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second-hand paperbacks) had dug a deep generational gap between the
lovers, as if Joel had suddenly decided to smoke pot and wear flared
crushed velvet pants straight from the seventies.
So Muriel had a dream that she would rather have forgotten, that
is, if it had not seemed so full of coded information about herself:
It was right in the middle of nowhere, perhaps in the hilly
country between Bateman’s Bay and Braidwood, where fairly tall weeds
similar to pampa’s grass choke the meadows cleared in the nineteenth
century with their many harsh white tufts. She was walking and walking
uphill, sweating, out of breath, her head felt boiling hot in spite of the
cold southerly that was sweeping the unruly manes of the weeds, her
hands were swelling, this place was full of snakes, spiders and other
poisonous creatures, no doubt; she would get bitten any minute; her
ugly distended corpse would rot and stink, torn to shreds by blackbirds,
magpies and vultures, until her skull became as light, white and mineral
as the sheep skull that she was now crushing under her feet, as she had
fallen, blinded by the setting sun and a throbbing headache, into a
shallow depression of the ground, perhaps an old waterhole. It wasn’t
worth fighting any more. No one in sight. If anybody remembered her,
if anybody still loved her, they would look for her. It would be lovely to
be rescued by a roaring copter. How fresh and sensuous the first sip of
orange juice when she would open her eyes and see the face of the man
who had kissed her back to life. But the man who actually appeared a
while later, as she awoke from a deep slumber among sheep carcasses,
was not one who would want to kiss her for the sake of restoring her
integrity. Unshaven and dishevelled, he wore tattered military clothes
from a forgotten war and battered boots tied with pieces of electric wire.
Towering over her, his wide idiotic smile was more threatening than any
expression of anger. “My name is Ji-james, James N-neeighbour,” he
stuttered, and then laughed wildly, as if it were a good joke. “What’s a
nice lass like you doing in the grass, eh?” She wanted to struggle back to
her feet, but she couldn’t, her body weighed a ton, her wrists were tied
behind her back with electric wire. The man opened his fly with his left
hand, his dick was dark and shrivelled, with a bright red pointed glans
like the head of a dog’s prick. The right hand was hidden by a leather
glove and held a large stone. “Excuse me, lady,” he said, “do you know
the road to Foo-Ton?” It was her turn to laugh inside, she knew the
spelling was wrong, he was surely obsessed by Vietnam, but after all,
he had an education, she was not supposed to forgive such a mistake.
She could not speak, because she was tightly gagged, but he could hear
the comment all the same, he hated it, the light in his eyes grew more
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