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  It has become the age of the self; confessions in public all over the place, the spillage of the ‘I’, and in private, in a quietly structured manner (the therapist has replaced the priest). And who is doing this talk? Not ill, at least not seriously, the self-obsessed personalities have a concentrated, almost technical interest in the self, as if they were specimens. Interest in others tends to be perfunctory, impatient, showy. It is they who have a natural attraction to analysis, where again they can dwell solely on themselves, the problematical ‘I’, and, since this is the very source of their difficulties in the first place, there is a real danger of psychoanalysis not uncovering, but giving shape to, and confirming, a person’s self-obsession. Eight, ten years in analysis is not uncommon. In Sydney parents have been sending their own children, not yet in their teens, into psychoanalysis – ironing out the unformed mind before the unevenness of everyday life could give proportion or self-correction.

  Years spent murmuring the endless circling sentence, while the analyst remains almost, though not quite, hidden.

  A philosopher would not allow this; but when needed there were none.

  3

  IT HAD BEEN Erica’s idea to bring a thermos of tea. Along with the scarf and the coat with deep pockets – it’s what you did when you left the city in a car. If she owned a travelling rug she would have thrown it onto the back seat too.

  ‘As well,’ she said without turning her head, ‘I have a slice of ginger cake.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I had your practical mind,’ Sophie gave a comfortable stretch. ‘It would make my life that much easier. Although, kindly look at me: I shouldn’t be having a single calorie of anything.’

  It took a while to find a suitable spot, a matter of avoiding ditches and slopes and gates. On the one hand they didn’t want an open space, where they’d be the only visible things in it, and yet too many trees close to the road gave them no space at all. Sophie said it was worse than buying clothes. They could have gone on for hours, never quite satisfied, until they both agreed on a single white gum tree and, although obviously not perfect, Erica braked hard, and skidded to stop near it.

  At intervals a car passed and enveloped them in a system of metallic rubber rattling, vibrations.

  Erica sat with the door open, holding the cup in both hands; she had her feet on the ground. Opposite was an old wooden farmhouse surrounded by dozens of rusting agricultural implements which appeared as gigantic, disabled insects. She had looked up and gazed at them. Under the Brittle Gum, Sophie’s Italian ankle boots made a racket on the strips of dry bark littering the ground, for in new surroundings she liked to pace backwards and forwards.

  Following Sophie’s restlessness, Erica tried to imagine her stillness and patience, hour after hour, in her work. How could she do it? Only a person with a certain psychological necessity could submit.

  Sophie had stopped moving. ‘We must be in the country. Here comes a man on a horse, behind you.’

  Erica could have reached out and touched it. It was a solid living mass, dark tan and glossy, here and there quivering, as it trod daintily. Jogging ahead was the man’s kelpie, tongue hanging out, as if searching for water.

  With all the space in the world, out in the wide open country, the man and his brown horse had come between the car and Sophie, two women, who were being crowded out. Peevishly, Erica decided he could have used the other side of the road.

  The horse and rider stopped. Affecting a laborious style the man dismounted and came towards them, the women looking up at him.

  As soon as the hat came off he looked ordinary. Vertical lines on his forehead and running down from his eyes traced the nation’s crows, creekbeds, the salt plain, and tightened his mouth. His green shirt was stained, the pocket where he kept his smokes falling apart.

  Indicating with his hat he said, ‘You won’t be getting far on that one.’

  Sophie slipped into a little girl’s voice, without being quite aware of it. If it was meant to make the stranger stronger it made this one crouch further over the tyre. Erica watched. Could they at least hold something or pass a spanner? Not very talkative. Already he had jacked up the back and with fat fingers fiddled with the nuts, hardly a fumble. It was a strain squatting on his haunches, two women looking at him from behind. He cleared his throat. ‘They call the tree you’re standing under the widow-maker. A branch is liable to land on the head.’

  What’s he telling us that for?

  ‘Then it’s curtains,’ he said wiping his hands on his trousers.

  Sophie was reaching out to the horse. ‘What do you call him? He’s not going to bite, is he?’ This particular man she was approaching through his horse; it was as if Erica, her friend, wasn’t there. Veins were bulging on his neck as he tightened the last of the wheel nuts, which allowed him to get moving and not say another word.

  4

  ERICA WOULD always wonder why she was chosen. Of the seven in the department others had stronger qualifications, and all but one lived alone, as she did, unmarried. (The solitary life was known to strengthen clarity of thought; Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Simone Weil – and anyway who would live with those sorts of people? – and don’t forget Diogenes.)

  She knocked and went into L. K.’s office. This was Professor L. K. Thursk of the pullover and bulky shoes, whose long-awaited study of Georges Sorel had become something of a myth – who swivelled side-on, as she entered, his hands pointing under his chin, an Indian prince wondering whether to give salaams. He was another one who had developed a hierarchy of throat-clearings, in his case necessary in the struggle to express even the most modest thoughts, for much of what composed the world was unsayable. He was like a plumber who had lost his tools. Erica though saw it more as a sort of fussy drapery from the bachelor life.

  If she didn’t want to do this, she didn’t have to. From the beginning L. K. made that very clear. However, ‘It doesn’t hurt if now and then a university reaches out into ordinary life, and on these occasions it is unusual for Philosophy to be called upon.’ Clearing the throat. ‘In fact, I can’t think of another instance.’

  Along one side of the window an edge of sandstone showed, weathered and worn smooth by the never-ending revision of ideas, and a glimpse too of lawn, watered by a hissing and clicking metallic insect. Cloistered. The transplanted idea of the kind of aura necessary for a seat of learning. Erica wondered whether a fresh, angular philosophical method could ever be realised here. Time slowed at that moment; it became a honeyed substance. The room was slightly humid. The good professor would happily have waited more or less all day for an answer.

  The following week she went into the Trustee Company, on Bridge Street.

  It was a foyer which displayed at set intervals facsimiles of parrots and black cockatoos by the artist G. J. Broinowski, and a photo in brown frame of the building, c.1906. At some stage the offices had undergone a fortune in wainscotting and woodstain. To carry out the instructions of the deceased demanded an atmosphere of quiet purpose, where even a judicious echo played its part.

  The solicitor was Mr Mannix. A large man, he had loose hanging cheeks, and pursed lips from the many years of putting words in parentheses.

  People sitting across the desk from Mannix, where Erica sat, had been singled out and their personalities assigned clear, material value. Assumptions were confirmed, or just as often given sharp correction. Mannix watched as favourite sons or nephews or the proverbial step-daughter shook their heads in disbelief and became angry, silently cursing or looking up at the ceiling, some leaning back and laughing their heads off, as if he wasn’t there, others abruptly getting to their feet and at a later date (to be determined) returning with their own solicitors decked out in identical broad-striped shirts and the sombre suit to see if the will could be contested. There was happiness too. An unexpected windfall gave pleasure. It could strengthen memories. A confirmation. Mannix enjoyed seeing people appreciated in a useful way. Over the years a habit had formed
of resting both hands on the desk, near the box of tissues, allowing his wedding ring and gold cufflinks to show.

  Now he surveyed Erica Hazelhurst. No lipstick. With its slightly pronounced jaw her face gave off a studied calm. He had an aunt in Melbourne who was like her – very intelligent. Erica wore a faded cardigan the colour of boiled rhubarb, which splayed over her hips, and speckled green slacks.

  ‘I have known the Antill family for as long as I have been working here. When I say I know them, I’ve managed in these thirty-odd years to meet just one of them, and then for less than five minutes. But that’s all right. Not a problem. The Antills are an old pastoral family. They can do what they like. Cliff Antill conducted his business through the post. It was said of Cliff he was afraid to open his mouth in case a fly flew in. All I can say is, there must be a heck of a lot of folk in this country going about not talking.

  ‘He had racehorses. There was a photo from Flemington in the paper once, years ago, and I was surprised to see a thin man holding a champagne glass. I’d always imagined, I don’t know why, a big fellow, sturdy. She – that was Mrs – she was known for her hats. Her family made their money out of inventing a new shoe polish. I gather she preferred her apartment at the Astor to the sheep station out in the mulga. Mrs Antill left endowments to music and the State Library. I managed to dissuade her from leaving any monies to theatre companies.’

  The filing cabinet, the venetians from the nineteen fifties, the exceptional neatness of the desk, its broad glossy surface, the photo there of wife and kids, and Mannix’s motionlessness as indicated by his stationary cufflinks, his purple lips producing the only movement, like a little hidden engine, as they formed the steady horizontal arrangement of words – all these things transferred attention onto Erica. She tried to imagine how he would be as a father to daughters. If only he’d fiddled with a paperclip, perhaps just twisting one out of shape.

  ‘When Mr Cliff and Mrs passed away, as we all do eventually, the property passed in equal shares to the children. These children are Wesley, the eldest – come to him later – Roger, and the daughter Lindsey, with an e. They lived together in harmony, and worked the place without much trouble. Wesley has now died. In his will, he has bequeathed his share to the brother and sister.’

  The phone rang and Mannix answered: ‘Not now.’

  ‘I met Wesley. It was in this office. He made an appointment and sat in the chair you’re in now. It was fourteen years ago. I had no idea what he wanted. An Antill had never come into this building before, not one of them. He sat there a good minute or two before he realised he still had his hat on his head, so he took it off without a word. He had a fair bit of white hair. He didn’t crack a smile throughout. I remember thinking: this is not a happy man. He’d just got back from Europe, perhaps that was it. You could see by his general manner and clothing he’d been away.’

  From his trousers, Mannix drew out a large handkerchief, blew his nose and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘He says to me, “Mr Mannix, I’d like to change my name. How do I go about it?”

  ‘Wesley would have been early thirties then. I said of course it can be done, we can do that. We can do anything here. But why? I reminded him the name Antill wasn’t any old name, but a name with a history, a name stuffed to the gills with squatter connotations. It is not to be dismissed easily. I felt I could say that. I said, I didn’t particularly enjoy my own name – what sort of person do you conjure up when you see “Mannix”? – but I wouldn’t dream of changing it.’

  Here Mannix leaned back in his chair.

  ‘He listened politely, then he said Antill was not the right name for a philosopher. A philosopher, he said, words to this effect, had to have a name appropriate to his work – his labours, he used that word. Wesley he didn’t mind. It wasn’t perfect, but it wouldn’t be a burden. If necessary he could just use the initial. Antill was the problem. It was light, that was the problem as he saw it. He said there can be no such thing as “light” philosophy. It was a contradiction. He said it more than once – a contradiction. To be a philosopher was impossible enough without being lumbered with an inappropriate surname. I must have had a silly look on my face. He said to me, “You don’t know what I’m talking about.” He was explaining that to come up with a meaningful philosophy was one thing. The difficult part was to convince others of it. Everything had to be in place, I remember him saying. To succeed it was necessary to rid himself of all disadvantages, and that included his name. A philosopher had to begin with authority, in every way. That’s roughly what he said, words to that effect.

  ‘I think he was winding himself up. Nothing came of it.’

  It was enough to trigger in Mannix memories of other clients and their bizarre instructions. ‘I had someone else who died,’ he wanted to say, ‘who left his neighbour a pair of gates. He didn’t want them.’

  His advice was to keep everything simple.

  ‘I say to people: hang on, spare a thought for the executor! Not to mention the added expense.’

  An informal tone had entered his voice and manner which Erica found disappointing.

  Mannix gave her a glance, ‘Goodness me, on the scale of difficulty I have known people worse off than Wesley Antill. One of our clients is called Mound – Mr Leon Mound. How about that? We also have a Murray Pineless on the books. And let’s be perfectly frank. If this was about photography and not philosophy there wouldn’t have been any fuss. So now we have this small difficulty.’

  He adjusted one of his cuffs.

  ‘According to his brother and sister, Wesley Antill was in fact a philosopher. That’s all he did when he went back to live on the property – write his philosophical work. Very generously, it strikes me, his brother and his sister didn’t mind. Not at all. They had a very high opinion of Wesley. To them, their eldest brother was a genius. Or perhaps they thought he could have been. For years they worked the property and gave him the free time, and the space, and all the rest of it, to write. And that is what he did all day. And what was the result of all this? There is a provision in his will. It is clear enough. It asks that his philosophy be published and the costs be borne by his estate. Is this possible? Is he a genius in philosophy? We have no idea. That’s where you come in. The university tells me you are an expert in this field. We would like you to examine this “philosophy”, or whatever it is he’s put on paper, and supply an opinion.’

  ‘Yes,’ Erica nodded. She almost went on, ‘I can identify with Wesley Antill. The difficulty, my God. I am very interested in this. And it will be something to look forward to – the drive, getting there, everything.’

  Mannix was in a hurry now.

  ‘Roger Antill and his sister are expecting you.’ He went back to his desk and found the hand-written map. ‘It should be pleasant this time of the year.’ He shook her hand. ‘Not too hot, not too cold.’

  5

  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 sessi
on 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.