Reunion (24 page)

By the time he was finished, Helen was firing with possibilities for her own work. She sailed through the pre-dinner socialising, but as the meal progressed and the effect of Möller's lecture wore off, it felt more and more as if she were playing
the role of Helen Rankin, molecular biologist, and the spontaneous pleasure and energy the real Helen would have experienced passed her by. After dinner, when a number of the delegates produced musical instruments, rather than leave with the other non-musicians, she settled into an armchair in a poorly lit area of the room, grateful for time stripped of demands.

The concert began with a violin version of Mendelssohn's ‘Venetian Gondola Song'. Insistent and rocking, the interpretation was quieter, nocturnal and altogether eerier than the usual piano version. Then the Chinese delegate played ‘The Revolutionary' and another of Chopin's études with stunning technique and studied emotion. There followed a clarinet and oboe duo that produced the sounds of heaven, should heaven ever be shown to exist, and Josh played a vigorous jazz trumpet accompanied on guitar by one of his colleagues from the CDC. Helen might lack the musical gift of many scientists and mathematicians but she rarely failed to respond to music's power. She felt herself loosen and relax.

When Fabian Möller stood up and walked to the piano, she shifted her chair slightly so as to have a clearer view of him. She had heard he was an excellent musician, so good he might have made music his career. He began with Bach, the E minor prelude and fugue, ‘My favourite of the Well-Tempered Clavier,' he said, and followed with selections from the G major Piano Suite. He sat erect at the keyboard, a tall substantial man, his head moving with the flow of notes, his face playing the mood of the music. After Bach, he travelled ahead a few centuries to Debussy and Gershwin, and when he was finished, his foot still pressed to the sustaining pedal, he looked up from the keyboard and asked for requests.

‘How about some blues?' Helen said.

The words just slipped out.

Someone close by whispered, ‘He's classically trained, he might not know the blues,' but Möller had already begun.

He started with a composer called Coleridge-Taylor. The piece sounded as if Mozart had spent a long and intimate summer with Billie Holiday. He then moved into a hard-edged barrelhouse number, followed by an easy-strolling syncopated jive, and from there to a more traditional lovesick blues freighted with weariness and pain. ‘I love the blues,' he said, without lifting his gaze from the keyboard. ‘I love the blues.'

He must have played for close on thirty minutes and stopped as abruptly as he had begun. He smiled at Helen before being swept up by the crowd. A pleasing moment that smile, she thought, as she crossed the room and headed towards the bar. She collected a coffee and settled on a couch in a corner, notebook open and a pen in her hand, happy to mull in the music. No one would disturb her if they thought she was working, her charred nerves cooling, her mind in a slow jive – towards an idea, she realised, an idea that had been flittering just out of reach, and soon she was improvising on it, a notion spinning out of a cluster of recent findings, writing and writing across the pages.

The coffee was cold when next she looked up. There were a few people gathered at a nearby table but no one was paying her any attention. She browsed her freshly written pages before closing the notebook and slipping it in her bag; she would study the jottings properly when she was back in her room but for now she was content to trace the shape of her thoughts from memory. There was, she decided, an idea to work on here, and was about to add the usual proviso – as long
as she had a place to work – when Fabian Möller entered the bar and immediately crossed to where she was sitting.

He extended his hand. ‘We've met before, at other meetings. I'm Fabian Möller.'

‘I know,' she said, and wished she had not. ‘And I'm –'

‘Helen Rankin,' he said.

She was so pleased he remembered her.

He asked if he might join her. Of course, she said, making room for him on the couch.

She told him how much she had enjoyed his music, he told her how much he enjoyed her work. She was embarrassed he should acknowledge her work before she did his. Although it quickly emerged there was a reason: Möller had decided to split his time between Europe and America. He was considering three possible centres in the US, and hers was one. He listed the advantages and disadvantages of the other two centres; as for the third, the main attraction, he said, was her.

He laughed. ‘Or rather, your work.'

As he talked about his own work in Germany, his future plans, why the move to America was warranted, where he thought precision genetic engineering was heading, Helen was trying to corral her excitement. If she could choose one person in the world she would most like to work with it would be Möller. But should she tell him of her doubts? Should she tell him how her centre was using her work? Should she tell him she had all but decided to resign? What should she tell him, this man who had done more in her field than any other?

He lowered his voice, speaking without any prompting from her. ‘We think ours is a difficult area. That our work can be co-opted for purposes with which we may not agree. And perhaps this happens, how can a person know for sure? But that is no
reason to stop you and me. We are scientists,' he leaned towards her but did not touch, ‘and the good of our work and the natural good of humankind will, in the end, make sure that what we discover is applied well.'

It was as if he knew her struggles; perhaps he'd had similar experiences himself. This great man, the best in her field. And again he said how much he would like to work with her.

‘What wonderful science we shall do.'

 

Throughout the next four days, Helen discussed and debated and problem-solved with her colleagues, all without a trace of the tension of the previous months. The snow did not eventuate, the clouds cleared and a weak sun shone; nothing on earth seemed troubled. As for Möller, with his humour and generosity and the brilliance of his mind, the prospect of working with him excited her beyond compare.

When the meeting concluded Helen travelled on the bus with him back to Atlanta. Möller overflowed his seat and for the two-hour journey, even though she pressed herself against the window, she was aware of his body against hers from shoulder to thigh.

‘It's hard to believe it's taken so long for us to meet properly,' she said.

‘But we have known each other for years,' he said. ‘We have been reading the work of each other for –' his shrug shot through her body, ‘for ever. And soon, when I join your centre, every day we shall share our work.'

As to whether she wanted anything more from him, in a less imperfect world she would, no doubt about it. And twenty years ago she would have pursued him with little thought for the consequences. But now she would be sensible, now she
would not forget that lovers were far easier to come by than congenial colleagues, and far easier to lose too.

She flew back to Australia in a vastly different state than how she had left. She had been offered a gift, a life-saver, a new beginning, a clutch of new opportunities. Fabian Möller at her own centre. As the plane descended into Melbourne, the flat brown land shimmering in the summer heat, she only hoped that Luke wouldn't mind having his Australian sojourn cut short.

1.

Harry preferred to work with his office door open. His door was now shut. The NOGA board meeting was at five that afternoon. He had written his report a week ago, but because of Conrad and Jack the report now needed to be altered. There was ample time to make the revisions, that wasn't the problem; he was furious that Jack's hare-brained nonsense and Conrad's desperate libido required him to do it.

Harry always knew his wife's friends were a risky proposition, but given their prominence he believed they were a risk worth taking. Now as he rejigged his report, sifting through euphemisms and obfuscations in an attempt to disguise their stupidity, it was time, he decided, to remind everyone who was in charge here.

Jack had arrived at the office an hour ago. It was his first appearance in a week and what he thought NOGA was paying him for Harry could not begin to guess. Although there was a slothful side to Jack – or else he never was as bright as people believed. And of the two options, as unattractive as it was, Harry would opt for the former, providing as it did, at least in
theory, for the quality of work NOGA expected of him. For the past month or two, in fact, ever since that article appeared – Bondage! What on earth was Jack thinking? – his work had gone to the dogs. He had provided little useful information to anyone, and if his calendar for the upcoming month was any guide he planned to keep it that way. Jack was a master at losing the plot: firstly, his pointless obsession with Ava, and now these navel-gazing ravings.

Then there was Conrad, nearly sixty years old and throwing away more opportunities than he realised with his ludicrous fling with a twenty-five-year-old. No one would approve vast amounts of money for a TV series fronted by a man of such tatty morals.

Of the three, only Helen was being sensible, having arrived home from the Aiken meeting renewed. She had decided to devote herself to the sort of work that had prompted NOGA's interest in her in the first place, and to advance that work in the most expedient manner, it was best, she said, that she return to America. While she would not be seeing out the full term of her fellowship, she promised to keep NOGA informed of any developments.

Helen was back on track and travelling with Fabian Möller – an unexpected bonus – and with his career so recently on the skids Jack could be pulled into line. Harry was less sure about Conrad; it was well-nigh impossible to prevent a grown man from making a fool of himself. But Harry had invested far more than just time in NOGA and he would solve these problems. More intractable and of far greater concern was Ava. She was not herself and had not been for months. His wife, who flew when others crept, who plunged where others paddled, seemed switched to low wattage. Several times he had come upon her slumped in a chair just staring at the wall. And she was vague, not
with an out-of-step-with-the-moment vagueness which occurred whenever she was inside a new novel, rather a lagging-behind quality, as if she were unable to keep pace with the normal events of a day. His Davey was not herself at all.

His concern had been so great that this past weekend while she was out walking in the park he had slipped into her study and riffled through the manuscript of her new novel. Never before had he done such a thing but he had run out of options. The draft carried a date from six months earlier, the finished draft apart from some minor tinkering, so she had told him at the time. The pages were now heavily marked, no minor tinkering this, sometimes as many as four different inks on a single page. Some annotations were actually illegible, others were legible but made no sense; none as far as Harry could see improved on the original. The novel should have been in production by now, but it had gone backwards – staggered backwards.

He had left her study even more concerned. The sun was strong in the courtyard and he had adjusted the shade over the spa tub, picked a couple of leaves from the water, and then – why not? he could do with the relaxation – had switched on the spa, slipped out of his clothes and into the water. In the heat of a summer morning and rocked by the moving water he deliberated what to do. Was her work causing the malaise? Or was the malaise at the root of her work problems? He did not want to worry her, particularly as she did not herself seem concerned; and besides, if there was something physically wrong it would only be minor, the sort of problem for which his grandmother would produce a tonic. He warmed at the thought of his gran. How he longed for her common sense wisdom now.

As he lolled in the jostling water he applied logic to the problem. Ava had a strong constitution; in all the years they
had been together she had never been seriously ill. It stood to reason, that whatever was bothering her was not serious, although no harm in ringing his sister for her opinion. It was possible that Ava in her mid-forties was suffering ‘hormones' – his gran's diagnosis for most female complaints, and Wendy, a doctor, would know what to do.

Wendy was altogether reassuring. She was sure there was nothing to worry about but advised that Ava have a check-up. She talked diet and exercise, and yes, she mentioned hormones. That was a couple of days ago and in the intervening time Harry's anxieties had eased. It was only when his stress levels were raised, like having to rewrite his report, that the worries about Ava resurfaced. But his sister said there was nothing to be concerned about, and this morning Ava seemed to be back to her old self. As for those manuscript markings, what was havoc to him may not be to the author.

Harry returned to his report. He deleted a paragraph from his introductory remarks and pulled out some statements fairly bristling with possibility. Before attacking the specific fellowship items, he went to the kitchen for a hot chocolate and when he returned to his office he did not shut the door. An hour later he handed his secretary the revised edition for copying. He was pleased with the result.

2.

This is the life, Connie is thinking, as he lounges in a shaded alcove of the Prime Ministers' Memorial Garden at the Melbourne Cemetery.

Sara had assured him no one ever came here.

‘Shows the parlous state of Australian history,' Connie said.

‘More the parlous state of politicians,' Sara replied, pushing him against a wall and slamming her mouth against his.

‘Isn't there a law against obscene acts in public?' he had asked.

She had responded by unbuttoning his jeans and guiding him to a bench. And he's barely seated before she's leaning over him and doing those extraordinary things she does with her mouth. He has known no one to compare.

This is the life. The private bower, the warm day, the gentle breeze, and this young and beautiful woman, all spontaneity and joie de vivre who cannot have too much of him. He runs his hand over her smooth dark hair. He has always been fortunate in the women who have loved him, and Sara is the best of them all. He should arrange a weekend away, a cottage with a view to the ocean, no phone, no demands, just the two of them together. But for now – he checks his watch – it wouldn't do to be late for the board meeting, and hooks his hands under her shoulders and raises her up to straddle him. At some point during the upward movement she does something with her knickers (how grateful he is for the return to skirts and dresses), and with a hand on his shoulder and the other positioning him she sinks down. There's no firm support for her knees so he cups her buttocks, lifting her up and slowly down, and with his arm muscles about to collapse he comes. A short time later she too is satisfied.

While they are tidying themselves, another couple enters the garden. She is olive-skinned and wearing a long kaftan over trousers. He, gingery and freckled, is dressed in shorts and T-shirt. They sit themselves on the solid bulk of Robert Menzies' grave – Dame Pattie is in there too – wrap themselves together and start kissing.

‘Those two know where to go for Establishment approval,' Connie says, with a nod in their direction.

Sara loves cemeteries. ‘Death's libraries,' she calls them with the flippancy only the very young can use with death.

‘Sex and death,' she now says, looking at the couple. ‘They know what works. Just like me.'

3.

Conrad Lyall was that intensely human individual, a flawed man. Gifted, hard-working, attractive, with the intellectual hunger that propels most high achievers, he was also driven by a desire for worldly success – although he would be reluctant to acknowledge this. He insisted that one must always stand up for one's beliefs, but his desire to be admired often undercut the courage of his convictions. Connie needed less vanity to be truly effective, yet a selfless Conrad Lyall would not have been a compelling figure. It was the mix of him which proved so seductive. He was a man who was easy to like.

Individuals like Connie tend to attract large and willing entourages – not of the paid sort, but more in the way of devoted followers. Look no further than Bertrand Russell and Jean-Paul Sartre, Nureyev, Ginsberg, Picasso, and men far more than women. People want to connect with them, merge their own world with that of the great man – who must of necessity be stingy with himself or else he would empty very quickly. Fortunately followers comply by being satisfied with tiny portions. Connie acquired his followers from among students and readers, autodidacts were particularly numerous,
and women far outnumbered men. He acquired, too, a great many friends, more than the customary number of wives, and a slew of lovers.

While Connie totted up the years, his girlfriends all stayed much the same age. He believed that one's notion of attractiveness was formed early, that what appealed to the twenty-year-old self would appeal to the fifty-year-old. He also believed that one's sense of the age fifty was formed in youth, around the time when one's own parents reached that age. To be fifty then, remained extremely old and always a disturbing fit. When Connie turned fifty he refused to celebrate. The numbers were conveying him to the grave, he said to Linda, yet he felt he had hardly begun. He dreaded turning sixty. It was the lengthening distance from boyhood he hated, and the decreasing distance to death he hated even more.

Such intense self-interest as Connie's exacted an intellectual toll. Not that his work wasn't serious and challenging, but in order to satisfy his personal needs his imagination was all too often pulled away from those uncharted waters from which the most remarkable work emerges. Not for him the Socratic view that for the true philosopher the body was an irritating intrusion on the far more important workings of the mind. But then, as Connie was quick to point out, there was nothing Socratic about Bertrand Russell's way of life either, and even morose old Schopenhauer liked his food rich and his sex regular. What really set Connie apart was the sweep of his personality and it was this which brought his work to such a broad audience. When a reporter remarked on the difficulty of being the layperson's philosopher, Connie quipped it was easier than bricklaying and better for the skin. But in truth it came easily to him: he was a natural and beguiling communicator.

While the label – the layperson's philosopher – carried a certain lowbrow resonance, Connie enjoyed the recognition that came with being popular. After all, he would say, it's a short bridge between fame and forgotten, and who would doubt which was preferable? His skill lay in making original connections, of looking at a tree and seeing the sap, one of the many qualities he shared with Ava. But while he knew he had a masterful intellect, like all men and women of vast intelligence and unlike their mediocre counterparts, he was acutely aware of his limitations. Connie agreed with Browning's ‘Andrea del Sarto' that ‘a man's reach should exceed his grasp', so even when he overcame one set of limitations he expected a new set to appear.

What was indisputable about Connie was his verbal prowess. Cross a blowtorch with the OED and that was Connie in conversation. One former colleague who had fallen victim to it described Connie as a verbal terrorist and, with his own reputation to protect, refused ever again to exchange anything more than a quick social greeting with him. Connie didn't care. He agreed with Oscar Wilde that the worst a person can suffer is indifference and, like Wilde, he had never experienced that.

For all these qualities, his election first to the NOGA board and then its chairperson was passed unanimously. Connie's natural stance tended towards the maverick and he was not a good team member; however, he saw advantages in accepting the chair, not the least that it would add to his credentials when decisions about the TV series were being made. As it happened, he had misjudged. A couple of months earlier Harry had said the television series was just a nod away from signing, but despite the successful pilot nothing had been approved nor had any money appeared. Harry, so enthusiastic at the beginning of
the campaign, now seemed a great deal more muted. And without knowing exactly why or how, Connie knew that in the issue of his TV series Harry was pivotal.

From his usual position at one end of the boardroom table, Connie looked down to Harry at the other. The meeting was drawing to a close and Harry was summarising the main actions: that NOGA appoint a full-time media officer – a proposal advanced by Connie, not that Harry had acknowledged this – and that it increase its penetration of the Asia–Pacific region. Seated at the table were the Minister for Science, an attractive woman around his own age far more interested in Helen's research than anything Connie had to offer; the director of the nation's largest fully privatised business school; Sir Richard Treat of North West Mining; the CEO of Pacific Media; the MD of Taylor Holdings, the construction company responsible for the NOGA building; Josie Stacie from the accounting firm of Stacie Palmer Ross, and the Pro Vice Chancellor for international studies, all of them high-flyers and all admirers of Harry. They asked his opinion, they valued his suggestions, they considered him the rarest of individuals, the wise yet practical man. Connie had made an effort to see Harry through their eyes, but it proved impossible even for his prodigious mind. Or perhaps he simply lacked the desire.