La resolución de problemas

She longs for him to fill her, to lie with his cock in her all through the night. Why him? Why? Why couldn’t it be anyone but Vin Satler? Through the open window, the sea smashes into the cliffs below the homestead. Far across the sea, it is daytime– where is he? Who is he with? Long after the first haunting cry of the mopoke, her eyes close. She sleeps until, through the open window, the sun spreads like honey across the walls. Caly wakes in her mother’s old bedroom invigorated, and excited. With an expert touch, she brings herself release in a quick orgasm.

After breakfast, she and Cynthia pull the books from the shelves in the study.

‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long,’ her aunt says. ‘Be ruthless. Make a pile here for yourself or for friends, but most of them can go to Vinnies.’

That name. What is he doing? Who is he fucking? It’s over. No more going back to him. But still the longing, the desire for him catches in her, sharp and intense. At the back of her mind, even as she tosses Jeffery Archer and Wilbur Smith onto a mounting pile of books, puts aside To the Lighthouse, Madame Bovary and a copy of Dirt Music dedicated to Cynthia on the other, her mind is plotting how to get laid. Fuck anyone, sleep with no-one. Not that she could say that it had worked for her, she’s had so many failures. Vin, of course. And three weeks sailing with Nick Stepaneki around southern Turkey and the Mediterranean after filming Calypso broke her rules, too. But in the end, she didn’t give in. She’d dropped Nick at the airport and cut contact for years, so that he was under no illusions. So many men and some whose name she cannot even recall. Love ‘em and leave ‘em… before they do the same to you. Is that the one thing she’s learned from her mother? And how to keep secrets.

She and Cynthia work at it all day. Despite her policy to travel light, Caly can’t help but keep back dozens of the books.

‘There’s some gems here. Have you read them all?’

‘Most of them,’ Cynthia says. ‘There’s nothing better than getting stuck into a good book. I’ve always hated television.’ The twelve boxes on the veranda are ready to be taken to the op-shop.

‘I’ll drop them off– get them out of the way.’ Caly begins lifting the boxes, loading them into the back of the ute. Gribble’s book sits on the table, an accusing finger. ‘You know I’m going out to the mine on Friday? I’m going to pop over and see Nick, see what I need to bring. Return his book.’ There is no-one else she can go to.

‘There’s strong wind and a lot of rain forecast later in the week,’ Cynthia says. ‘Really? No sign of it now. Is there anything you want from town?’

93

She showers quickly and dresses carefully. A two-piece swimsuit under the flowing shirt and a long wrap skirt of rainbow colours that she bought last spring in Spain; a mad extravagance and of course she’d never worn it. In New York, she conforms to black and white, and all the shades of grey in between.

Even though Cynthia is now resting in her room and Uncle Alec is no longer here to supervise her, Caly slips away quietly, like she did in the old days, her heart racing, stupidly, with the fear of being caught. She drives with the windows down and the cool breeze blowing in her hair. The town is busy. There must be a big meeting, though she hasn’t heard. Then she remembers the boy, found hanging last weekend. The funeral?

She drops the books off at Vinnies quickly, feeling like an intruder among what she sees now are the mourners, and drives to the tavern car park. She’ll leave the ute, walk out to Nick’s place from here. She’s never been to Nick’s place, but she knows the general direction and the track is well defined.

Two large canvas tents, army style, sit on the northern edge of the clearing. There’s a fire pit, an old table and a couple of chairs. She calls his name, coo-ees several times, but there’s no reply. Wattlebirds hidden up in the foliage of the coastal mallees give a high-pitched screech when she moves toward the tents. A pair of willy-wagtails twitter and hop excitedly along the rim of the large water tank. She feels like Goldilocks. He’s not here.

In the evening light, his place settles comfortably, even beautifully into the environment. She can see that it’s a pleasant place to live. She turns and looks south, sees the town nestled into the folds of the bay. Further south, the port structure is clearly visible, towering like some massive beast over both sea and land.

The flaps of the tents are secured and, although tempted to see more of how he lives, she contents herself with exploring the clearing. She takes an enamel cup and fills it from the water tank, sits a while at the table to drink. He must be at the funeral. She can’t make out if she’s pleased or sorry he isn’t here. While the need for sex hasn’t left her, something in her is happy that it isn’t Nick she’ll use tonight. She walks back to town. Perhaps he’s gone to the tavern.

He’s not there. Very soon, she’s approached by a man with lean lines, elegant features and a German accent. His name is Ulrich. His leans into her as they talk about travelling, about being here in the north-west, their legs touching beneath the table. Soon they’re joined by an older man, who introduces himself as Max. They order beer, then switch to tequila.

‘I can’t work out who you remind me of,’ Max says. ‘Joni Mitchell? Emmy Lou Harris?’ ‘That dates you,’ Caly says.

94 ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, something a little bird told me.’ He takes hold of her hand, strokes the soft inner skin of her wrist. Caly calls Cynthia to tell her she won’t be home till later and the three of them go to Max’s room. Later they share a spliff. They slip out to the hotel pool, drink bourbon from the bottle and swim and play in the streaks of silvery moonlight that drift on the water. She tells herself that it’s fun.

95