Acid Song (6 page)

Laughter animated their faces. The boy reddened.

‘And if you object to being picked on in this way, next class come on time.’

More laughter.

‘When we seek to explain an event, we must first choose an appropriate level of analysis. At the most fundamental level, we might wish to explain the happenings on Fakaofo by physics alone. Why not? By reducing every player, every coconut, every drop of water and salt in the ocean to its constituent parts, and by attempting to model the forces acting on each and every subatomic particle involved in our story, we might be able, in the manner of a Laplacian demon, to show that what happened on the atoll was the only thing that could have happened. But we don’t. We dismiss the approach out of hand. Why? Because the model we would have to build is too complex for us. Not only is the approach emotionally unsatisfying, but in predictive terms it is entirely useless. It is for this same reason we do not call upon an advanced knowledge of quantum mechanics when preparing a meal.

‘But what you may not have considered, what many of my colleagues appear not to have considered, is that many of the more popular approaches to understanding our history suffer from essentially the same defect. We may wish to explain the fate of the atoll in terms of religious doctrine alone. We might wish to model
it as cultural clash, or economic imperialism; we might wish to allow technological advance to explain the meeting, or call upon some bogus genetic representation of the people involved to explain their actions. We might spin elaborate tales about the importance of climate and available food sources. Or perhaps we could lay all the blame at God’s doorstep. But do any of these approaches convince us really? Do any of them assert their primacy with any sort of force? Can any of them make a single prediction about tomorrow which a competing model can not also make? That is the test we will put our explanations to, over the next two weeks, and I suggest to you that many, perhaps most, of the theories we come across will fail this test.’

Richard was winding up now. Preparing for a different battle, a different audience. Like a boxer in his changing room before a bout, punching at the air.

‘History happens to individuals. History is caused by individuals. Did the Bishop understand that Jules was a man of dubious intent? Probably, but he made a pragmatic decision to ignore this for the greater good. He weighed up the outcomes. He searched his conscience. He made his decision. So did the priest who accompanied Jules, who doubtless saw more than he recorded, but chose to interpret his world selectively. He was not simply an animal cocking his leg on foreign territory, because that is what an animal must do. He made his choices, and history judges him accordingly. And what of the Tokelauans themselves? Why relegate their part in the story to that of simple-minded victims of deceit and aggression? Isn’t there something particularly arrogant about that assumption? They could have refused to join their menfolk on the ships. Some did. Again, they weighed up the options, and the consequences.

‘It is misleading to speak of the broad sweep of history. The broad sweep of history is constructed of individual lives, of weeping children and wives beyond comforting. Of the tragedies that visit:
always in some particular place, always at some particular time. And always it is built upon the decisions of individuals, who weigh up the probabilities, consider the constraints, examine their consciences; who act or do not act, and so change the flow of events forever. When you are looking for your level of analysis, here is where I suggest you start every time: with the individual, a biological unit within a cultural context, faced always with a set of moral decisions…’

By the end of the lecture the mind of Richard Bradley was a much changed landscape. The sharp dread of an hour ago was now just a dull throb of warning. It could, would, be ignored. His was the simple joy that every big fish finds within the confines of a small pond.

The lectured filed out, and Richard caught scraps of their conversations. Some of them were talking about the lecture, and the knowledge warmed him. Someone, though, was going nowhere. The student stood patiently beside Richard, waiting to be noticed. A young man (but not a child) Richard recognised from row two: just the other side of the great divide, young enough to leave his shirts untucked. The man extended a hand. It was small and smooth. The man looked nervous.

‘Ah, my name’s Luke Krane. I just wanted to say that was the most interesting lecture I’ve ever attended.’

‘Thank you,’ Richard nodded his acknowledgement at the compliment. The man didn’t have to do this, nor was he enjoying it.

‘And it’s helped me make a big decision,’ the man continued. A little too earnestly, Richard thought. He felt embarrassed for him. ‘Um, you see, I’m a school teacher. Secondary. I teach biology. I’ve just been taking this course out of interest, but I’ve been thinking I might go back next year and finish my Masters. And today, well you reminded me how …’ the poor man struggled for the right word,
and settled on a deflating compromise. ‘…Well, how good this sort of thing can be. So you’ve helped me decide. It won’t be easy of course, financially, we have a child, and my wife’s just gone back as a part timer now…’

Richard had no time for this fashion of sharing the details of one’s life with strangers. The man, perhaps sensing his disinterest, lost momentum.

‘But yes, that doesn’t matter. I just wanted you to know, well how important that lecture was to me. How, um, positive it made me feel. Thank you.’

The man called Luke looked Richard in the eyes and nodded his second thank you, before turning away and heading for the door. Richard allowed himself a smile. The cloud was passing.

‘YES, I DON’T think you quite understand my question…’ He held the phone closer to his ear, to drown out the sound of a neighbour’s power tool. ‘No, I’m not that Luke Krane. Yes, K,R,A,N,E. That’s right. No, look at the date of birth. Do you have the date of birth there?’

‘One moment.’

Luke listened to the tapping of a keyboard, and the call-centre echo of twenty other frustrated conversations.

‘Ah yes, sorry, Sir. I see the problem. We have two Luke Kranes here. Can I just have your date of birth please?’

‘Sixteen, ten, seventy-four.’

‘Oh.’ Then silence.

‘Oh? What do you mean oh?’

Luke checked his watch. It had taken seven and a half minutes to be connected to this operator, and now he was getting oh. Two hours ago he had been sitting in a lecture hall and everything had seemed so simple.

He wanted this to be perfect. Every detail fastened down. He wanted to be ready for her objections. (And she would object, at first. She didn’t like surprises.)

She: Robyn, around at her parents, dropping off Alicia. In twenty minutes she would be home. Luke could feel the stress levels rising, like toothpaste squeezed from the bottom of a tube, the way Robyn insisted.

He hadn’t been cut off, he could still hear the tapping, but ominously, nothing more.

‘Ah, maybe this is it,’ the voice offered with some uncertainty. ‘We have a Luke Kane here, no r, living at forty-three Broadway Place.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s me! That one.’ In his mind Luke was in the cubicle, leaning over the young man’s shoulder, pointing at the screen.

‘Right, so there’s no r?’

‘No, yes, there is an r. It’s just there’s been some sort of mistake, obviously.’

‘One moment while I look at that, Sir.’

‘No, no. I don’t have a moment, Can you fix it later?’

‘Do you have your account number there, Sir?’

‘I’ve already given it to you.’

‘Yes, but that was as Krane, with an r.’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I would have to go back to that screen for verification, but your details aren’t on that screen. I need a verification for you without an r, Sir.’

‘But I’m the same person. Why can’t you just change the name?’

‘I need a written request for any change of personal details, Sir.’

‘Okay, okay, wait a minute.’

Luke searched around frantically. Where had he put the statement? He’d had it, just before. This was ridiculous.

‘Look, I don’t have the number.’

‘But you just gave it to me, Sir.’

‘I know. I know I just gave it to you.’

‘All right, just hold on a moment and I’ll see if I can do a cut and paste. Won’t be a sec.’

More tapping. More silence.

‘Bugger.’

‘Bugger what?’ Luke demanded. Outside there was the sound of an approaching car. He checked the window. No, it was the little red Daihatsu from across the street.

‘Um, can I have that date of birth again please?’

‘Look, I’m in something of a hurry. I know you’re just doing your best, but could I perhaps speak to your supervisor?’

‘Certainly, Sir. I’ll just put you back to the choice menu, and if you press one, followed by the hash key, and twenty three … Okay, doing that now …’

‘No, no wait. No, don’t, I just spent seven and a half minutes on the choice menu. Isn’t there someone actually in the room I can talk to? Can’t you just call them over?’

‘No, wait, here we go, you’re in luck. Yes, I’ve got your details right here. Thought that might work.’ The man sounded uncommonly pleased with himself. ‘Now this is the Conservative Fund option we’re looking at is it?’

‘It’s the only one I have isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

‘Well then, we’re looking at that aren’t we?’

‘Yes we are. Now, how can I help you with this?’

‘Well, to start with, what’s the current value?’

‘You know you can find that information by accessing our website?’

‘Yes, I do, but I haven’t set the account up that way, my wife has security concerns, regarding the … Look, I don’t have time. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.’

‘No, we just like to check.’

‘Right, fair enough.’

‘So …’

‘The value.’

‘Investment value or cash-in value?’

‘Investment, no, I mean … which is bigger?’

Damn, he’d completely lost it. He’d had it all sorted in his head, but ten minutes of waiting had curdled him.

‘The investment value, although its value is only realisable upon maturity.’

Okay, that was it. He’d remembered.

‘Look, what I need to do, is just, well I’m in the scheme, but I’m applying for study leave, for next year, and …’

‘Twenty-one thousand, two hundred and thirty-five dollars. As at the eighth of the ninth. Which includes your employer contribution of course, which is only realisable …’

‘And as I was saying, I’m applying for study leave…’

‘Yes.’

‘Um, and what I need to know is, if I put my contributions on hold for a year …’

‘Yes, you can put your contributions on hold for a period of up to three years, or if you’re working for another government department, you can transfer the scheme directly across to that employer. Are you going to be working for a government department?’

‘No, I’m going to be studying.’

‘All right.’ The tapping started again. ‘And where will you be enrolled for this study?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Well, it’s just that if you’re employed by the institution during the …’

‘No, I’ll just be studying.’

‘All right.’

‘Look, I just wanted to know, if the scheme’s on hold …’

‘That’s available for up to three years.’

‘Look do you mind not interrupting me all the time? It’s slowing things down.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir. We just like to make things as clear as possible. We realise that that you have had to queue for this service, and it is our endeavour to …’

‘Wait a minute. Are you just reading this?’

‘No, not at all, Sir.’

‘You’re not just reading words off a screen, that respond to key words in my questions?’ He’d heard about this. There’d been an interview, on the radio.

‘No.’

‘So why do I hear typing when I talk?’

‘We like to keep a thorough record of all conversations.’

He hated this man. In the course of only four minutes, Luke had actually grown to hate him. Which was a record.

‘Now, did you have a question?’

‘Yes.’ Luke forced himself to stay calm. He was almost there. Now was no time to take his eye off the prize.

‘If I stay in the scheme, but suspend my payments, and am only on study leave, so I’m still employed by my current employer, who contributes to the scheme, and I intend returning to the employer and the scheme at the end of my study leave, can I use the investment value of my fund as collateral if I want to extend my mortgage facility?’

There was a moment’s silence, as the tapping caught up. And a
moment more, as the brain attached to the voice on the other end read a message off the screen. The bastard.

‘That depends, Sir.’

‘On what?’

‘On the policy of the institution who issued the mortgage. You should talk to them.’

‘But that’s you! I have my mortgage with you. It’s one of the reasons I chose this scheme.’

‘Then you would need to talk to one of our mortgage specialists, Sir.’

‘And of course you are not a mortgage specialist?’

‘No, I’m not. That takes extra training.’

‘And you can’t put me through to a mortgage specialist?’

‘If you like to return to the main menu and push …’

‘Look, I’m sorry to be short with you but I just wanted to know …’ What? What did he just want to know? Robyn’s hello toot sounded in the drive.

‘Look, you know what, it doesn’t matter. Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Goodbye, Sir. Have a nice evening then.’

‘You too.’

‘Hard not to, Sir.’

Was he mocking him? The cheeky little bastard was mocking him.

Robyn was still dressed in her work clothes. New work clothes, which she’d bought three months ago, to mark Alicia’s graduation to childcare. Robyn was an accountant. Accountants dressed carefully, to show their clients they were discerning, but not wasteful. You don’t want your accountant to dress like your hairdresser, nor like a newsreader. Robyn had explained this to him. He’d nodded, and tried to remember what sort of clothes she had worn, back when they were in love.