, old chap?’ Arman opened his mouth but his flatmate interrupted. ‘Of course you don’t.’ Benton gave his glass a little twist. ‘But I do, although one isn’t supposed to drink in the presence of a Muslim, is one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But in this case, Arman, I was here first, in both senses of the word: here in the kitchen and here in the country.’ The two men observed each other carefully. ‘I’m talking about the English, Arman.’

  The Afghan stepped towards the door but Benton began again. ‘Just a moment, old man,’ he called, his attention returning to the photo between his fingers.

  ‘See this?’ He pointed the postcard directly at Arman. ‘Another bit of Western culture, old chap. A nineteenth-century Victorian nude – what’s your opinion of that?’

  Arman frowned and fidgeted. ‘Your … your family?’

  ‘Hah! That’s a good one, Arman; very charming indeed. Nineteenth century; you know what that means? It m
eans a very long time ago. Back when innocence was the prevailing sentiment, back when people knew the beauty of the nude.’

  ‘I do not like it.’

  ‘Spoken like a religious zealot!’ Benton declared. ‘You’ve never really enjoyed yourself, have you?’ His face turned vaguely sour as he swayed on the chair, and Arman could see that he was barely focusing. Was this the same jocular person with whom he’d drunk tea that very morning?

  ‘Ever had sex? Bet you haven’t!’ Benton swivelled to face him. ‘Do you like to tug your dooley, Arman?’ He waved a finger towards the man’s crotch. ‘Ever had it out in front of anyone? See that boy?’ He pressed the photo forward again. ‘He doesn’t mind jiggling it around in public.’ He appraised his swarthy flatmate. ‘Go on, Arman, I dare you: show us your dooley, go on.’

  Arman’s eyes widened as Benton’s derisive snigger pummelled his flesh like a spray of tossed pebbles. He backed away and climbed the stairs and the Englishman called after him: Got a foreskin then?

  Still seated, Benton chuckled again and swerved towards the monitor. There was nothing to see. He gazed blankly at the image of the grey kerb, the roadway and half a bus shelter. A car flashed across the screen, then another. Benton picked up the photo on the table and scrutinised it long and hard. With his other hand, he pinched his penis through his pants almost as if it were the child’s.

  SEX WAS A troubling topic for Arman. Back home his family had long recognised that he was no ladies’ man. He’d tried very hard to show interest in a local girl even though they’d spoken just the once and he knew her only by her eyes, the part he could see. It terrified him that he might end up like his cousin, beaten close to death when his mother found him in bed with another boy. His cousin had been taken to a witchcraft woman who burnt lines into his back to drive out the devil. Eventually the boy agreed to marry a seventeen-year-old village girl. She complained bitterly of her husband’s lack of interest and he was beaten again. How could his cousin have denied Islam? It taught one how to behave, how to wash, how and what to eat – and how to make love on the first night of marriage.