Tiny droplets of rain stung Michael’s ears as he descended the mobile steps parked against the rear exit of the plane. Hobart’s cold wind made him gasp, smile with relief at having survived another flight, then feel hot shame at yet again failing to control his phobia of flying. On the tarmac he looked back to the aircraft and realised he had never before stood so close to one. All previous air travel had been a clinical, sanitised affair where he was carefully funnelled through ubiquitous terminals and gateways until he stepped through an oval doorway into the pacifying internal organs of a mechanical bird. Now, however, he could observe the decelerating rotations of the turbines, identify the hydraulics of the landing gear, measure himself against the height of the wing, and witness the luggage being unloaded from the far side of the undercarriage. It briefly gave him a childlike sense of wonder, and made the prospect of his return flight home – whenever that might be – marginally less ominous.
Though one of the states in Australia, Tasmania’s island locale made its landscape distinct from the mainland. Behind the small terminal building topped with a ‘Welcome To Hobart’ sign were hills as golden and rolling as a Tuscan postcard. Yet in the opposite direction stretched a windswept plateau populated by short robust trees whose dark foliage had more in common with those inhabiting marshlands. The cold easily cut through Michael’s clothes, constricting his skin, quickening his pulse and confirming his long-held belief that he was a warm-weather person. His thin-soled shoes offered scant protection against puddles, and the prospect of wet socks hastened him towards the terminal building.
At its entrance stood a group of Chinese tourists struggling to interpret the concerns of a customs official who had singled out their party and led it to a large yellow garbage bin with a sign mounted above it indicating the laws against carrying fruit and meat into Tasmania, and the fines to be faced should anyone decide to flout them. Inside, the other passengers congregated around a small baggage carousel while watching a life-sized plastic seal – advertising scenic speedboat rides – disappear and reappear from behind the black rubber curtain that concealed the dock where their suitcases were to be loaded. Michael observed families reunite – children hold up toys for uncles to appreciate – while he tried not to consider the solitude that could potentially accompany the job he was about to begin. Lucian Clarke had not hired him for small talk or literary opinions. Besides any questions he posed concerning the forty years of paperwork he had been employed to organise and classify, Michael anticipated there would be little conversation throughout his working day. Lucian Clarke’s novels were large works of complex imagination that contained stories within stories and required hours of undistracted concentration just to read. Michael therefore presumed the focus necessary to write one of them would demand even longer periods of sustained, uninterrupted silence. Lucian Clarke was far from famous, but had earned a readership loyal enough to ensure his works were reviewed by most major newspapers, and occasionally included in the contemporary literature syllabus of selected universities. For years he had ignored all interview requests, politely declined invitations to edit short-story anthologies, wilfully insulted faculty heads who had offered him the chance to teach creative writing courses, and flatly refused to scribble endorsements for anyone else’s books. In 2002 he had been given long odds to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, but in the years since then the name Lucian Clarke had failed to reappear as a contender.
The passengers who had travelled with Michael emitted a collective sigh of relief as suitcases started to appear upon the carousel. Soon after a small beagle, under the guidance of its trainer, began to scamper across the luggage searching for the scent of illegal apples or T-bone steaks. A full explanation of the dog’s role in safeguarding quarantine regulations was printed on the stiff cape tied across her back, along with guidelines not to pat her in case it proved a distraction from her very important work. As he admired the animal’s conscientiousness Michael acknowledged that an equivalent level of dedication would be needed if he was to achieve his objectives for this trip. Else the sacrifices he had made – job, relationship, friends, home – would have all been for nothing. Novels did not write themselves. He needed to work harder than he had ever done before, or risk repeating the two failed attempts that had marred the past four years of his life. Michael felt instinctively that this was his last chance. If not here and now, then when exactly was he going to write the story that was so persistent in his imagination? The realisation flooded Michael with determination, and inspired him to haul his suitcase from the carousel in such a brusque manner that it turned the head of almost every Tasmanian who stood nearby.