The possibility of water

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 20: Cities on the Edge
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by Chris Womersley

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I don't even really know where I first met Eli. She was just one of those people I saw at parties and gigs and bars. I liked her and I didn't care that she was a junkie; most people I knew at that time were junkies or at least partway there, myself included. Besides, I'd always had a soft spot for that kind of woman.

I was living pretty close to the bone that summer, more or less at the start of a losing streak that would go on to last another decade. I lived behind a shop in Brunswick Street and washed dishes in a Greek restaurant. I stayed up late, drank all the time and used dope when I could. At night I crouched in my windy room and carved hieroglyphs into my arms with broken glass, messages to myself, reminders of something or other – my own fucking stupidity perhaps. It wasn't the worst of times for me; they were yet to come.

It was a searing summer, worse in Fitzroy where the concrete streets exhaled the heat of the day back into the night long after sunset. Couples slept on rugs in Exhibition Gardens and news bulletins warned people to ensure their pets had enough water. Old people up and died from the heat. At night I dreamed of luxuriant bodies of water. People talked about the heat all the time, giving it a noise it otherwise wouldn't have. It made neighbours of everyone. On the streets, at bus stops, in taxis. ‘How about this heat?' ‘Hot enough for you?' Almost drove me mad.

Eli and I were drinking one night at Punters Club, just sort of flirting and carrying on. The music was loud and men were yelling and spilling beer over themselves. The summer excitement was fraying at the edges. The bar was packed with people with their sweaty faces and their moist, lingering handshakes. But there was Eli, with the collar of her man's shirt slightly upturned like a wink, displaying a shiny curl of clavicle. Somehow we ended up holding hands, on the step, trying to catch a breeze. She rolled the most perfect cigarettes I had ever seen, applying herself to the momentary task with girlish concentration. When she complained for the hundredth time about the heat, I took her by the hand and dragged her down the street. It was instinctive, spur of the moment. I didn't even really know her that well, but she laughed and went along with it. ‘Crazy fucker,' she said as she tossed her wine glass into the air and watched it smash against the road. ‘Where are you taking me, you cad?'

Fitzroy Pool was only a few blocks from the pub but I took her along darkened streets and beneath the graveyard shade of elm trees, just so I could hold her hand. Rose Street. George Street. Gore Street. I think she knew I was taking her the long way, but she didn't complain. Neither of us spoke. It was 2 am, moonlit, an enormous night full of murmur and heat. Cars tooted as they passed. People sat on their porches fanning themselves.

We clambered over the wire fence and plopped down on the scrappy lawns of Fitzroy Pool. We held our breaths. I was aware of Eli beside me, the very heat of her. Nothing happened, no alarms or guards or anything. We looked at each other and shrugged. It seemed too easy, but we were in. ‘Wow,' she said against my ear. ‘This is amazing.'

We waited a minute or two before walking around, but gently, unwilling to touch anything, as if in a church or museum. We didn't speak. Crouched here and there on the lawn and concreted area were pieces of white plastic outdoor furniture. A pair of goggles was slung over the back of one of the chairs. A towel curled like a fat snake around an umbrella pole. The pool itself was covered by a large plastic tarpaulin retracted by a wheel system at the deep end. The tarpaulin shrugged against its tethers in the warm breeze. I hadn't banked on this but it didn't seem to matter; it was enough just to be inside the grounds.

Eli wrestled off her shoes and stood silently on the concrete, staring down at her feet. Her hair covered her pale face, a momentary vanishing. I sat smoking on one of the sweaty, plastic chairs. Even through my shoes, I could feel the dull warmth of the concrete, as if the great engine of summer idled just below the surface. The entire city had fallen silent, aside from the thick rustle of the tarpaulin and occasional swish of wind through the trees that bordered the grassy area.

Now we were inside, we weren't really sure what to do. I felt even more foolish than usual. Finally Eli padded over to me, cupped my face in her hands and kissed me softly on the mouth with her winey lips. ‘You're a genius.' It was easily the nicest anyone had been to me in months. I thought I might cry. She squatted in front of me with her chin on my knees and stared at me for a long time, as if trying to remember who I was, which might well have been the case. Even in the half-light I could see she was stoned. Her skin and hair were silvery. It occurred to me that she had been crying. ‘You know ...?' she began, before looking away over at the shuttered kiosk.

‘What?'

She turned back to me, shrugged. ‘I was just thinking. You remember that smell when you were a kid and you'd been swimming on a really hot day and you lie down on the scorching concrete? That smell of, I don't know, chlorine and ... summer?'

‘Yes, and coconut oil.'

She smacked my thigh. ‘Yes! Sorry. And icy poles.'

‘Redskins.'

‘Fuck. Yes! Although no doubt the PC police have dispensed with those.'

‘Probably. Now Native American something or others.'

She made pincers of her thumb and forefinger and held them in front of her face. ‘Peeling sunburn off your nose.'

‘Bombs when the lifeguard wasn't looking.'

‘Backflips.'

‘You could do backflips? I can barely swim.'

‘Sure. Brisbane girl, mate. Spent my teenage years at the beach or in a pool. Under-15 freestyle district champ, in fact. I'll give you a few lessons, if you like.'

The fact that she had told me this made me bolder than usual. I leaned down, making a face, hoping for another kiss. ‘What kind of lessons, exactly?'

She fell backwards onto the grass laughing and stayed there, just staring up at the sky. Someone passing in the street outside called out and laughed. Then silence again. I flicked my cigarette away through the half-light and the orange tip shattered against the high brick wall, on which were painted the pool rules: No running. No bombing.

‘It's a shame that all has to come to an end, isn't it?' she said at last. ‘All that ... you know. All that.'

I didn't know what to say. It was true, I guess, about it all coming to an end and it being a shame. I followed her gaze up to the stars and wondered what sort of sound they made up there, supposing they made any sound at all. Perhaps a low whistle, like a faraway train. ‘You know the light from some of those stars has taken millions of years to reach us?' I said. ‘Might be light from stars that don't even exist anymore, that have exploded or died or whatever the fuck it is they do.'

She didn't say anything, but moved her foot against my calf in a gesture of reassurance. After a few minutes, she stood up in front of me and ran a hand through her dirty blonde hair. ‘Come on, then.'

‘What?

‘We going to fucking swim or what?' She pointed with one arm outstretched. ‘Retract that tarp, my good man.'

‘How?'

‘I don't know. Just roll it back or something. Can't be too hard. I really need to swim. I feel like shit.' And she wandered away.