Look to His Like

Chapter Eleven

Author Note: Please note there has been deliberate capitalization of words in this chapter.

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Saturday developed into one of those striking Sydney days, when city skyline is stark against an endless, vivid sky, and a fresh, clean breeze curling through the deserted city streets from the harbour tempers the warmth from the dazzling sun. Like many, in the bright morning I took to the outdoors, strolling with the tourists around Circular Quay and across the Harbour Bridge. Grounded by the sight of the eye blinding white of the Opera House and by the myriad of gaily-hued pleasure craft streaking across the dancing blue water of the harbour, afterwards I roamed the supermarket aisles in search of the week's groceries with some contentment. However, when I returned home to find I had purchased three boxes of Ferrero Rocher chocolate truffles rather than the one I normally allowed myself, a brand of cat food that Wolf usually turned his nose up at, and flowered toilet paper, I knew insomnia-induced cobwebs had taken up residence in my brain. Sighing, I resigned myself to defrosting a week's worth of steak for Wolf's dinner, and to using other than my regulation white toilet paper for a while. As for the chocolates, I had no choice but to keep them, did I? In fact I ate three while standing in my kitchen looking at the List stuck on my fridge. The blast of chocolate into my system had a beneficial effect, as did the reinforcement of my goals, and I was able to retreat to my room to dress for my meeting with Nana with a modicum of interest and care.

Jeans and anything too casual, brief or close fitting were out of the question, if Nana was as I expected of the old school of decorum. Instead, I chose a calf length flowing red skirt and a frilly white high necked blouse embroidered in red fleur de lis, which I had bought in Switzerland some years previously and never worn. The demureness of the outfit jarred with my personality, but by that time I was so anxious to avoid Nana's ire - and that flying handbag - that I would have worn sackcloth and ashes if necessary.

Looking as gorgeous as he had the previous night, Filiberto picked me up at the nominated time. Again, he wore a high-collared sweater - this one of black cashmere. His brown trousers were perfectly creased and his brown leather loafers gleamed subtly. I could most definitely see myself on his arm at work functions, although the realisation brought me no great pleasure.

Filiberto said very little as the silver Mercedes purred smoothly towards the North Shore, although his relaxed features denoted his contentment - I was beginning to realise he had a irrepressible, innocent optimism that was both charming as it was disquieting. Although he hummed and tapped his fingers with evident enjoyment on the steering wheel in accompaniment to an Abba CD, he assured me he thought classical music "cool", especially Rossini's William Tell Overture - which he couldn't name, but 'sang' to me with a series of fervent "dana-na-na-na"s. As most people in my experience recognise that piece and think it "cool", I was not heartened as to Filiberto's appreciation of the music I liked, but at least he expressed no aversion to listening to it. For myself, I supposed I could grow to like Abba, particularly as Dancing Queen evoked nice images of Damien and his wanton hips of doom hitting the dance floor. I thought morosely that pleasant memories of my friends and my single life might serve me well when I was finally tied into a loveless marriage and living on the staid North Shore.

Half an hour into the journey over the north side of the harbour, I dozed off. The lack of car motion, the silence from the car stereo, a gentle nudge and "Hey" from Filiberto brought me to the surface of much needed sleep. I wanted only to close my eyes and sink back into blessed oblivion, yet, as my bleary gaze fell on Filiberto's house, surprise sent adrenaline coursing through me and my eyes snapped wide open.

We had stopped in a wide circle of gravel outside a sprawling villa in the centre of a large estate surrounded by a high brick wall. Constructed on two levels of mellow artfully irregular stonework, and clad in parts with luscious green vines, it looked like it had been supplanted from ancient Tuscany. Its arched windows should have overlooked expansive vineyards; instead their view was of grounds sculpted into carefully tended lawns and manicured flower gardens, interspersed with fountains, gazebos and statues of endless variety. In my bemusement at such grandeur, I didn't know whether Filiberto's home constituted the epitome of good taste or abject vulgarity. Nevertheless, given I was making a point of bartering my life in exchange for wealth, power and prestige, I realised cynically that this house - my future home - represented an achievement for me. Furthermore, I knew with this sign that I had achieved worldly success would come admiration and approval - and reward.

While I stared at the sight, Filiberto leapt out of the car and loped around to my side to open the door. "Come on," he said, helping me out and tucking my hand in the crook of his elbow. When I raised a questioning eyebrow at the familiarity, he said, "Have to keep up appearances - hope you don't mind?" I figured in the circumstances that I had no grounds to object. I murmured, "That's fine," and we strolled to the arched entrance.

A movement in the shadows of the arch had my step faltering in sudden wariness. Filiberto too stopped before a broad beam wreathed his face. As a small figure emerged from the archway into the sunshine, he called "Nana! Here she is! Here's Joanna!" and tugged my arm as he stepped forward.

At first glance, she appeared nondescript - a tiny, round woman dressed entirely in black, with a large bosom that sagged to her waist, and grey hair scraped back into a bun. As we came closer, however, I noticed her black currant-like, sharp eyes, her wispy dark moustache and short spiky hairs sprouting from a jutting chin that nearly met with a hooked nose. Her mouth had that caved in look which comes from having no teeth, and her air of fierceness more than made up for her diminutive and cuddly looking stature. The appearance of the Handbag reinforced it.

This item - a tattered vessel of vintage upholstery fabric with round wooden handles - swung ominously from one claw-like hand. It looked bulky and heavy, and it incited not a little trepidation as I found myself staring at it.

Filiberto said something bright in a stream of Italian to Nana, and bent double to embrace her and smack a hearty kiss on each cheek. Nana took the affection impassively. She said something back - her voice a high staccato cackle, her tongue making slithering appearances as it worked around having no teeth, her sharp eyes on me indicating I was the subject of her tirade. When she paused, I held out my hand to her in greeting, pasting a stiff smile on my face. She ignored both, swung around and waddled back into the house. I heaved a silent sigh of relief.

"Isn't she wonderful?" said Filiberto in blind adoration. "I'm sure you'll grow to love her!"

"Did she say something about me?"

Filiberto looked uncomfortable. "Oh, yes, but never mind her."

"What did she say?"

"She quoted something from the Bible. She does that a lot, I swear I know it off by heart." Filiberto turned to enter the house and I grabbed him by the arm.

"Don't change the subject," I said. "Come on, what did she say?"

Filiberto sighed and shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything, you understand, but she said: 'she played the whore in the land of Egypt and lusted after her paramours whose members were like those of donkeys and whose emissions were like that of stallions'."

"Good grief!" I didn't know whether to be offended or impressed. How the hell did the old biddy know about Drake?

"Yeah, I guess the tumour sends her off her rocker sometimes, I wouldn't worry about it. Hey, do you want to take a siesta before supper? You look jolly tired. I don't mind if you do, I'll just go to my room and watch TV for a while or something."

I said a siesta sounded good. With another enthusiastic "Cool!" Filiberto again tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow as we walked beneath the archway into the house.

We stepped inside a high and wide vestibule, exuding lightness, coolness and air. The walls were of white plaster, adorned in places with simple religious frescos, the floors marble tile. To my right, an archway led into a living room, with a white leather lounge suite amidst green leafy plants in large terracotta pots and plush floor rugs. To my left, through another archway, lay a dining room, dominated by a long table of gleaming mahogany surrounded by about a dozen high-backed and elaborately carved chairs, and ornamented with three crystal candelabra. Before me, a circular staircase wound to the upper floor. There was no sign of Nana.

Filiberto released my hand and took the stairs two at a time. I followed him, my heels clicking loudly on marble.

"This is my room," he said indicating closed double doors leading off the upper hallway. He stopped outside the door to their right. "You can rest in here if you like. It has its own bathroom, all the bedrooms do."

He opened the door and I stepped in. It was your basic spare room, with a double bed covered in a chintz bedspread, simple seaside prints on the walls, a bare dresser, and a somewhat musty, stifling atmosphere. A closed door in the far wall denoted the ensuite. Filiberto opened the window and turned to beam at me, seeking approval.

"It's very nice, thank you," I supplied. "Er - where's your Nana?"

Filiberto waved his hand airily. "Oh, she's probably taking a siesta now in her room down the hall, she won't disturb you. Of course, I can't vouch for what she'd do if she's not sleeping," he said hurriedly. "Don't be surprised if you find her in here when you wake up."

"What?!"

"Yeah, she likes to look at people when they're sleeping and at their most vulnerable, so she says. Don't worry though, she's harmless most of the time!"

"Sheesh." I raked my fingers through my hair in agitation. "Apollo, what the hell does she have in that handbag?"

He went pale at the mention of it. "I don't know," he said in a low, tense voice. "I've never dared to ask, let alone take a peek. All I know is she has it with her all the time, even when she's sleeping."

He left me alone with that unedifying thought. After a few second I heard sounds of movement coming from the room adjacent to mine, followed by the drone of a TV set. I eyed the bed. The thought of Nana watching me as I slept drove all inclination to close my eyes clear out of my mind, so I wandered into the bathroom.

After I had dashed cold water on my face over the sink, I looked up into the mirror. I saw a pale, gaunt face, dull, shadowed eyes, and that manic tic flickering away. So profound was the impression of looking at a stranger that my heart began to beat like a discombobulated metronome.

The weirdness of the preceding five days was nothing compared to the sheer creepiness that then took over my mind as I stared at my haggard reflection. I imagined Chaos writhing beneath Nature, always struggling to emerge. Fancifully, based on that theory, I then assumed if one disrupted Natural Order, fissures appeared in Nature, allowing Chaos to spew out and pollute Creation.

My mind made another kangaroo jump with that startling conclusion. Last Monday, I had recognised the dogma of my working situation, which decreed that one must conform or be consigned to insignificance. And so, in my determination to continue bartering my life for wealth, power and prestige, I had made the List. The List specified the characteristics that my trophy husband must possess, and I single-mindedly focused on netting the right husband as soon as possible.

Then, within an hour of crafting the List, I had met Adam Drake, who was the epitome of everything my trophy husband could not be. At the same time, I was aware of everything feeling so right with him - not just the sex, but being with him - at the recital, in the café, walking down the street, sitting in my lounge room. Could there have been a stronger indication that pursuing the List violated Nature? However, I had turned my back on what he offered, and armed with the List, had plunged into mayhem, with Staal, then Bello ...and I had a dreadful suspicion the mayhem wasn't over.

The phone call with Drake, and perusing the Jabujawarra claim had anaesthetised the pain of disrupting the Natural Order for short periods; perhaps if I had allowed Drake into my life, or if I could have concentrated on Harry's case, the fissures would have healed, Chaos would have been forced back, and Nature restored. But again I had rejected Drake, and circumstances did not allow me to focus exclusively on Jabujawarra. Destructive, glutinous, Chaos continued to glug through the ever widening cracks in Nature. It was engulfing me - that was evident in my ravaged face, in my state of nervousness and wildly fluctuating emotions, in my sleeplessness.

As I analysed the repercussions of the List, I found myself thinking also of Steve, of my relationship with him, and of my plan for a future with him. While I was being honest with myself about what felt right and what didn't, I had to admit I had caused a fissure in Nature by pursuing Steve, as well. However, because I did not see Steve often, and because the progress of our relationship was virtually stagnant, the wound was akin to a skin scratch that causes little bother, but in never being allowed to heal, is potentially dangerous to health.

As I gripped the cold porcelain of the sink, I wondered feverishly what it took to halt the damage, to neutralise Chaos, to heal the crevices in Nature I had caused. Perhaps it would take some profound shock to provide me with sufficient impetus and clear thinking to leap off the path I had laid for myself, and see and pursue the right Way. Or, it needed an external Force of Nature, which would engulf Chaos, or push it back to where it belonged, and which would seal the fissures and restore Natural Order.

On another level of my awareness, you'll be relieved to know, it scared the hell out of me that my mind was making all these mad, imaginative delvings into the fanciful, the metaphors and the metaphysical. I mean, I'm an Australian lawyer, for Pete's sake - as a lawyer, I take pride in my belief that any truth that can't be proved in a scientific laboratory, by mathematical formula or in a court of law is no truth at all; as an Australian, pragmatism is my heritage, the KISS principle my creed. We proudly call our best stretch of coastline the Gold Coast because it's - well, gold. In the spirit of keeping it simple, beyond debate or question, we also have the Blue Mountains. There is a Sandy Beach and a Deep Creek. The Great Barrier Reef. Our nation's capital lies in the Australian Capital Territory, our most western State is - big surprise - Western Australia. We may have a joke by nicknaming a red-headed bloke 'Blue' but we simply don't do fancy, and indulging in imagination and metaphors are for those that can't recognise there are more constructive things to do with their brains.

I tried to reassure myself that lack of sleep was simply making pragmatism go-a-waltzing-Matilda with utter bullshit. The next second, ignoring that comforting conclusion, and with another mental kangaroo jump, I wondered: what if exhaustion had weakened the usual distractions to clear thinking, so that my mental ravings were actually spot-on? With that horrifying thought, I spun away from my reflection and staggered back into the bedroom, where I threw myself on the bed and crammed the pillow over my head, wanting only to suppress my wild thought processes. At once, finding themselves closed, my eyes seemed to sink back further into my head, my exhausted brain chugged to a halt and tension seeped from every muscle. I slept.

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I woke with a start and a gasp, a sound like the soft click of a door having the effect of a gunshot. Longer shadows in my room denoted a few hours had passed. Next door, the TV still droned. I was alone, yet I had the distinct impression that had not been the case a few seconds before - the atmosphere seemed to vibrate with tension, and was pregnant with some malevolent presence.

Annoyed at myself for indulging in more fanciful notions, I sat up, willing my heartbeat to resume a normal pace. I felt marginally better after the brief sleep, although I longed for some company. Deciding to join Filiberto in front of the TV, I slipped from the bed and padded from my room.

Not wanting to attract the attention of Nana should she be skulking in the distant shadows of the hallway, I knocked quietly on Filiberto's door. When there was no answer, I hesitated only a second before turning the doorknob, pushing the door open, and looking around it.

What I saw literally shocked me rigid. In the next microsecond, my brain kicked in and my limbs unlocked. Struck mute, my world distorting into that nightmare painting, The Scream, by Munch, I staggered into the room.

A hanging plant - a luxuriant, flowing fern - had been removed from a large hook suspended from the ceiling, and now lay on the ground. Slung over the hook was a rope. Hanging by his neck from the rope was Filiberto.