Scraps of Heaven by Arnold Zable Page B

is surprised at his words, at the way they have slipped out. The girls smile at the strange man in the worn flannel suit and overcoat. They are intrigued by his rasping voice and its singsong lilt. They have never heard him speak, but they know him. He is as much a part of the park as are the Moreton Bays and the possums that scoot about the elms. As much a part of it as the swing that conveys Papou’s grandchild, ‘Oppa, oppa,’ to the skies, and back to earth where the three little Gretels are at work.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ repeats Bloomfield, warming to the task.
    â€˜Washing the tree,’ answers one of the girls, as if to say, isn’t it obvious? What else would we be doing on a summer afternoon?
    Bloomfield withdraws. The heels of his shoes are worn to the ground. The rotting figs squelch underfoot. The cuffs of his trousers are smudged with dust. The girls return to their work and, with one brushstroke, Bloomfield is gone from their minds.
    It has been a day of searing heat. A ray of sun lights up the bald pate of a man descending the steps of a terrace house. Birdsong hangs in the air. Bloomfield can detect the approach of a storm. He sits on the bench beneath the Moreton Bays. Two teenage girls walk by, arm-in-arm. They do not see him. The breeze is lifting. A girl rides a scooter, and her father rides with her, leaning over as a guide. Everything is warm to the touch— the bench boards, the ground beneath his feet. Seagulls gather on the edge of evening picnics. They are far from the sea. Their shrieks seem out of place.
    Bloomfield distinguishes between levels of breeze. He disentangles the varying drones. Each species of tree produces a different tone; their leaves are vanes that register the rising strength of the wind. The poplar leaves are higher pitched than those of the Moreton Bays. Bloomfield listens intently to a symphony of wind-driven chords. Heavenly shades of night are falling, and a storm is about to cut loose.
    Zofia presses down upon the cotton wool and grimaces. Romek puts his arms around her. He is not confident of his movements. She holds up her arms to ward him off. He does not know how to approach her. She pushes him away. Romek pulls back, hesitates, steps forward and tries again. An awkward ballet is being performed in the kitchen, a pas de deux between two anguished souls.
    When Josh enters, he is immediately aware of the strain. He looks past them at the plates and saucers behind the dresser’s glass panes. The dresser is coated a thick beige. The brushstrokes are visible, and bristles lie trapped like severed veins swelling with paint.
    Zofia brushes against the cupboard as she pulls away. The buckled linoleum shifts beneath her. Teacups tremble upon their hooks. Josh is mesmerised by the movement of the cups, but he remains aware of the clumsy movements between husband and wife. An uncertainty keeps them apart. Romek is trying to overcome it, to comfort her, and Zofia, in her way, is trying to respond. But the awkwardness between them is too strong. And Zofia is obstinate. She shies away from intimacy. She will serve, but is fierce in her determination not to be consoled.
    Zofia moves her hand over the tablecloth and wipes away the crumbs. Romek is left standing, stranded. He does not know which way to move. He steps towards her, stops, and steps back. Zofia keeps her eyes averted. She looks, instead, at the kookaburra on the oven door.
    Josh can no longer bear to watch. His parents remind him of the boxers he had seen in the ring that morning, in their cautious approach, their hesitant retreat. He is unnerved by the palpable tension between them. He steps out of the ring, and slips away. He prefers the possibility of rain, the deepening shades of twilight time. A tempest is brewing, the north winds are charged. Night has fallen but in Curtain Square the boys are reluctant to let go. They inhale the scent of the approaching deluge. They play until the