SOPHIE HAD her arms folded. All it took was a flat and dusty tyre to interrupt her flow, enough to have her pondering what else might be in store, as if she and she alone had been singled out for obstacles, uncertainties. Very little was needed to bump Sophie Perloff off course. A person she didn’t know might say something careless, incorrect or deliberately outlandish, and Sophie would begin pondering, looking into herself and away.
Dead something on the side of the road. Two small dams were laid out in the shape of artists’ palettes.
In her work Sophie was supposed to remain neutral, be the conduit. Instead of a couch in the office she used a chaise longue, draped with a kelim – a splash of geometric individualism. Here the patient was forced to lie neither horizontal nor upright. Some found it necessary to grip the sides which resulted, one afternoon, in a thin woman’s wedding ring slipping off and rolling along the floor. Otherwise, discomfort was not something they noticed. ‘The only men I have on the books are ex-priests,’ she explained to Erica. Some patients fell into the category of super-articulate (an aspect of their intensity). When the session came to an end they looked disappointed. Others faltered even as they were absorbed in talking about themselves. Some began sobbing and couldn’t stop, disliking, as they saw it, their own unlikeability. It was not unusual for a patient to pay good money every week to stretch out perfectly still or fidget slightly on the recalcitrant chaise longue, their fingertips reaching to the floor, and not open their mouths until the last few minutes when there’d be a flood of recollections, of experiences they evidently groped around for in the dark, and now held up, and turned over, and recognised as vital evidence. Lying there and not saying anything, just a twitch of the fingers, and Sophie seated somewhere behind as an invisible prompter, a person could begin to see how they were unpleasant and unattractive, and how this had affected others; and, although it was a source of unhappiness, they felt happy being able to recognise and describe it, as if they were carrying out their own treatment of themselves. Traffic noises and the sound of birds came into the room, allowing Sophie’s mind to wander.
It required patience of an extreme kind to listen over and over to the words of others. In many cases the subject and the way of talking were only slightly different from all the others. A lot of what was said screamed out for intervention. Instead of answering a question with a question, Sophie sometimes – unexpectedly – gave an answer, a harsh one. Her own opinion, if you don’t mind! She found her own self mysterious. A lot of obscurity there. On occasions her own monologue took over. Of course it is not supposed to happen. It was precise, colourful, multi-layered, and absorbing to Sophie, but having to lie there listening to such an articulate outpouring was not what the fumbling patient had come for.
Recently, Sophie had slept with a patient – one of the ex-priests. She waved away the risk. ‘Can I say something, Erica? These men are fascinating, believe me. They are double-men. They have an entirely different take on things.’
From the beginning to the end she enjoyed the process of meeting, then sleeping with, a man. Astride him, these chosen men, she could look down on her opaque self, and spread a flooding generosity, and for a moment, forgetfulness. Otherwise, Sophie found intimacy difficult. She couldn’t sufficiently involve herself. She could not reach out. And she enjoyed experiencing the inevitable weakness in men, of seeing the effect she had on them, from the moment she turned her special attention on them.
She preferred the company of men to women. It didn’t stop her from having women friends. Recognising her behaviour, they looked on it kindly. As for the men, they understood at a glance she would not be trouble. Many of her affairs were with married men; and these men had made a calculation. Whatever they had murmured to Sophie, they would never bring themselves to leave their wives for her, not even the most crabby, fading wives. It wasn’t the way it worked. Sophie knew that. And with a married man any ideas of permanency could always be postponed – by the week, by the month, whenever. Now, though, something felt missing. At forty-three, Sophie was facing discomfort, uncertainty in the form of vague emptiness. The smallest thing could throw her off balance – not much, but enough to make her pensive. Erica saw this in the folded arms.
A recurring problem for Sophie was her father (though he didn’t see any problem). To Sophie, he was in front of her and above and to the side. The solid shape of her father. Just by being there he could unsettle her. Something he said. Or when he said nothing at all. It was her father up to his tricks again. Immediately she would call Erica to discuss. She had to talk to somebody. Erica was always there. She seemed to be sympathetic. Sometimes she asked a question. If she did, Sophie would continue without answering. ‘And do you know, I think he’s basically oblivious?’ Then there was the stepmother. Sophie could hardly be in the same room as that woman; and this didn’t concern her father at all. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I find that perplexing and very hurtful’ – Sophie speaking to Erica.
Perloff, Harold G. – where does that come from? Stopping and U-turning it went back in a faint line to a town in one of those tangled, land-locked countries in Eastern Europe, where it became dark at four in the afternoon. It might explain his mysterious limp – story there. Hemmed-in countries produce all manner of limps and missing limbs in their men. Along with a certain ironic superiority, his limp gave Harold Perloff a way of sitting in a chair, ankles crossed, and sipping an espresso from tiny gold-rimmed cups, with his little finger sticking out. Here was a large round bald head, noticeable for its warts and protuberances, bobbing up and down like one of those floating World War Two mines that wreaked havoc in the Mediterranean. The bow tie sometimes fitted on Fridays resembled a propeller below the water-line. He was playful. He was also implacable; when his daughter thought of him, which was often, he had his eyes on her.
At Bankstown, the enormous rusty roof of Perloff ’s factory had grown into a local landmark: with an immigrant’s pride he liked to joke you could see it (the rust) from an aeroplane coming in. H. G. Perloff & Co manufactured hard hats of reinforced plastic for working men, smaller helmets in glossy blue, red or yellow for children. As Harold told it, to anyone who’d listen, it was good and proper to protect the all-important heads of construction workers, oil-rig operators, coal miners and the like; but he had real doubts about legislation which had small boys and girls strapping on one of his products the moment they stepped outside, for it diminished the thrill of being on your own in the playground, or of balancing on a bicycle. A law promoting softness, a suburban law – it would produce problems further down the track – his very words. He had a view on everything. Still, Harold Perloff understood the decency of making something and being paid for it, and churned out the hard hats by the thousands, selling them into Asia, and places like Fiji and Papua New Guinea.
‘I can tell you, the girl was never short of a word,’ he said to Erica, early on. ‘Now I believe she is being punished by having to sit still all day and forced to listen.’
Although he had experience enough of banks to be dismissive of the well-educated person, he was pleased with his daughter’s diplomas, her quickness, the way she dressed in bold colours. Look at the cut. She was expensive. He didn’t mind that in a woman. But he could only shake his head at how she spent her day, listening, according to him, to people moaning; she certainly wasn’t out there making anything with her hands.
When months passed and Erica hadn’t seen her friend it usually meant Sophie had become involved with someone again. Across Macleay Street one morning they waved to each other, and Sophie phoned the next day.
‘I cannot think of a single irritating factor about him. You know – how it doesn’t take long before you begin to think up reasons and excuses?’
Married with four kids, he was a lecturer in Medical Ethics. At least once a day they spoke to each other; this time Sophie was determined. They had even managed a weekend away together. According to Sophie, he was calm, and steadiness was something she valued more and more. Then she turned to the man’s intellect and achievements. ‘He’s always reading philosophy. I’ve been meaning to tell you. He keeps up with the subject. It is presumably essential for his type of work.’
Later, she told Erica he had a valuable collection of antique corkscrews, and he wore socks and underpants always bought from the same shop in W1, London, which had a miniature hedge out the front.
Erica never got to meet him. With little warning he too went the way of the others. When Sophie unexpectedly dropped in on a Sunday morning, wanting to talk, she began weeping.
They were in the kitchen.
‘What you need,’ Erica said, slicing a lemon, ‘is to get away, and therefore remove your thoughts, as it were, from what has happened. Does that make sense?’
Unusually for Erica, she said it firmly. At the same time she was aware of the liquid glitter squeezed between her red-brick building and the next, and the horizontal orange of a container ship sliding past.
Tuesday she was leaving.
Sophie laughed, and blew her nose.
Nothing much happens in my life, Erica wanted to say. My movements are minimal; and it doesn’t always feel right to me.
And now, a long way west of Sydney and the tyres making a reassuring humming, Sophie sat up and decided to sing, Erica joining in.
Tear-jerkers from Verdi and Puccini were tried out, but soon they switched to the less arduous, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, and other chestnuts, ‘Let it Be’ and ‘Up on the Roof ’.
After that Sophie tried the radio – nothing but static. How could anyone live out here? To Sophie, the large paddocks represented a mind emptied of variety, of life itself. Except in the occasional towns they had hardly seen anything on two legs. But the great homesteads set back and surrounded by trees were not visible from the road.
They were bumping about along a reddish track.
Sophie had a handkerchief pressed to her nose. ‘I’ve never been enamoured of dust. I’m going to start sneezing in a second.’
Erica was beginning to wonder why she had agreed to the task, which required a long drive, shaking the car to pieces, and every minute leaving further behind what was familiar. She had been restless. She needed some sort of change. As they went on, the names of the places had become more and more remote; Merriwagga, Goolgowi. Where did they come from, and what did they mean? Now as they turned south on a stretch of bitumen the two women began talking again, in anticipation.
‘Do you have any idea where we are?’
Erica had stopped to consult the hand-written map. ‘What time is it?’
‘Is that handwriting his? Let me see.’
Erica got going again. ‘He has a sister. I believe I told you that.’
Both looked at their watches. It was only four, but they didn’t want to be searching for the homestead in the dark.