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THE TRAFFIC WAS horribly heavy, unbearably slow from Ashfield
to Randwick. There were sports events everywhere,
in town and out of town, school fêtes, people returning
inland from the beaches, and to the Eastern Suburbs from the Mountains.
There were also accidents, as every Sunday, and the first arsonists
of the season had been active in several areas, according to the radio:
a tangle of ambulances, police cars and fire trucks that were going in
all directions at once, or nowhere at all, who could tell? Even on Anzac
Parade, you couldn’t drive faster than a walking pace. Entire columns
of buses made the air opaque with grey stinking exhaust fumes. Jacques
was visibly nervous, even after Kathy told him to calm down, that it was
not his fault and she really enjoyed the opportunity of chatting privately
with him. Actually she was so sweet she half wondered whether it was
not the wrong beginning, because she could not keep the same face for
a long time, if they happened to live together, for example.
But why was she rushing to conclusions, even before they had
reached the damned party? It was almost seven when Jacques, after a
couple of U turns, could eventually park a good two blocks away from
the Robinsons’. You could hear girlish giggles, and above all, bland
disco anthems and repetitive Happy-birthday-to-you choruses, over a
hundred yards before opening the conveniently creaking front gate. It
sounded as if the whole thing had gotten out of hand so early in the
night that most Sydneysiders had not even had supper at that time.
“Do you think they really need our presence?” said Kathy in such a
hyper tongue-in-cheek tone that Jacques could not detect the level of
irony. “But I promised...”», he answered. Kathy smiled, she found this
awkwardness compellingly touching. She caught his arm and leaned
against him. They came in almost in full embrace, as if they had been
lovers for months, or years. Jacques, she thought, has just discovered
that I am able to be his accomplice.
They left their bags in one of the children’s bedrooms, close
to the front door. Kathy, whose dress had no pockets, trusted her ID,
money and Cartier cigarette lighter to Jacques, who did have pockets.
He felt that something was happening to them, something he could
not foresee an hour ago : catching up, perhaps. But at the same time he
could hear a voice in him, one of his voices —it came from nowhere in
particular—, saying : “There is no deliverance, there is no rehearsing,
there is no catching up. Time is ahead of me, my only reality is behind
me.” He smiled —was it a sad smile?—, looking at Kathy in the eyes:
“Thank you,” said Jacques, “thank you anyway. —What do you mean?
—I don’t know, it’s too early to know.”
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