Bright Air - Barry Maitland [31]
He didn’t have to spell out the equation he was making, between money-value and life-value. It was a little demonstration, a masterclass, for me, the barbarian economist. I understood this, and even felt rather privileged to have had this effort expended on me. But I also felt that the passion behind the message was not what it had once been, that I was maybe one dumb student too many.
That evening we retired to the Hibernian Hotel, a massive monument to coalminers’ thirst, built in 1910, and the largest building in the little village it occupied. There Marcus entertained us, while we wolfed down large steaks, with an erudite account of the improbable sexual practices of certain snakes and stick insects, but given the sleeping arrangements—we had four rooms, Luce with Anna, Curtis with Owen, me and Damien, and Marcus on his own—I saw little opportunity to investigate if they might be adapted to humans. Instead his flagrantly grotesque descriptions seemed designed to draw attention to my increasingly desperate longing for the girl on the other side of the table, who seemed oblivious to my surreptitiously yearning looks. However, as we started making our way towards the stairs, Anna came to my side and whispered, ‘Wanna swap?’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Eh?’
‘Beds.’
‘Um … Did Luce …?’
She looked at me as if I was being a bit slow, and I quickly nodded, feeling a sudden agitation in my chest, a brightening in my gloomy mood.
She said, ‘Use the veranda. Marcus’ll be roaming around the corridor.’
The pub was on a street corner, with deep verandas around two sides, onto which all the bedrooms had shuttered doors. By the time I’d cleaned my teeth, Damien was already fast asleep, snoring softly. I turned the key in the veranda door and pushed it open with barely a squeak, and stepped out into the chilly night air. Down below in the street a group of locals was spilling out of the bar, yelling cheerfully at each other as they made their way to their utes. I padded softly along the deck until I came to what I thought was Luce and Anna’s room. Now what? My bare feet were freezing and I had the sudden sickening thought that this was some kind of prank, a trick to maroon me out on the balcony all night. Then the door in front of me clicked open, and Anna slid out. Like me she was wearing a shell jacket over a T-shirt and pants. She grinned at me, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and padded off. I stared after her, then a voice whispered from the door, ‘Hurry up, I’m cold.’
Luce was wearing a coat, but nothing else. I stepped inside and took her in my arms, and decided that this was just about the best of the eight thousand-odd days I’d spent on the planet.
I think it was fairly apparent to the others over breakfast the next morning what had happened between Luce and me. I thought I was playing it pretty cool, but each in turn, coming down into the dining room, blinked at the pair of us, then grinned and winked, as if we had neon signs on our heads. I couldn’t read the signs with Anna and Damien, though, and as we carried our bags out to the cars I got a chance to speak to her.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean … good night?’
She gave me a patient smile and turned away, me none the wiser.
We returned to the Watagans and, in an unspoken agreement, Anna, Luce, Damien and I switched climbing partners, so that I spent the day climbing with Luce, a breathtaking experience. In the mid-afternoon we made our last ascent together, me exhausted, and I staggered into her arms on the scrubby plateau at the top. She pulled me away from the edge, out of the line of sight of Damien and Anna making their way up below us, and I told her she was