Carnival Sky

Sheff is disillusioned with journalism and, with plans to travel overseas, chucks in his job. But first he goes south to Alexandra, where his father is dying. He becomes caught up with his family in the agonising inertia of waiting for approaching death. Slowly he comes to terms with suppressed issues of loss, love, resentment and commitment, and acknowledges he must reach out for new relationships. Sheff’s gradual transformation — sometimes darkly humorous, sometimes disconcerting — is handled with insight and subtlety and is totally convincing.

Beautifully written, brilliantly observed and ultimately optimistic, this novel powerfully captures the phase in our lives when little seems to happen while things are changing all the same.

‘New Zealand’s best prose writer’
— Vincent O’Sullivan

‘PREGNANT LLAMA DISEMBOWELLED.’ There it was as the front-page headline, and a stark photograph of the animal’s severed hindquarters strung up, shaggy hair hanging unnaturally, in a cluttered garage. ‘Suburban Satanic Rites’ read the caption.

‘Je–sus Christ,’ muttered Sheff. There was no one else to hear, but it was a release nevertheless. He was leaning on the breakfast bar, and he lifted his face and grimaced, not at the heavens he invoked, but the yellowed ceiling with the fly spots grouped near the light fitting. For a few seconds he felt a pulse of anger that jarred him with its intensity, and then he gave a laugh that was part incomprehension, part derision, part cynical acceptance that what you least wish is so often what you receive. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Hadn’t he sorted it the morning before? In the deputy editor’s office. Wayne Henderson lifted his glasses when Sheff came in and rubbed his eyes.

‘You’re not thinking of going with the llama?’ Sheff had said. ‘Donna says you’ve got all enthusiastic about it.’

‘She’s done a good piece there.’ In a familiar mannerism, Wayne picked at the dry skin of his lower lip.

‘So she has. Of course she has. She’s a good journo, but the llama’s not a lead for a metropolitan newspaper, for Christ’s sake. Nick’s
follow-up on land sales to foreign buyers – that’s what needs to be out there. You know that.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ but Wayne folded his arms, as was his habit when in debate and wishing to appear considered and open to reason. His gaze moved to the window, below which the mall car park swarmed and jostled.

‘And timely, given the select committee hearing,’ said Sheff.

‘Sure, timely enough. It’s just that the llama has that human-interest pull, and they’ve nailed the guy almost right off. Turns out he’s a Rocky Horror exhibit: tattoos, rings, dreadlocks – the lot. Gang connections for sure, Donna reckons. Plenty of quirky stuff could come out in a follow-up to the court case. Then there’s the Satanic practices.’

‘That’s crap. Just some neighbour dazzled by attention, and speculating out loud. The guy wanted barbie meat and didn’t care where, or how, he got it.’

‘You’re probably right, but readers pick up on it, don’t they?’ Wayne countered. ‘The whole rustling and slaughtering thing is so Wild West, and it’s easier to follow and more interesting than the growth of overseas ownership. Who gives a rat’s arse apart from us?’

‘So we make them sit up and pay attention. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Anyway, it’ll be an alpaca,’ said Sheff, just to carry on the dispute. ‘People can’t tell the difference.’

‘No, she checked it out. Definitely a llama.’ Neither of them was sure of the distinction, but it provided a subsidiary bone of contention.

In the car park a large delivery truck blocked a red hatchback from backing out, and the driver, bald spot accentuated by the third-floor perspective, stood arguing with the truckie, who was trying to stall him while a forklift operator unloaded a couple of pallets. The tribulation of others, even total strangers, offers entertainment. Sheff and Wayne let their conversation lapse for a moment, and watched, each with smiles of which they were unaware: Sheff’s pulled wryly to one side, the deputy editor’s oddly open-mouthed. When both truck and car had moved, the journalists resumed their
debate without any reference to the distraction.

‘It’s all dumbing down,’ said Sheff. ‘Poodles lost in sewers, club-footed ballet dancers, kiss-and-tell revelations, solo mum lottery winners, vegetables shaped like the Holy Virgin, some howling rocker getting married in Zanzibar. All transient, tabloid crap of no use in people’s lives. Jesus Christ.’

‘It’s what people want to read, though, and the first duty of a paper is to stay in business.’ Wayne acted as devil’s advocate more from habit than conviction. He and Sheff had much the same debate several times a month.

‘Yes, and they want to eat McDonald’s every night, shag the neighbour and live off the State all their lives, but why should we encourage them? “Pregnant llama disembowelled” – for fuck’s sake!’

‘Okay, okay.’ Wayne was slightly taken aback by Sheff’s vehemence. ‘Don’t get in a lather. I have to run it past Chris later anyway. If you’re so hot about it, then come in and have your say.’

‘No need, I hope. You both know what I think.’

Sheff had gone out into the reporters’ room, paused at the deputy chief reporter’s desk. ‘I think I’ve successfully further disembowelled the llama.’

‘You’re my hero,’ Raewyn had called after him, without her eyes leaving the screen.

Yet there it was as the front-page lead. The editor had supported Wayne, and promoted oddity over significance. It was the first time in many months that Sheff had failed to persuade Wayne and Chris about such matters. Perhaps that was an omen. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

On his way to the office, Sheff worked on his sense of justifiable grievance, agreeing with himself on every salient point he made. Once there he went immediately to the editor to have a bitch. Chris was wearing a gold and blue tie, and his best suit jacket was on the hanger behind the door. He looked up from refilling a large stapler, smiled, then concentrated again on the task.

‘Something on?’ enquired Sheff. Chris rarely dressed formally at work.

‘Oh, it’s the kids’ hospital fund-raising thing at ten. As we’re a sponsor I’d better be there.’

‘I won’t hold you up. I’m not at all happy about the llama, though.’ And Sheff paraded his view much as he had to Wayne the morning before. The editor heard him out patiently, though flipping the tongue end of his banded tie between thumb and forefinger, or passing a hand over sparse fair hair so lacking in texture that it seemed painted on his pale scalp.

‘I know, I know,’ he said afterwards, with defusing and inclusive calmness. ‘The thing is that in the end what the readers want is what we have to give them, otherwise we go under. That’s the brutal truth, and I’ve been given the message pretty clearly. It’s no use getting all po-faced about it. We hold the line where we can, but let’s not kid ourselves. We’re seen as elitist farts. Do you realise that? You and I, we’re reactionaries now, not purists.’

‘What, because we stick up for hard news?’

‘For thinking we’re here to inform and educate, rather than entertain and advertise.’

‘You’re winding me up,’ said Sheff. He was about to give further argument when Chris stood up, and went to the door for his jacket.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s this hospital thing, and we’re meeting at the mayor’s office beforehand. I’d better show willing. Which reminds me,’ he said, although no connection was apparent, ‘how’s your father getting on?’

‘No good, but he’s at home and happier there.’

‘I might even get my photo in the paper handing over the cheque,’ said Chris wryly. ‘Anyway, look, we’re running the foreign land sales as the lead tomorrow. Okay? Nick and you have done a great job on it.’

‘If there isn’t a New Zealand granny on a hijacked tourist bus in Uzbekistan.’

‘The granny every time,’ said the editor, deadpan, and went out leaving Sheff somewhat disarmed.

It was always that way between Chris and Sheff. The editor was only a few years older, and they worked well together, but Chris was more adept at compromise, more political, more suited to business leadership because he understood expediency.

Sheff followed Chris out, still with fostered annoyance to express, but increased collegiality. ‘Well, I just hope people realise I was against it,’ he said to the editor’s back.

‘Send round a tweet,’ Chris said without turning.

Sheff went on to his own office, and Raewyn looked up as he passed her desk. ‘Llamas one, Sheff nil,’ she said.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Better luck next time.’ Her opinion on the headline was the same as his, but surely it wasn’t a bad thing for him to get knocked back occasionally: salutary even, both as chief reporter and a male.

Sheff noticed that her dark, glossy hair was cut shorter, but said nothing, for she didn’t encourage remarks concerning her appearance during the working day. His mood wasn’t improved by the realisation that beneath her banter was a degree of satisfaction that he hadn’t got his way.

‘Oh, and you’ve got food or something on your shirt,’ she said. It was marmalade, partly congealed and with a small whorl of rind resembling a tadpole.

HE HAD A DREAM OF HIS FATHER’S
death. A doctor in a green gown came out wearily, murmured a mixture of explanation and condolence, wandered down the corridor with crepe soles squeaking on the polished lino. When Sheff went in, his father was lying at ease on the operating table. He was whole, serene and in the prime of life, as Sheff best remembered him. He wore only blue boxer shorts, and his thick hair was wet, but combed. He looked as if he had showered and been about to dress for the office, when instead he decided to lie down and rest. Sheff regarded him with as much pleasure as grief.