Cosmo Cosmolino Read Free Page A

like this. It must be, oh, eighteen years ago, when Natalie and I lived over in Darlinghurst.’
    â€˜I never knew you lived in Darlinghurst,’ I said.
    â€˜Yes you did!’ said Patrick. ‘Because you saw me there once, way back in the early seventies. You told me about it years afterwards.’
    â€˜I don’t think that can be right.’
    â€˜It is!’ he said. ‘How can you forget these things? You’d come to Sydney with some bloke or other, in a band, remember? I suppose you’d been taking drugs with him and so on—anyway you saw me walking along the other side of Victoria Street with my shopping basket. You were about to yell out to me, but something made you change your mind. You didn’t call out, and I walked on round the corner without knowing you were watching me.’
    â€˜Funny,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember that at all.’
    â€˜It’s rather like a Poe story, isn’t it,’ said Patrick luxuriously, unfocusing his eyes. ‘A person sees the chance of a better life passing by, and he makes as if to call out’—he flung forth one arm in the imploring gesture of a soul in torment—‘but something in hisnature makes him hesitate. He pauses . . . he closes his lips . . . he steps back . . . and then he slides down, and down, and down.’
    I stared at Patrick, breathless.
    â€˜ Who did?’ I whispered. ‘ Who slid down, and down, and down?’
    He turned his full front to me and sang out, laughing, with both arms spread wide, ‘ You did, my dear! You!’
    There was a lunch for those who rallied round, the day Patrick was to go into hospital. Rain was falling, birds flew low, air was damp and hair turned wavy. Another university relic of Patrick’s spotted me in the kitchen, nodded coldly, then said to Natalie with a sentimental smile, ‘Patrick’s still looking after people, I see!’ The phone kept ringing, people were drinking and laughing and taking terrible liberties with the unspeakable.
    â€˜I’ve got a really good brain tumour story,’ said Max from where Patrick worked, ‘an absolutely true and recent one. A woman I know, our age, lovely girl but never had much success with blokes—well, she gets a tumour, a bad-looking scan. Goes to a top surgeon, he operates. Every kind of treatment available, she gets it. He does a brilliant job on her. Off she goes. A year passes, they do another scan. She comes in to get the results, the surgeon sits her down and gives her the news: perfect. Clean as a whistle. They’re bothexcited, laughing and congratulating each other. Then the surgeon says, “Would you mind waiting here for a moment?” He gets up and goes out of the room, closing the door behind him. Then he opens it again and comes straight back in, without his white coat. “I’m no longer your doctor,” he says. “Will you come out to dinner with me?” And they’ve been together ever since.’
    Later in the afternoon, when the other guests had wished Patrick well and departed, Natalie unplugged the phone and Patrick put to me a formal request.
    â€˜I want you,’ he said, ‘to take two photos. One of me, Natalie, and our children, and the other of me and Natalie.’
    Cheerful from the afternoon’s society I replied, ‘Okay. Of course—with pleasure. And then Natalie can take one of you and me.’
    I sprang up from the table to reach for my camera, but with a slow movement of the kind permitted to those behind whom death already stands, Patrick put out his hand and restrained me, saying, ‘No. With a camera I’ve got upstairs. I borrowed one with a flash.’
    â€˜You don’t need a flash,’ I said. ‘There’s still plenty of natural light left.’
    â€˜No,’ said Patrick more firmly. ‘Natalie’s sister lent it to us. I want you to use that.’
    They were