Basin by Scott McCulloch

Author:Scott McCulloch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Schwartz Books Pty. Ltd.

24

Waking following morning on a bed of fresh hay, hands folded between bended knees. Washed cans of fish line the windowsill.

I get up and walk to the outhouse. Through the slats I can see out into the Plains. Thick fog hangs down from overcast skies.

The ponytailed man wears a singlet and sits on upholstery torn out from the back seat of a car. Pop music plays from a radio inside the house.

Kosta’s wife and the young girl prepare breakfast and bring it out on a small wooden table to the yard – bread, butter and cheese. The man on the car seat looks over but doesn’t come to the table. They bring bowls of tripe soup mixed with macaroni noodles and milk, as well as a salt shaker and a glass of minced garlic in vegetable oil. I salt the broth and spoon clumps of garlic in. I down the soup quickly to get on my way. I need to be alone and continue walking, the only thing I know I came here to do.

As I cross the yard again I see the minstrel’s mask, brown with blood stains, flat in the dirt.

The nephew vomits in the pear orchard. I rub one of my palms between his shoulder blades and hold up his blond fringe with the other, wiping his sweaty forehead and mouth with my sleeve. We walk over to the well, hoist the bucket up, wash his face.

Inside I gather my few things, stuffing a plastic bag, trying not to be noticed. I turn to find Kosta behind me:

– I have to go

He nods in understanding, but insists on a smoke and a drink for the road.

We go into the cellar. Kosta grabs two shot glasses off a shelf, as well as a jar of pickles from the preserves room. The dangling light bulb has heated up already, throws our shadows on the floor. Kosta inhales a long breath, the stutters are wrung out of his tongue:

– You need opening. Here, have this. Where are you fr …? Ah, no matter. To open! You need to open the hangover … otherwise we’ll be trotting about like cattle all day, ha. So! To open, and towards the opening … Can’t leave the doors swinging off their hinges, so we either break through the wall again or perish. Cheers …

He downs the shot and squints, bites down on a pickle. I down half the glass, my neck folds in on itself, veins pulsing through. He nods to me, saying go on, and I take another slug and finish the shot. He pours the liquid from the pickle jar into the shot glasses. I down the salty brine, feel it fizz and line my oesophagus. A sprig of dill gets wedged between two of my teeth and I push it out with my tongue. He hands me a cigarette, lights it with a match, puts the box in my pocket.

– It helps, trust me. Down that, then have another hundred grams and we’ll be right and truly opened, at least once, maybe even twice opened.

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