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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781742195032 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Spinifex Press |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 204 |
| File size: | 604 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
My Sister Chaos
By Lara Fergus
Spinifex Press Pty Ltd
Copyright © 2010 Lara FergusAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-876756-84-0
CHAPTER 1
The house is lit up when I arrive home. I can see that nothing has been disturbed. There are no footprints but mine on the path; through the window next to the door I can see everything is in its place. The clear surfaces, the swept fireplace, the maps tucked in their row of folders. The usual. First the security door, then the inner door. Once inside, the chain and bolt. I pad through the rooms, flicking off the lights. The hum of the bulbs is silenced, the blue of the evening seeps through the blinds. In the kitchen I gulp a glass of water where I stand, my lower back pressed to the sink. Wash the glass, dry it, replace it. The twilight cool in my mouth.
I see well in the dark, at least better than others, which is all that counts. And I know the layout of the house, the furniture, what to avoid, where I could hide. This is my advantage, should I need one. I allow no distractions: no television, no radio, no armchairs or couch. Just shelves around the walls and the great sloping draftboard in the centre. The most beautiful thing I own, the first thing I bought on arrival, as soon as I could afford it. Some of the others won't buy anything they can't carry or fit in a car boot. But I will not move again. I have to take up some space after all.
I close the blinds, and feel for the edge of the draftboard in the dark. It's set at its minimum height, but the slope starts at my lower ribs: they don't make these things for small women. I find the texture of the paper with my fingertips. Smooth it to its edges with the flat of my palms, the full length of my arms. I strain my eyes to make out last night's markings. Good exercise for the rods in the retinal layers, but the finer detail is, as always, impossible to decipher without more light. I reach under the draftboard and unhook the lamp I sewed into a headband at the camp. It is portable and convenient, though I'm aware it makes me an easy target. There are some necessary risks. I slide it down to grip my forehead and turn it on. The map lights up like a revelation.
The usual. Awe, briefly. Two or three seconds where I am stunned by the perfect angles, the precision of line, the telescoping detail into which the eye falls and falls. I straighten my back. Pride, almost. Then the lacunae, like watermarks, seeping up through the grain. There's so much more work to do.
I am crouched at the front door, measuring its distance from the adjacent wall, when the unexpected happens. The crunch of gravel on the path outside. I keep my head bowed, reach to my forehead, squeeze off the headlamp. Darkness, and the sound of bats squabbling in a neigh bour's tree. I straighten up with my arms held out from my body to avoid rustling my clothes. The crunching has stopped on the other side of the door. I keep my feet planted and twist my body to the peephole. A vague profile lit from the street. My sister. She raises her fist and knocks: loud and arhythmical.
She will spoil everything. The carelessness of her movements, the heat of her arms, the eddying of air in her wake. I can't let her in. I would have to redo all the measurements so far.
— I know you're there because the lights are off.
She speaks in our mother tongue, which I've barely heard for two years. As if the door were no barrier, and she were playing one of our childhood games — the one where she'd stretch a hand over her eyes and point to where I was in the room. I know you're there because the floorboards creaked, she'd say. I know you're there because you make a shadow. My ear pressed to the door now I can hear her breathing. Then she says she can hear mine. It's no use.
— Who's dead? I ask.
— No one, open the door.
Face to face she is tall and formless in her baggy clothes.
— Money? I ask.
— No.
The last time I'd seen her we were in 'temporary accommodation': a cardboard motel on the city's outskirts. She buzzed with irritation, loathed everything about this new place, railed against the apathy of its people, the ugliness of its architecture, the inefficiency of its public transport. She would not stay. When the settlement adviser came, she accepted his leaflets politely, like me — language courses, medical assistance, housing services — then shoved them in the bin as he closed the door behind him. She would not settle into exile, she said, would not make exile a daily routine. The next day she was gone. She was the last person I had to learn to live without.
— Are we going to stand in the doorway all night? she asks.
I step aside. She's carrying a backpack, so stuffed full she can only squeeze forward. I bolt the door behind her. She flicks on the overhead light, drops the bag to the floor and looks around. It must look bare. Perhaps she wants an armchair to flop into, or, it occurs to me, something soft to sleep on. She sees me eyeing the backpack.
— There's something in it for you, she says.
— What?
She unzips the top pocket and takes out a small parcel.
— This. Happy birthday.
— It's today? I say.
— Of course it's today.
— I didn't get you anything.
She laughs.
— That's the advantage, you see, of being a twin, she says. — There'll always be someone who'll remember your birthday.
— Sorry.
— Doesn't matter, she says. — You didn't know I'd be here. Open it.
— What is it?
— A bowl. I made it myself. Do you like it?
An irregular mass of clay and glaze, barely convex.
— I don't think it'll sit properly, I say.
— It sits. Look. Now you've got something on your mantelpiece.
— What's it for?
— You know. Knick-knacks.
— Knick-knacks?
She shrugs.
— Yes.
I make her coffee. We stand and drink it, me in the kitchen, her blocking the doorway. She waves her hands as she speaks, the coffee mounting the side of her cup, spilling over the edge, slopping onto the floor. She pulls a tissue from her pocket, drops it and pushes it over the linoleum with her boot to soak up the liquid. She says she wants to stay, for 'a while'. I offer money for a hotel room, but she refuses. She'll be no trouble, she insists, and has enough food and everything else she needs. She can sleep on the floor, no problem, she says.
If I think of her as someone I just met she'd be almost bearable. I'd probably like her, in the casual way she moves, the sense of humour in her eyes. She wouldn't be someone I'd make an effort to get to know better, but then again no one is. It's the association I can't stand, the fact that she's related to me, the way she drags me back.
I tell her I'm working here, but that confuses her — she has assumed, rightly, that I would be employed by now, somewhere professional, where my work would be external. I explain that it's a personal project.
— Since when is cartography personal? Isn't it a fieldwork thing?
— Depends. But I need quiet, and space.
— Depends on what?
— On what you're mapping. So you can't stay. I'm sorry.
She goes. From behind the door I hear her steps retreating on the gravel path. I turn off the lights. Hear the creak of the gate as she shuts it behind her. I've lost less than an hour.
The problem with my work is level of detail. Knowing where to stop. Do I take contours every metre, every centimetre, every millimetre? I'm trying every two centimetres now, but that small dent in the floorboards, for instance — made by the men who delivered the draftboard — is not represented; it falls between the measurements. But if I make the scale larger I have to restrict the space being mapped, which is another misrepresentation. I have to choose between detail and scope, both of which are, ultimately, limited. Even if I choose a large scale — more detail, less scope, smaller area — to try to achieve something approaching accuracy, there is always something missed. All maps are lies. So far, that is.
The next morning on my way out I find my sister curled like a snail outside the gate. As I close it behind me she opens her eyes. She looks soft, exposed.
— This is emotional blackmail.
— No it's not, she says. — I have to sleep somewhere.
— If you're going to sleep outside you could sleep anywhere. But you chose to sleep in front of my house.
— Well I don't know this city. But you wouldn't live anywhere dangerous.
— Everywhere is dangerous.
— I'm not talking about war. I'm talking about muggings, rape, murder, that sort of thing.
It is emotional blackmail.
— I'm going to work, I say.
I have sometimes thought of her, over these past two years. When I have been tired, or doing a mundane part of the map. I see her as a child in our living room back home, small in the armchair, legs swinging. Her fingers rummaging through our mother's cosmetics case she has taken from the bathroom. She finds a shell pink bottle which she opens to reveal a tiny brush attached to the lid. I go close to her to see the bottle, smell its unfamiliar paint-like fumes, I am close to her and so small myself that I have to look up to see her face. She takes my hand and paints my nails.
Allowing myself to think of her like this seems a weakness, and is something I regret afterwards. Like indulging a craving for some sweet, nutritionless food.
My current task at work is relatively straightforward: mapping the contracting borders of island states as sea levels rise. I need only follow procedure, which is largely a matter of setting the correct algorithms and the computer does the rest. In my position before the war I would have delegated such a simple task to an intern. But we have to accept these demotions. I am lucky to have a job in my field — not many of us do. I am lucky, indeed, to be alive. Or so I am repeatedly told.
As the computer deals with the figures I watch the shores change shape, obliterating the coastal towns, flooding over peninsulas, eliminating previously safe harbours. The usual. All the elevations have to change, which is the most disruptive part of the process. Sea level has always been the constant, the zero. But the computer copes with that too.
I can do all this without thinking, and concentrate instead on the methodology of my personal project. If I map canonically perhaps it can be done. A repetition of phrase in different scales. I need to start broad, then add detail in smaller measures. Length and breadth from the walls for structure, depth from the minutiae of texture, resonance from the accuracy of the whole.
CHAPTER 2When I arrive home the house is lit up. All is as I left it, including my sister crumpled at the gate. What's changed is her mood, she's now tired and cranky. She asks me what's wrong, why I hate her so much, what she could possibly have done. I don't hate her at all, though, and she's done nothing, nothing I can hold her to anyway. She just doesn't understand that I have to work.
— Why can't you work with me in the house?
— Because you'll change it.
— Change what?
— The house. What are you doing here anyway? You decided to leave and you left. Why do you want to stay here now?
— Because I've got some things I want to do. Some of my own work, okay? For god's sake, I'm your sister, I'm passing through town and I want to sleep on your floor for a few days. It's not unheard of.
She is not yet at the end of her tether. I would recognise it if she were. She could sleep outside for days, but the neighbours would call the police eventually. I know these police are not like our police, that I should have nothing to fear if they knock at my door. My ethnicity is not evidence here; I could tell them that I am not responsible for my sister, that her actions cannot condemn me. But I would be questioned, and though I've committed no crime, would have to lie. Out of habit, and out of the knowledge that my behaviour would seem unreasonable to an independent observer. I know that, I'm not mad.
Once inside she opens her backpack and extracts a plastic bag filled with dirt-covered vegetables. — I'll cook you dinner, she says. She goes to the kitchen and starts washing, peeling, slicing. The skins of things dropping to the floor, squashed and smeared under her boots. From the map room I catch glimpses of her muddy hands sliding over the taps, the bench, the chopping board.
I grip the corners of the draftboard, breathe through my nose and try to concentrate, but it is impossible to calculate anything with the incalculable happening only metres away. The smell of the spices she's using pulling me backwards into the past, into the orange Formica kitchen of the house where we grew up. The plywood cupboards plastered with a layer of dark brown wood, the edges full of grime which bothered me more than my sister and bothered my mother most of all. How she would rub at them with a wet teacloth while the saucepan overflowed behind her.
I keep my eyes on the map, willing its intricacies to curl around my mind and draw me in, to the calm, mathematical order of its lines. But the clatter of plates keeps it all at a distance, then her voice, too loud for the smallness of the space, asking, — Where do you eat?
I look up. She's holding open the kitchen door with her elbow, two plates steaming in her hands.
— In the kitchen, I say.
— There's no table.
— There's the bench.
I take a plate from her hand and wait for her to step back so that I can pass. The kitchen is all disorder — like a bomb has hit it, as they say here. I eat with my plate on the bench, looking neither right nor left. She's cooked a dish from home. Not one I ever particularly liked. In any case you can't get all the ingredients here. She holds her plate in one hand, a fork in the other. I glance up and sense her disappointment with the whole situation. She puts her plate on the bench to take up a glass of wine.
— This is homely, isn't it? she asks.
She's being sarcastic of course. But I realise that's what she wants. Home. Though perhaps not the place she was born and grew up in. She is homesick for a place that doesn't exist any more, the sort of place that would welcome her, and that she would want to live in. Did she really expect to find it here?
I don't do nostalgia. I can barely remember what life was like before the war. I don't mean that the war seemed long, on the contrary. It mounted with unnerving speed, and broke upon us before we realised what it was. Our lives were washed away in a matter of weeks. But my memory of the time before it is smudged. My homeland, what I did there, where I went to work or ate my lunch, who I spoke to, who I knew. It all seems far away, like childhood. Was I happy? Did I feel safe? All I can remember is that I used to make maps like painting, with the joy that comes from representing something on paper, symbolically, for the sake of it, for pleasure. Now it is a necessity. There is far too much inaccurate mapping out there these days. You can talk about perception and the ambiguity of truth, but my instruments are accurate and ten centimetres is ten centimetres no matter who's looking at it. I might not trust newspapers, or photos, or speeches, but I should be able to trust maps.
When I packed, I left behind photos, letters, anything that would weigh me down. Everything except daily necessities, and a single USB memory stick. Memory in its most unsentimental form, memory as data, a memory more complex than the human brain could hold. The only memory I want to keep.
CHAPTER 3The house is lit up under my hands as I work, my instruments glinting in the glow of my headlamp. The drafting paper swells in front of the sliding ruler as I draw it down the slope to align once more with this back wall which has been giving me so much trouble. I hear a noise and look up to see my sister in the doorway. She has finished the dishes and now flicks off the kitchen light behind her. I track her with the headlamp as she feels her way through the dark of the map room to the opposite corner.
She leans back into the angle of the two walls and slides down to sit on the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her. With one arm she drags her backpack from where it lies nearby, hauls it to the vertical and props her elbow on top of it, folding her arm up to support her head. She can't possibly see my face behind the headlamp but looks at me as if she can. I can feel the question coming like a migraine. — What are you mapping? she asks.
It's not that I want to keep it a secret, it's just that if I explain it will sound so much less essential than it is. Perhaps that's a good thing, however, the fact that she will not be able to grasp its importance. It could protect me in some way I have not yet conceptualised. So I shrug and say, — I'm starting with the draftboard.
She waits. I swing the headlamp back to the map.
— And then what? she asks.
— And then I'm moving outwards, I say without looking up.
— I see.
— Do you?
— No, she says, — sorry.
I look back at her face. She thinks I've become some sort of recluse who can no longer communicate, so I decide to explain the Point of Beginning. The pinprick made with my dividers at the exact centre of the draftboard, the fixed point from which all other measurements will be made. — The first thing I mapped was the drafting paper itself, I explain. She comes over and I show her how I've pierced the paper at its own centre and held it to the Point of Beginning with a piece of copper wire, tied loosely in place, so I can fit my ruler under the knot.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from My Sister Chaos by Lara Fergus. Copyright © 2010 Lara Fergus. Excerpted by permission of Spinifex Press Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
PART ONE Topography,PART TWO Fugue,
PART THREE Chaos,