Slow Man - Coetzee J. M. - Страница 51

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'Just a few hives,' says Mel. 'But it's good honey, from the gum trees mainly. Got the eucalyptus tang, you know.'

The ease between the two of them tells all – that and Marijana's laughter and the freedom of her fingers in his hair. Not an estranged couple at all. On the contrary, intimate. An intimate relationship with a row every now and again, Balkan style, to add a dash of spice: accusations, recriminations, plates smashed, doors slammed. Followed by remorse and tears, followed by heated lovemaking. Unless the whole story of the fight and the flight to Aunt Lidie was a lie, a fabrication. But why? Can he be the object of an extended plot, a plot he does not begin to understand?

'Pretty hot in overalls,' says Mel. 'I'll go change.' He pauses. 'You come to inspect the bike?'

'The bike?' he says. 'No. What bike?'

'We would love to see the bike,' says Elizabeth. 'Where is it?'

'It's not finished,' says Mel. 'Drago hasn't worked on it for a while. There's a couple things still needs to be done. But you can take a look, seeing as you have come all the way. He won't mind.'

'We would love that,' says Elizabeth. 'Paul has been looking forward to it so much.'

'Go on then. I'll meet you outside.'

They troop out of the house. Miroslav rejoins them, wearing shorts and sandals and a T-shirt that says Team Valvoline. He rolls up the garage door. There stands the familiar red Commodore, and beside it what Miroslav calls the bike.

'My, my!' exclaims Elizabeth. 'What a strange contraption! How does it work?'

Miroslav wheels the machine out of the garage; then, with a smile, turns to him. 'Maybe you can explain.'

'It's what they call a recumbent bicycle,' he says. 'On this model you don't pedal, you turn the cranks with your hands instead.'

'And Drago built it?' says Elizabeth. 'All by himself?'

'Yeah,' says Miroslav. 'Only the brazing I did. Over in the workshop. Brazing is specialist like.'

'Well, what a splendid gift,' says Elizabeth. 'Don't you think so, Paul? It will set you free again. Free to go wandering.'

'Drago want to say thank you,' says Marijana. 'Thank you to Mr Rayment for everything.'

All eyes are on him, Mr Rayment. Out of nowhere Ljuba has appeared. Even Blanka, who disapproved of him from the first, has joined the group. Slim body. A supple mover. Her father's daughter. No beauty, but then, some women develop late. Is Blanka going to have a turn to thank him too? Has she been busy as a bee, working on a gift? What will it be? An embroidered wallet? A hand-dyed tie?

He can feel a blush creeping over him, a blush of shame, starting at his ears and creeping forward over his face. He has no wish to stop it. It is what he deserves. 'It's magnificent,' he says. And, since it is expected of him, and since it is the right thing to do, he takes a step forward on his crutches and inspects his prize more closely. 'Magnificent,' he repeats. 'A magnificent gift.' Munificent too, he might add, but does not. He knows what he pays Marijana; he can guess what Miroslav earns. Much more than I deserve.

The wheel at the front is of standard bicycle size, with a set of cogs and a chain; the smaller wheels at the back merely roll. Spraypainted a vivid red, the bicycle – in fact a tricycle – stands less than a metre high. On the street the rider will be near to invisible, beneath a car driver's line of sight. So behind the seat Drago has mounted a fibreglass wand with an orange-coloured pennant at its tip. Fluttering above the rider's head, the brave little pennant is meant to warn off the Wayne Blights of the world.

A recumbent. He has never ridden one before, but he dislikes recumbents instinctively, as he dislikes prostheses, as he dislikes all fakes.

'Magnificent,' he says again. 'I am running out of words. May I take it for a spin?'

Miroslav shakes his head. 'No cables,' he says. 'No gear cables, no brake cables. Drago hasn't put them in yet. But while we got you here we can adjust the seat. You see, we mounted the seat on a rail, so you can adjust it backward or forward.'

He lays his crutches down, takes off his jacket, allows Miroslav to help him aboard. The seat feels odd.

'Marijana help with the seat,' says Miroslav. 'You know – for your leg. She design it, then we mould it in fibreglass.'

Not just hours. Days, weeks. They must have spent weeks on it, father, son; mother too. The blush has not left his face, and he does not want it to.

'You can't get this kind of thing in bike shops, so we thought we make it like one-off, custom made. I'll give you a push, so you get the feel. OK? I'll give you a push but I'll keep a hold because, remember, there's no brakes.'

The onlookers stand aside. Miroslav trundles him out onto the paved driveway.

'How do I steer?' he asks.

'With your left foot. There's a bar here – see? – with a spring. Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.'

No cars on Narrapinga Close. Miroslav gives a gentle push. He leans forward, grips the crank handles, gives them an experimental turn, hoping the contraption will steer itself.

Of course he will never put it to use. It will go into the store room at Coniston Terrace and there gather dust. All the time and trouble the Jokics have put into it will be for nothing. Do they know that? Did they know all along, while they were building it? Is this driving lesson just part of a ritual they are all performing, he for their sake, they for his?

The breeze is in his face. For a moment he allows himself to imagine he is rolling down Magill Road, the pennant fluttering brightly overhead to remind the world to have mercy on him. A perambulator, that is what it is most like: a perambulator with a grizzled old baby in it, out for a ride. How the bystanders will smile! Smile and laugh and whistle: Good on you, grandpa!

But perhaps, in a larger perspective, that is exactly what the Jokics mean to teach him: that he should give up his solemn airs and become what he rightly is, a figure of fun, an old gent with one leg who when he is not hopping around on his crutches roams the streets on his home-made tricycle. One of the local sights, one of the quaint types who lend colour to the social fabric. Till the day Wayne Blight guns his engine and comes after him again.

Miroslav has not left his side. Now Miroslav turns the machine in a wide arc that allows them to return to the driveway.

Elizabeth claps her hands; the others follow suit. 'Bravo, my knight,' she says. 'My knight of the doleful countenance.'

He ignores her. 'What do you think, Marijana?' he says. 'Should I take up riding again?'

For Marijana has not so far uttered a word. Marijana knows him better than her husband does, better than Elizabeth Costello. She has seen from the beginning how he has striven to save his manly dignity, and has never jeered at him for it. What does Marijana think? Should he go on battling for dignity or is it time to capitulate?

'Yeah,' says Marijana slowly. 'It suits you. I think you should give it a whirl.'

With her left hand Marijana holds her chin; with her right hand she props up her left elbow. It is the classic posture of thought, of mature reflection. She has given his question its full due, and she has answered. The woman the touch of whose lips he still feels on his cheek, the woman who, for reasons that have never been fully clear to him, though now and then he has a flicker of illumination, holds his heart, has spoken.

'Well then,' he says (he was going to say Well then, my love, but forbears because he does not want to hurt Miroslav, though Miroslav must know, Ljuba must know, Blanka certainly knows, it is written all over his face), 'well then, I'll give it a whirl. Thank you. In all sincerity, all heartfelt sincerity, thank you, each one of you. Thank you most of all to the absent Drago.' Whom I have misjudged and wronged, he would like to say. 'Whom I have misjudged and wronged,' he says.

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