The Clear Part 1

Christopher Kenworthy.

The Clear.

Through the coach window, I could feel the heat building; the air was conditioned, but low sunlight warmed my skin. I'd sworn the previous season would be my last in the north, because the weather in that part of Australia wears you out. If it wasn't for Caroline being delayed up there until after Christmas, I'd have stayed in Perth. But we'd already been apart for a month, and that was too much, even for her.

I counted again, finger-tapping the hours until I would see Caroline. It was absurd to clock-watch, because I was almost used to being without her.

Getting beyond the absence was becoming more important than the time we would spend together.

There was no cloud for the sun to set in, so it went to the horizon white, like a huge star. The sky cooled, leaving perse light above the vanished sun, fading to night as I watched. When the coach pulled in at the Capricorn Roadhouse, finally crossing into the tropics after a sixteen-hour drive, I left its chill for yeasty heat and dust. The roadhouse was circled by spotlights, making everything beyond even darker; the last civilization until morning, the driver warned us. The occupants of the coach gathered quietly at the benches outside, bewildered by the journey. There was only the sound of gra.s.shoppers, lulling in and out of time.

There were two German girls, who appeared to have been traveling together for a long time, staying close, barely speaking, never looking at each other. The shorter one was staring at the ground. Behind her, the tall one bent over her diary, writing carefully, rereading what she had written.

She untied her brown hair, ran her fingers through its short length, tied it again. Her skin was so tanned, she must have been abroad for months.

She looked up to the left, revealing her profile, deep in thought.

When we set off again, the driver told us it was another twenty hours to Kununurra, if the road was open that far. The rivers could flood eighty kilometres wide, and rumour had it that CALM were already closing off the gorges. In some places, the Wet season had begun.

Willing myself to sleep, I was awakened frequently by the thud of impact, like stone on metal, as the coach hit kangaroos. I glanced out to see the desert flecked with the grey haze of smoke-bushes, picked out by moonlight. Then, in the reflection, I saw the tall German walking down the length of the coach, to the drink dispenser. Pretending to stretch my back, I turned to watch her, then slumped back down, feeling ridiculous.

Even if I wasn't going to meet Caroline, I couldn't possibly be with somebody like that. She looked ten years younger, and must have attracted so much male attention that getting to know her without looking pushy would be difficult. And I knew that newness was a lure; people seem perfect because they are unknown. You can't spend your whole life giving up what you've achieved, for the sake of another attraction. One day you have to build on something and make it work. That's how it was with Caroline, because it had taken months for us to find any sort of peace. It would be a crime to have gone through all those arguments for nothing.

When she sat again, a few seats ahead of me, I watched her rummage in her bag, and withdraw a Duracel torch. She held out her hand, and pressed the lens of the torch into it, illuminating her closed fingers. Her hand glowed as though boneless, except for dim purple shadows in the knuckles.

I couldn't guess why she was doing this, but it pleased me, because I used to do the same thing when I was young. We're brought up to imagine flesh as firm, and bone as hard white, so it's fascinating when you see your hand lit up like foggy red gla.s.s.

She put the torch away and leaned back. I closed my eyes and tried to picture Caroline, but found it difficult to bring up her image, and nodded back into sleep.

The next time I awoke, the sun has risen over a landscape of red oxide, mounds of iron ore and refined salt piled as high as foothills. For the next five hours the view was the same scrub and bush, flat to the horizon.

I spent a lot of the journey watching her, only seeing her face in odd moments.

When we reached the Roebuck roadhouse in the late afternoon, the driver asked everyone to remain on board, talked into his radio, then said, "Sorry folks, but we won't be getting any further than Broome today.

Floods on the road. It's that time of year." He said it as though he was annoyed at us for attempting the journey.

Questions were asked rapidly about where we could stay, when the road would be clear.

"It could be a night or two. It could be weeks. If you're desperate, you can fly."

I calculated, touching finger to finger, working out the times. If I caught the morning flight out, I'd only be a few hours late. I could be with Caroline in less than a day.

The roads in Broome were made from dry red earth, like powdered terra-cotta. Wooden buildings were dusted with it, and the ribbed fronds of palm trees were sheathed in its rust. Clouds had risen on the inland horizon, and filled with lighting, silent from the distance. Most of the travelers stayed in the town, but the driver took the rest of us closer to the coast. I wanted to be near the ocean, no matter how remote it was from so-called facilities.

I was almost asleep when we reached the Cable Beach Backpackers, and was joined at reception by the German girls. They looked so tired, I avoided the usual travel greeting. It's normal to ask people where they're from, how long they've been traveling, where they're heading, but they seemed to need the quiet.

The wooden dorms were built around an area of palm trees and eucalyptus, circling the blue-glowing pool. A few people were gathered at tables outside the kitchen; it was effectively outdoors, but covered with a ceiling of yellow strip lights and spinning fans. The sky had darkened, stars appearing behind the trees, even though it was as hot as midday.

I phoned Caroline, but reached an answering machine, which made me cross.

It was unreasonable to expect her to stay in waiting for me, but it made the urgency seem like mine alone. I found myself saying, "I might just hang on here for a day or two, until the road clears. But I miss you."

With no shops for miles, I bought a packet of two-minute noodles from the reception office. It was even hotter in the kitchen, from the straining fridges, and the only others present were the Germans. They had changed, and were talking with smiles as they cooked, brightening up now that the journey was over.

I chatted to them briefly about the coach trip, the heat. It was Melanie, the shorter one, who talked. Alex continued slicing the capsic.u.m, never making eye contact, but listening.

Sitting at a free table outside, beneath the fans, I tried to create an appet.i.te, despite the heat. There weren't many people around, being so close to Christmas, but in the corner, by a green drinks fridge, were three men. They leaned in over their table, elbows between cans of Emu bitter. One of them was completely bald, with tiny eyes, his mouth hidden by a wide moustache. The one in the middle was dark skinned, pouting to conceal large teeth. The third one had a jaw matted with ragged hair, more like fur than beard. It was his movement that kept me watching. Although he opened his mouth wide, no words came out. He appeared to be using sign language; not a recognized form, just a determined gesturing. The bald one made signs back, as though interpreting the conversation.

I thought I'd attracted their attention, because all three looked over at once. It took a moment to realize they were looking behind me, at Melanie and Alex. I almost expected the men to wolf-whistle, but they watched silently. The girls bickered in response to the attention, standing still with their plates, looking anxious. I smiled briefly, trying to look sympathetic.

Melanie raised her eyebrows. "May we join you?"

"Of course."

They pulled up chairs with their backs to the three men. I could just make out the bearded one, shaking his head.

"Thank you. If we had sat on our own," Melanie said, "I think they would have not left us alone."

"Have you had any trouble?" I asked, directing the question at both.

Again, Melanie spoke.

"Only generally," she said, p.r.o.nouncing each syllable carefully. "I felt like they were looking straight through me."

Alex looked shocked.

"Please don't say that," she said, her eyes wide.

Melanie answered in German, and they appeared to argue for a while.

"Sorry," Alex said, looking at me for an instant, "but my English is not good."

Throughout the meal there were pauses when they spoke to each other in German, never translating what was said. I couldn't tell whether tension was brewing between them, but even when our food was gone, we continued talking. I was unbearably tired, and felt my eyes narrowing, but didn't want it to end. Although Melanie talked about herself a lot, and Alex only interjected occasionally, they were good company. It was the laughter, as we shared stories about traveling, that kept me awake.

The tiredness must have been getting to me, though, because when Alex ran a hand through her hair, the light from a ceiling lamp seemed to come through her fingers. She saw my expression and pulled her arm down, as though embarra.s.sed.

She put her hand loose against her chest, as though feeling for a heartbeat with fingertips. Melanie asked something in German, but Alex looked straight at me. It made me realize how little eye contact she'd made all night. The whites of her eyes were utterly pale, free of the veins and yellowing that's common in Australia; it made her brown irises look lighter, the same tan as her skin. I looked away first, not knowing how to react.

Without preamble, Melanie announced that she was going to bed, and left.

When she was gone Alex said, "We are always arguing. I'm sorry." I hoped she'd stay and talk, but she said goodnight and followed Melanie to their room.

The group of three men were still in the corner, having pa.s.sed beyond the loud drunken stage an hour earlier. They were now sleepy, muttering; the bald one was so still he could have been asleep, and his friend was lying back against the wall. Only the mute continued to fidget. I made a show of yawning as I cleared my plate, and went to my room.

None of the beds in my dormitory were taken, so I took a top bunk, close to the fan. Air-conditioning is rare in the tropics, because the contrast would wear you down; you have to get used to sitting it out. Even turning over was an exertion, so I lay still on top of the sheet, naked, and tried to sleep.

An hour later, still awake, I could hear movement in the pool, water being churned by slow swimming, and voices. I got up to look through the window; the pool appeared to be empty, even though its underwater light was spreading ripples over the trees. I opened the door for a better look, and heard people talking again. It sounded like my own voice. I recognized the way I trailed off at the end of a sentence, followed by a short laugh.

Outside the kitchen, the fans and lights were off, but I could make out the empty table where we'd been. From that direction a female voice replied, whispering. Her words were so quiet, I couldn't tell if she had an accent.

Barefoot, I walked toward the sound. Against the wall of the toilet block, there was a fish tank; a long slab of water, lit up and bubbling. There was only one type of transparent fish. Their bodies looked like firm jelly, with a blob of green revealing the food in their stomachs. Even their heads were clear, apart from the dots of their eyes. I couldn't work out how something so transparent could possibly function. I realized that the sound of the tank's pump could have explained the water noise I'd heard, exaggerated by my exhaustion. And the voices were probably a memory, surfacing as a half-dream. I hadn't slept well in two days, or eaten much, and my salt levels were probably dropping. The best thing would be to sleep it off, and start looking after myself in the morning.

I managed to sleep for a short while after that, waking at five because it was already above forty degrees Celsius. People were rising, giving up their attempts at sleep, taking chilled water from the fridge to begin the cycle of drinking.

The clouds had gone, spread again to blue sky, and the only water they'd provided was deeper humidity. It's the expectation of rain that drives people mad in the north, because the tension swells for months without being relieved. There are more break-ups, fights and suicides during the buildup to the Wet than at any other time. Mostly, however, people are stilled by the weather, dazzled into calm, so the days pa.s.s like a meditation. The most common gesture is a slow shake of the head.

After a brief fruit breakfast, I called Caroline, and told her answering machine that the road was still closed. I was surprised to feel glad she hadn't been there to pick up the phone, because I wanted more time in Broome. I took it as a healthy sign that I needed to be apart from her.

When you miss somebody, you aren't present in the moment; all you do is wish your time away. This place, its heat, its intensity, was forcing me to be present, making the absent person unnecessary. It wasn't that I needed to be on my own, however, because I wanted to see Alex again, preferably alone.

Either they were asleep, or had gone out ahead of me, because after an hour in the pool there was no sign of them. The water in there was hot from yesterday's sun, offering little relief. I tried showering after that, but the water was no cooler, and I came out sweating, instantly wet again and breathless.

The straight road to the beach was bright with orange dust, the palm trees on either side barely providing shade. There were only two other buildings; a pearl shop, and a cafe. n.o.body else was around. I tried to get a look inside each building, to see if Alex and Melanie were there, but couldn't see through the reflections. It took less than five minutes to get to the beach, but in that heat it was enervating. From the top of the dunes I could see the ten mile width of Cable Beach, a ma.s.sive crescent of white sand and milky sea. The sun was already high, and the beach shadowless. A handful of people were in the ocean, even fewer lying in the sun. I left my towel and drink bottle and went straight to the water, but it was almost hot. The shallows were fogged with fine glittering sand, so I swam out until I reached clear deep water.

The people lying on the beach were indistinct. I floated on my back and tried to make them out, looking for Alex. There were two people further up to the right, both female. One of them stood up, and her skin glared, glossy with sunscreen. She walked towards the ocean in long strides. You can't move fast in heat like that, which gave her an air of elegance. I couldn't make out her face, but knew it must be Alex, so tried to keep my eye on her, without staring. After a while, I could only see Melanie, picking up her towel and heading back. Alex had left unseen, which made me feel more disappointed than I'd expected. I'd been in the sun too long, and felt my skin tightening, so I waited until Melanie was out of sight, and went back.

There were things to see in Broome, such as old pearling ships, the j.a.panese cemetery, a few aboriginal relics, but I didn't want to the leave the Backpackers. I spent the afternoon under a tree, reading, dipping in and out of the pool.

A breeze picked up, but its moisture hugged my skin, like breath. There was sand in my hairline, and my skin was liquid with sunscreen and sweat.

By five o'clock, I was craving fruit and salt. As I went to the office to buy a mango and a packet of potato chips, I realized that the body knows what is absent. It makes you crave, when your requirements are lacking.

That thought made me picture Caroline, at her flat in Kununurra, waiting for me. I hadn't thought of her all day, and was beginning to resent the fact that I'd have to see her again. The slow, inactive life, despite the glare and the pressure of heat, was appealing to me.

I forced myself to cook dinner, and when I came out, the scene looked remarkably similar to the night before. The three men were gathered in the corner, each holding a beer. Alex and Melanie were sitting at the table we'd shared, a chess game going on between them. Both were wearing bikinis and sarongs, and although they were motionless, their skin was wet, as though they had come straight from the pool. Alex had her hair down for once, and it was darkened by sweat.

Melanie saw me, stood up and said, "Perhaps you can solve this. I have to cook," and left with a smile.

"It's a problem," Alex said, looking at the chess board. "From her puzzle book." I smiled at the German accent, at the way her tone seemed to be confiding frustration with her travel companion.

"You don't like chess?"

"I love it, but Melanie only ever reads her puzzle book. We have nothing to talk about."

While I ate, we worked on the chess problem. She kept lapsing into German as she tried different combinations.

I knew it wouldn't be long before Melanie returned, so when there was a pause, I said, "On the coach, I saw you shining a torch through your fingers."

"You were watching me?" she asked, looking down until she'd said it, then disarming me by looking straight into my eyes.

"I saw you do that, yes."

"I have something to show you," she said, and left. When she was just a few feet away, one of the three men stood up. He was the darker skinned one, with large teeth. He wasn't aboriginal, but there was something about his features that made me think he might be Indonesian. "Look at that," he said loudly, the three of them watching Alex.

I looked at the chess pieces, but could see he was coming over to me. He pulled up a spare chair, wanting a handshake, and a big show of friendliness.

"I'm Panny," he said. "That's Baldy and Jake." His speech was slow, almost slurred.

"You really call him Baldy?" I asked.

He nodded.

"To his face?"

"Baldy's his name," he said, without humour. "Is she your girlfriend?"

Alex was coming back, the torch in one hand, something white concealed in the other.

"No, she's not."

"Come on," he said. "She's lovely. Lovely. Look at her legs."

He was saying this even as she sat down. I didn't introduce them, for fear that she'd think I'd engineered this.

"So, who's winning?" Panny asked.

"It's not a game, just a problem," I said.

Alex kept her hands under the table.

"Is she your girlfriend?" he asked again, a grin making his voice sound wet.

"No."

"Tell her she's s.e.xy," he said, lowering his head to smile up at her.

"She already knows."

Alex looked at the table, as though she couldn't tell what we were saying.

I tried a move with the chess pieces, which had already failed once, just as a distraction.

"Who goes first?" Panny asked.

"White moves first."

"Typical. A racist game. Always white first."