Saint Phalle - The Sea & Us

CATHERINE DE SAINT PHALLE

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

www.transitlounge.com.au

Copyright 2019 Catherine de Saint Phalle

First published 2019

Transit Lounge Publishing

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

Cover design: Josh Durham/Design by Committee

Typeset in12/18pt Baskerville by Cannon Typesetting

Printed in China by Everbest

A pre-publication-entry is available from the

National Library of Australia

ISBN: 978-1-925760-41-5

To Elanor Tomazi

To the poet and musician Jake Core I read in the morning before breakfast,

To Louie Miller the Rat,

And to Ryan Tamaki, and to Ryan Tamaki.

And to Maria Anti who is so far away.

Fish and chips

I M ABOVE A fish and chip shop, standing at the window of an empty room. People are walking in the spring light, each at a different pace. Theres an old man in a black coat and gumboots, theres a skinny guy with tight jeans and a Ned Kelly beard, theres a pretty woman with bare arms and barely a gaze to spare, all marching past the shop windows in and out of the shadows, in and out of the shadows. Eighteen years ago, when I left Melbourne, I felt strange in the world I was turning away from. Now, turning around to stare at the new doona and pillows on the floor, here I am again, at thirty-six a stranger still.

I list my few books, my English fountain pen with cartridges, my toothbrush, my electric shaver, my notebook, my iPhone, my three pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, two T-shirts, two pairs of trousers, puffy jacket, and backpack, all Korean (except for the fountain pen) as if I were on a desert island. When someone drowns or is put in prison, Im always struck by the polices account of the persons belongings, as if that last summing-up, that last tally, will round off what has happened, or bullet-point what that human being may have become. The faint descriptions, a leather wallet, a blue pullover, a set of keys, a white handkerchief, a whistle, a lead pencil, feel fuller than a eulogy or a novel foraging into someones story as if there were a stark dignity or a concrete poem in a list of belongings.

Thinking of lists of disconsolate objects, I have just discovered that the expression flotsam and jetsam used to consist of four words: flotsam, jetsam, ligan and derelict. In maritime law, flotsam is the floating wreckage of a ship or its cargo. Jetsam is a part of a ship, its equipment, or its cargo, cast overboard or jettisoned (another appealing word) to lighten the load in times of distress, which has washed ashore. Ligan are goods or wreckage lying on the bottom of the ocean, sometimes marked by a buoy, which can be reclaimed. Derelict too is cargo on the bottom of the ocean, but which no one has any hope of reclaiming. It can also refer to a drifting abandoned ship.

It all depends on which one you are.

After emailing about an ad on Gumtree, I walked (just me and my backpack) into the fish and chip shop called The Sea & Us. In spite of my travel-worn condition, the owner of the shop, a lank-haired, dark-eyed, tallish woman, looked at me and sized me up as if I were trying to sell her something. It never crossed my mind that she was the one selling something to me. Standing there behind her counter, she reminded me of my mother. Yet, strangely, after that instant recoil, she proved to be quite different.

Well, you travel light. All the way from South Korea, my goodness! Hello, Im Verity, said the woman. Her Irish accent ripples from her. Its her foreignness, I realise, thats making me feel at home.

I like people who make a comment before greeting a perfect stranger. It seems to announce a busy inner life that cant be switched off on command. Verity wears a white linen apron over her jeans. Her gloomy features, her black hair and greyish skin hide nothing but the sunniest nature. But I couldnt help staring at her. It was a double take, so much did she resemble my mother, Libna.

Are you right? You must be dead on your feet after that long plane ride.

A plane ride, like a bicycle or merry-go-round ride. Verity makes things sound ordinary and safe, downplaying them so that anything coming through the filter of her remarks becomes less threatening, almost cosy. She manages this without making things banal either. Its a strange talent, a kind of inverted Miss Marple swagger that keeps you right there on her doorstep, in that exact spot and no other, on Lygon Street, where the fish and chips are the cheapest and the healthiest, where the tables are the cleanest and you could eat off the floor, as my Czech grandmother used to say. It made my travel weariness vanish because I suddenly knew exactly where I was, and very nearly who I was. It also made me realise how often these two facts slip from my grasp.

Speaking of hygiene, Veritys rented rooms have nothing of the pristine cleanliness of her shop. Showing me the stairs with a resigned shrug, she advised me to go up there to have a look. The contrast started with the steps, a vertical back alley rising towards a grimy landing with three doors, two on the right and one on the left, as if in some Kafkaesque dream.

Her voice came floating up the steps. I could have been scaling a mast for Captain Ahab.

The two empty rooms are on the right. You can choose. But the second one down, at the end, is the biggest one, with its own bathroom and its own landing, she called.

Is it locked?

No, no, the guy left last week. Just turn the handle. I have the keys down here.

The strangest feeling came over me, as if I were fighting a sudden thickness in time. The landing felt like a terra nullius under its two dirty skylights. When I reached the last door, I opened it without effort. The smell, dusty, very nearly foul, held me back in the corridor, then diving into the murky waters I crossed the threshold. It was a small, dismal space, which boasted two other doors, each with a strip of light underneath it. The one on the left led to the bathroom; the one straight ahead led to the room. I stepped into the room first. The windows were so filthy everything was drowning in a sepia light. The papers and empty cardboard boxes that lay on the floor reminded me of clothes on dead bodies and burgled belongings. It was the first place Id visited, but I liked the private landing, and after I had checked out the bathroom I knew it would look different with a bit of elbow grease and a coat of paint. This was a ligan situation. I closed the doors and climbed down the stairs, almost bumping into Veritys hopeful expression.

You interested?

She smiled a lopsided grin, with her head on one side. There was more to it than renting a room. It was as if she were asking me to take something on.

Hmm

Its cheap. The wi-fi is included and all you have to pay above the rent is your share of electricity and water.

Can I paint the place?

You can. Ill even knock something off the rent if you do.

Its a deal.

She looked stunned and then wrung my hand, pumping it up and down with two of her own.

I havent even given you a price yet! Youre a hopeless businessman.