Free Cosmo Cosmolino by Helen Garner Page A

to take shape.
    Late one morning of her shed’s last week, whileshe was down on her hands and knees in the house of this as yet unseen stranger, scrubbing at a stain on the hall carpet, a wind sprang up and unsettled the street. She heard the boom of air in chimneys, the venetians’ brisk tattoo; plastic bottles whispered on the rim of the bath. Maxine lengthened her back to glance towards the narrow panes of the front door.
    The sky looked dry, bright and empty. She was intent, passively alert, but the sounds confused her. Had the council workers opened the fire hydrants? Were dead leaves beginning their seasonal journey down the gutters? Or was it the letter sliding under the door, the step on the verandah? Had somebody called for her? Had her moment come?
    Upright on her knees like a pilgrim she crawled to the front door and opened it. There was no letter on the step, and nobody on the verandah, but down at the gate, half obscured by the fronds of the unclipped hedge, stood a man in dark glasses.
    His arms were flung out wide. His right hand lightly touched the gatepost. His knees were in the act of straightening, and the outline of his tightened thigh muscles showed as powerfully through the cloth of his trousers as if he were a gymnast who had just that second landed after a manoeuvre on the bar. Even the sinews of his feet, bare but for a brand-new pair of thongs, were bright with tension. Could he be the one? The one for what?
    Maxine scrambled up in such haste that her blood did not keep pace, and the street outside shuffled its cards before her eyes. She grabbed the door frame to steady herself, and in the few beats it took for the black edges on things to disperse she saw a kind of tremor behind the man’s shoulders, the large relaxed furling of a flag from which the wind has withdrawn itself.
    Her head cleared. She craned her neck to see what was on his back, but he brushed a path through the waving hedge strands, and stepped on to the property; there was nothing behind him.
    â€˜Good morning,’ he said. He stopped halfway up the path, holding a cardigan folded over his forearm and tilting his dark-lensed face up to her.
    â€˜Hullo,’ said Maxine. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’
    â€˜As a matter of fact,’ he said in a meek but confidential voice, ‘I’ve been sent.’
    Maxine clasped her hands under her chin and rolled up her eyes. The sky was peachy with autumn: in her relief it seemed to swirl. ‘Sent,’ she said. ‘Thank heavens.’
    â€˜Halleluia,’ he said casually, looking round him. ‘This is a very lovely house. I expected it would be. But these leaves. Shouldn’t somebody take a rake to them?’
    The timbre of his voice sent shots of energy coursing through her.
    â€˜I will,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’ll do them as soon as I’ve finished inside. Would you like to come in?’
    She made a sweeping gesture of welcome, but he did not respond. He stood on the brown and yellow tiles of the path, waiting.
    â€˜Don’t you want to ask me some questions first?’ he said. ‘I mean who I am, who sent me, and so forth?’
    What? Interrogate? Demand credentials? She made an impatient movement. ‘You can tell me that later. Come into the house.’
    Still he stood without moving. Some formality had not been observed: what could it be? Perhaps she was rushing him. This must be what men meant when they said to her You are rushing me, Maxine .She took three proper breaths, and began again.
    â€˜Where do you come from?’
    â€˜Ah—that would be telling.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll have to work harder than that.’
    â€˜Is this a game?’ said Maxine, taken aback. She had no sense of humour, she was not playful, but if that was what he wanted, she would make the effort. ‘All right. Who sent you?’
    â€˜Look at me,’ he said. ‘Have a good look. Don’t I