Frances
It was now day four of the retreat.
Frances found she had settled into the gentle rhythm of life at Tranquillum House with surprising ease. She rarely had to make decisions about how to spend her time.
Every morning began with tai chi in the rose garden with Yao. Her schedule always included at least one, sometimes two, remedial massages with Jan. Some days she had to go to the spa on multiple occasions – if, for example, she was ‘assigned’ a facial. She did not find this onerous. The facials were divinely scented, dreamlike experiences that left Frances rosy and glowing, with her hair sticking up like the petals of a flower. There were yoga classes in the yoga and meditation studio and walking meditations through the surrounding bushland. The walking meditations got brisker and faster and steeper each day.
In the early evening, when it got cooler, some guests went running with Yao (the Marconi family seemed to do nothing but run, even during free time; Frances would sit on her balcony and watch the three of them pelting up Tranquillity Hill as if they were running for their lives), while others did a ‘gentle’ exercise class in the rose garden with Delilah. Delilah seemed to have made it her personal mission to get Frances to do push-ups on her toes like a man, and because Frances wasn’t allowed to speak, she couldn’t say, ‘No thank you, I’ve never seen the point of push-ups.’ She now understood that the point of push-ups was to ‘work every muscle in her body’, which was supposedly a good thing.
Frances meekly allowed Yao to take her blood and check her blood pressure each day, before hopping mutely on the scales so he could record her weight, which she still avoided looking at but which she assumed was plummeting, probably in freefall, what with all the exercise, and the lack of calories and wine.
The noble silence, which seemed so flimsy and silly in the beginning, so arbitrary and easily breakable, somehow gained in strength and substance as the days passed, like the settling in of a heatwave, and in fact the summer heat had intensified. It was a dry, still heat, bright and white, like the silence itself.
At first, without the distraction of noise and conversation, Frances’s thoughts went around and around on a crazy, endless, repetitive loop: Paul Drabble, the money she’d lost, the surprise, the hurt, the anger, the surprise, the hurt, the anger, Paul’s son, who was probably not even his son, the book she’d written with delusional love in her heart, which had subsequently been rejected, the career that was possibly over, the review that she should never have read. It wasn’t that she’d found any solutions or experienced any earth-shattering revelations, but the act of observing her looping thoughts seemed to slow them down, until at last they came to a complete stop, and she’d found that for moments of time she thought . . . nothing. Nothing at all. Her mind was quite empty. And those moments were lovely.
The other guests were silent, not unwelcome figures in her peripheral vision. It became perfectly normal to ignore people, to not say ‘hello’ when you found someone else sitting in the hot spring you were visiting but to instead step silently into the bubbling, eggy-scented water with your head averted.
Once, she and the tall, dark and handsome man sat in the Secret Grotto hot spring for what seemed like an eternity together, neither saying a word, both gazing out at the valley views, lost in their private thoughts. Even though they hadn’t spoken or even looked at each other, it felt like they’d shared something spiritual.
There had been other pleasant surprises too.
For example, yesterday afternoon, as she had passed Zoe on the stairs, the girl brushed against her and pressed something into the palm of her hand. Frances managed to keep her eyes ahead and not say anything (which was remarkable, as she was very bad at that sort of thing; both her ex-husbands had informed her that they could think of no-one who would make a worse spy than her, while they, in spite of their differing personalities, were both apparently eminently qualified to join the CIA at a moment’s notice), and when she got to her room she had found a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in her hand. She had never tasted anything more divine. Apart from Zoe, Frances didn’t have much interaction with anyone else. She no longer startled when Napoleon sneezed. She noted that Tony’s hacking cough gradually lessened and lessened until it disappeared, and indeed her own cough disappeared around the same time. Her breathing became beautifully clear. Her paper cut vanished and her back pain got better every day. It really was a ‘healing journey’. When she got home she was going to send Ellen an effusive thank-you card for suggesting this place.
According to today’s schedule she had a one-on-one counselling session with Masha straight after lunch. Frances had never had any form of counselling in her life. She had friends for that. They all counselled each other and it was generally a two-way process. Frances couldn’t imagine sitting and telling anyone her problems without then listening to their problems and offering her own sage advice in return. She generally felt that the advice she offered was superior to the advice she received. Other people’s problems were so simple; one’s own problems tended to be so much more nuanced.
But the silence and the heat and the daily massages had all combined to create a peaceful sense of resignation. Masha could ‘counsel’ Frances if it made her happy.
Frances’s lunch that day was a vegetarian curry. She had stopped noticing the sound of everyone chewing and had begun to take the most extraordinary pleasure in her food – extraordinary because she thought she already took quite substantial pleasure in her food! The curry, which she savoured tiny mouthful by tiny mouthful, had a hint of saffron that just about blew her mind. Was saffron always that good? She didn’t know, but it felt like a religious experience.
After lunch, while still reflecting on the wonder of saffron, Frances opened the door marked private then climbed up two flights of stairs to the princess tower at the top of the house and knocked on the door of Masha’s office.
‘Come in,’ said a voice, a little peremptorily.
Frances entered the room, reminded of visits to the principal’s office when she was at boarding school.
Masha was writing something down and she gestured towards the seat in front of her to indicate that Frances should sit while she finished what she was doing.
Her demeanour would normally have made Frances bristle, and she wasn’t yet quite so Zen that she didn’t note the fact that she had the right to bristle. She was the paying guest turning up at the appointed time, thank you very much, not the hired help. But she didn’t sigh or clear her throat or wriggle because she was very nearly transformed, definitely thinner, and yesterday she did two push-ups in a row on her toes. She’d probably look very similar to Masha quite soon.
A wave of laughter rose in her chest and she distracted herself by studying the room.
She’d love an office like this. If she had an office like this she would probably write a masterpiece without chocolate. There were huge glass windows on all four sides, giving Masha a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the soft, rippling green countryside. It looked like a Renaissance painting from up here.
In the same way that the silence didn’t apply to Masha, it seemed that neither did the ‘no electronic devices’ rule. Masha did not seem averse to the very latest in technology. She had not one but two very smart-looking oversized computer monitors on her desk, as well as a laptop.
Was she surfing the internet up here while all her guests digitally detoxed? Frances felt her right hand twitch. She imagined grabbing a mouse, spinning a monitor around to face her, and clicking on a news site. What had happened in the last four days? There could have been a zombie apocalypse or a significant celebrity couple break-up and Frances would have no idea.
She dragged her eyes away from the seductive computer screens and looked instead at the few items on Masha’s desk. No photo frames revealing anything personal. There were a few lovely antiques that Frances coveted. Her hand crept out to touch a letter opener. The gold handle had an intricate design with pictures of . . . elephants?
‘Careful,’ said Masha. ‘That letter opener is as sharp as a dagger. You could murder someone with that, Frances.’
Frances’s hand flew back as fast as a shoplifter’s.
Masha picked up the letter opener and removed it from its sheath. ‘It is at least two hundred years old,’ she said. She pressed her thumb to the sharp point. ‘It has been in my family for a long time.’
Frances made an interested murmur. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to break the silence, and suddenly she was irritated by that.
‘I assume the noble silence doesn’t apply right now?’ she said, and her unused voice sounded strange and unfamiliar to her ears. She’d been so good! She hadn’t even talked to herself when she was alone in her room, and normally she was very chatty when alone, cheerfully narrating her own actions and engaging in friendly dialogue with inanimate objects. ‘Where are you hiding, o peeler of carrots?’
‘Ah, you are a person who likes to follow the rules, are you?’ Masha rested her chin in both hands and studied her. Her eyes really were a remarkable shade of green.
‘Generally,’ said Frances.
Masha didn’t break eye contact.
‘As I’m sure you know, I did have some banned items in my luggage,’ said Frances. She was happy with her cool tone, but her face was hot.
‘Yes,’ said Masha. ‘I am aware of that.’
‘And I’m still reading,’ said Frances defiantly.
‘Are you?’ said Masha.
‘Yes,’ said Frances.
‘Anything good?’ Masha replaced the letter opener on her desk.
Frances thought about this. The book was meant to be another murder mystery but the author had introduced far too many characters too early, and so far everyone was still alive and kicking. The pace had slowed. Come on now. Hurry up and kill someone. ‘It’s quite good,’ she told Masha.
‘Tell me, Frances,’ said Masha. ‘Do you want to be a different person when you leave here?’
‘Well,’ said Frances. She picked up a coloured glass ball from Masha’s desk. It felt vaguely bad-mannered – you didn’t pick up other people’s belongings – and yet she couldn’t help it. She wanted to feel the cool weight of it in her hand. ‘I guess I do.’
‘I don’t think you do,’ said Masha. ‘I think you are here for a little rest, and you are quite happy with the way you are now. I think this is all a little bit of joke to you. You prefer not to take things too seriously in your life, yes?’ Her accent had deepened.
Frances reminded herself that this woman had no authority over her.
‘Does it matter if I’m just here for a “little rest”?’ Frances put the glass ball back down and pushed it away from her, causing a moment’s panic when it began to roll. She stopped it with her fingertips and placed her hands in her lap. This was ridiculous. Why did she feel ashamed? Like a teenager? This was a health resort.
Masha didn’t answer her question. ‘I wonder, do you feel that you’ve ever been truly tested in your life?’
Frances shifted in her seat. ‘I’ve suffered losses,’ she said defensively.
Masha flicked her hand. ‘Of course you have,’ she said. ‘You are fifty-two years old. That is not my question.’
‘I’ve been lucky,’ said Frances. ‘I know I have been very lucky.’
‘And you live in the “lucky country”.’ Masha lifted her arms to encompass the countryside that surrounded them.
‘Well, that phrase about us being the lucky country, it’s kind of misused.’ Frances heard a pedantic tone creep into her voice and she wondered why she was parroting her first husband, Sol, who always felt the need to point this out smugly when someone referred to Australia as being the lucky country. ‘The author who wrote that phrase meant to imply that we hadn’t earned our prosperity.’
‘So Australia is not so lucky?’
‘Well, no, we are, but . . .’ Frances stopped. Was that exactly the point that Masha was trying to make? That Frances hadn’t earned her prosperity?
‘You never had children,’ said Masha, referring to an open file on the desk in front of her. Frances found herself craning to look, as if her file would reveal a secret. Masha only knew she didn’t have children because Frances had indicated that when she filled in the booking form. ‘Was that decision made by choice? Or was it forced upon you by circumstance?’
‘Choice,’ said Frances. This is none of your business, lady.
She thought of Ari and the PlayStation games he was going to show her when she got to America. Where was Ari now? Or the boy who pretended to be Ari? Was he on the phone to some other woman?
‘I see,’ said Masha.
Did Masha think she was selfish for not wanting children? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard that accusation. It had never especially bothered her.
‘Do you have children?’ Frances asked Masha. She was allowed to ask questions. This woman was not her therapist. She probably had no qualifications whatsoever! She leaned forward, curious to know. ‘Are you in a relationship?’
‘I am not in a relationship and I do not have children,’ said Masha. She had become very still. She looked very steadily at Frances – so steadily that Frances couldn’t help but wonder if she was lying, although it was impossible to imagine Masha in a relationship. She could never be half of any relationship.
‘You mentioned losses,’ said Masha. ‘Tell me about those losses.’
‘My father died when I was very young,’ said Frances.
‘Mine also,’ said Masha.
Frances was taken aback by this unasked-for personal revelation.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Frances. She thought of her last memory of her dad. It had been summer. A Saturday. She was going out to her part-time job as a checkout girl at Target. He was sitting in their living room playing Hot August Night, smoking a cigarette, eyes closed and humming along with deep feeling to Neil Diamond, whom he considered to be a genius. Frances kissed him on the forehead. ‘See you, darling,’ he said, without opening his eyes. For her, the smell of cigarettes was the smell of love. She dated far too many smokers for that reason.
‘A lady driving a car didn’t stop at a pedestrian crossing,’ said Frances. ‘The sun was in her eyes. My father was going for a walk.’
‘My father was shot in a market by a hitman for the Russian mafia,’ said Masha. ‘Also an accident. They thought he was someone else.’
‘Seriously?’ Frances tried not to look too avid for more exotic detail.
Masha shrugged. ‘My mother said my father had too common a face. Too plain. Like anybody’s, like everybody’s. She was very angry with him for his plain face.’
Frances didn’t know whether to smile. Masha didn’t smile, so Frances didn’t either.
Frances offered up, ‘My mother was angry with my father for going for a walk. For years she said, “It was so hot that day! Why didn’t he just stay inside like a normal person? Why did he have to walk everywhere?”’
Masha nodded. Just once.
‘My father should not have been at the market,’ she said. ‘He was a very clever man, he had a very senior position for a firm that made vacuum cleaners, but after the fall of the Soviet Union, when inflation went . . .’ She made a whistling motion and pointed up. ‘Our entire savings, gone! My father’s company could not pay him cash. They paid him in vacuum cleaners. So . . . he went to the market to sell the vacuum cleaners. He should not have had to do that. It was beneath him.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Frances.
For a moment it felt as if the giant chasm that separated their different cultures and childhoods and body types could be bridged by the commonality of the loss of their fathers, through terrible chance, and their bitter, grieving mothers. But then Masha sniffed, as if suddenly disgusted by some unmentionable behaviour. She closed the file in front of her. ‘Well. It has been nice to chat with you, Frances, to get to know you a little bit.’
She made it sound as if she now knew everything there was to know about Frances.
‘How did you end up in Australia?’ asked Frances, suddenly desperate for the conversation not to end. She didn’t want to go back to the silence now she’d experienced the pleasure of human interaction, and it was fine if Masha didn’t want to know more about Frances, but Frances most certainly wanted to know more about her.
‘My ex-husband and I applied to different embassies,’ said Masha coldly. ‘The US. Canada. Australia. I wanted the US, my husband wanted Canada, but Australia wanted us.’
Frances tried not to take this personally, although she had a feeling that Masha wanted her to take it personally.
Also, ex-husband! They had divorce in common too! But Frances could tell she wouldn’t get anywhere trying to exchange divorce stories. There was something about Masha that reminded Frances of a friend from university who had been both deeply egocentric and deeply insecure. The only way to make her open up was with flattery: extremely careful flattery. It was like dismantling a bomb. You could accidentally offend them at any time.
‘I think it’s a very brave thing to do,’ said Frances. ‘To start a new life in a new country.’
‘Well, we did not have to travel the open seas in a rickety boat, if that’s what you are thinking. The Australian government paid our airfares. Picked us up at the airport. Paid for our accommodation. You needed us. We were both very intelligent people. I had a degree in mathematics. My husband was a talented, world-class scientist.’ Her eyes looked back into a past Frances longed to see. ‘Extremely talented.’
The way she said ‘extremely talented’ didn’t make her sound like a divorced wife. She sounded like a widow.
‘We’re lucky you came then,’ said Frances humbly, on behalf of the Australian people.
‘Yes. You are. Very lucky,’ said Masha. She leaned forward, her face suddenly alight. ‘I’ll tell you why we came! Because of a VCR. It all starts with the VCR. And now nobody even has a VCR! Technology . . .’
‘The VCR?’ said Frances.
‘Our neighbours in the flat next to ours got one. Nobody could afford such a thing. They inherited money from a relative who died in Siberia. These neighbours were good friends of ours and they asked us over to see movies.’ Her gaze became unfocused, once again remembering.
Frances didn’t move; she didn’t want Masha to stop this sudden sharing of confidences. It was like when your uptight boss goes to the pub with you and loosens up over a drink and suddenly starts chatting to you like you’re an equal.
‘It was a window into another world. Into a capitalist world. It all seemed so different, so amazing, so . . . abundant.’ Masha smiled dreamily. ‘Dirty Dancing, Desperately Seeking Susan, The Breakfast Club – not that many, because the movies were insanely expensive, so people had to swap them. The voices were all done by the same person holding his nose to disguise his voice because it was illegal.’ She held her nose and spoke in a nasal voice to demonstrate.
‘If it wasn’t for that VCR, for those movies, we might not have worked so hard to leave. It was not easy to leave.’
‘Did the reality live up to your expectations?’ asked Frances, thinking of the glossy, highly coloured world of eighties films and how bland suburban Sydney would feel when she and friends emerged blinking from the cinemas. ‘Was it as wonderful as in the movies?’
‘It was as wonderful,’ said Masha. She picked up the glass ball that Frances had put down and held it in the flat palm of her hand as if daring it to roll. It stayed completely still. ‘And it was not.’
She put the ball back down decisively. Suddenly she seemed to remember her superior status. Like when your boss remembers you have to work together the next day.
‘So, Frances, tomorrow we will officially break the silence and you will get to know the other guests.’
‘I’m looking forward –’
‘Enjoy your evening meal because there will be no meals served at all tomorrow. Your first light fast will begin.’
She held out her hand in such a way that Frances found herself automatically rising to her feet.
‘Have you done much fasting before?’ Masha looked up at her. She said ‘fasting’ as if it were an exotic, delightful practice, like belly dancing.
‘Not really,’ admitted Frances. ‘But it’s just a light fast, right?
Masha smiled radiantly. ‘You may find tomorrow a little testing, Frances.’