Knots - A Night in the Country

       

In my opinion, Aleksei Nikolayevich, every love, happy as well as unhappy, is a real disaster when you give yourself over to it entirely…
       - Ivan Turgenev: A Month in the Country -

Three visitors are on their way to a house in the country for an overnight stay. Two of them are in search of some kind of illumination, although they have no idea what form this might take exactly, or whether they are even remotely likely to find it as a result of this journey. Petya, the driver, has clear-cut expectations - modest, but specific. Tamara, an acquaintance of his mother, has come from Russia to visit her sister, Lyudmila (Mila), who is married to an Australian and lives on a recently-acquired grazing property several hours drive from the provincial capital. Tamara is the bearer of an important and confidential message from Petya's mother, which she has promised to convey in person, verbally. What can it be that could not be entrusted to letter, e-mail or telephone? Petya is very anxious to find out, in fact almost ill with anticipation and apprehension. Good news? Bad news? Something intriguing?

Petya has brought along his former wife, Alison, from whom he recently separated, but whom he still regards as his closest ally. After much urging, his friend William, a retired academic, has also been persuaded to accompany them.

Mila and Tamara are waiting to receive them on the front veranda of the farmhouse. They brush cheeks with Alison, at the same time scrutinising William with some curiosity, wondering where he fits in. In the living-room Mila's husband, Tom, is sitting at the table with one of his mates, Slim, an atlas of Russia spread out before them. Both Tom and Slim are in semi-retirement on small grazing properties. Before making this move, Tom sailed his own yacht round the world, taking Lyudmila on as crew at one of the Baltic ports en route.

Mila immediately offers refreshments, while Tom, cutting across her, announces that if they are to complete his proposed tour of the property, they had better get a move on, as it will be dark in less than two hours. Petya has already gone into a huddle with Tamara on the veranda, presumably to receive his mother's mysterious communique, so William, Slim and Alison climb into the four-wheel drive. Tom growls something to Mila as the vehicle takes off. He reminds Alison of the sheriff in an old-fashioned Western movie - the same kind of broad-brimmed hat, a ginger moustache that sits on his upper lip like a shaving-brush, leathery skin, riding-boots, a carefully cultivated swagger. But there is no star on his chest.

The track is virtually non-existent, bone-jarringly steep and rough. It's like a rodeo ride on wheels. They get out to walk the last hundred metres or so up a cone-shaped hill which commands a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding country. Alison lived on the land as a child. She senses that these are city farmers. The property is not even stocked. "Cattle cost too much now," Tom tells her, adding, however, that the entire shire is heavily stocked with game in the form of wild deer, descendants of those Queen Victoria presented to the district in colonial times.

Back at the farm, there is one more visitor - a younger man with soulful brown eyes - a softer personality than Tom; a little shy, perhaps, like Slim. His name is Clyde. He cannot conceal his interest in Tamara. He keeps gazing at her, wistfulness stamped all over his face.

Mila is under the veranda in a cloud of smoke, cooking a barbecue. Her features are set in a wooden expression bespeaking stoicism and private misery. Alison guesses that Tom is not an easy man to live with. The set of his features indicates a cruel streak, and the seemingly gratuitous description of his part in a neighbour's recent branding-castrating-earmarking of Charolais cattle more or less confirms it. She remembers such talk in her childhood, when she came to realise that when men speak of castrating animals in the presence of females, it is somehow meant to convey a message about their own virility. Such talk has always sickened her, along with the act it evokes. Mila reminds her of a horse that has been maltreated by an unfeeling owner, and suffers in silence because it has no means of expressing its despair.

Before the food is dished up, Alison, William and Slim sit out on the veranda next to a powerful telescope, through which they take turns looking at Venus, smouldering low in the sky near a crescent moon. The planet resembles an acetylene flare, as enigmatic and remote when seen through the lens as with the naked eye. It seems to embody the inaccessible and unattainable - the underlying joylessness of the occasion. From somewhere near the dark tree-line, a dingo is howling to the moon. Alison fancies the wild dog's cry sounds similar to that of wolves.

She strikes up a conversation with Slim - a lonely, kind, shy-hearted man, she senses, who has brought along his little dog, Buffy. Her personality is probably a key to her master's, Alison thinks: diffident, polite, not wishing to impose. She notices this when she fetches a bowl of water to offer the animal. Buffy is thirsty, but she waits for permission and reassurance before accepting the water, then drinks almost apologetically. Slim reminds Alison of certain gentle rural bachelors of her distant past - bashful, modest men who would never hurt a fly. She wonders what Slim and Tom have in common, and why Mila is with Tom and not Slim, who would surely be kinder to her, and more appreciative.

Surprisingly, Slim has travelled abroad quite a lot, mainly in Asia and the Pacific. Mila appears with platters of barbecued meat and salad. "Slim was in Navy," she volunteers. Alison warms to Slim. He reminds her of a minor character in old-fashioned matinees she was sometimes taken to as a child - a character from another world of small towns and defined horizons, shaped by different values from the ones that have now come to the fore. "Don't romanticise people," she tells herself crossly. Slim hungers for human companionship. He is definitely subordinate in personality to Tom. Perhaps they met in the Navy?

Mila sits to one side with her lap-dog, a fluffy little creature with no teeth, recently rescued, as she explains, from a situation of near-fatal neglect, where she had wasted away to skin and bone. As Mila sits fondling the little dog, feeding it morsels of food that do not need chewing, her features relax and soften. It is the only time during the visit when she seems at peace.

Clyde sits next to Tamara, devouring her with his eyes. She is slender and tense, attractive in a rather distant way. In Russia she works as a meteorologist. They don't talk directly to each other, but Tamara chatters incessantly while Petya interprets, trying to keep up. Tamara keeps switching topics, although her general theme is culture shock. First of all, names. When Australians talk to each other, they don't seem to use first names. In Russia, this would be considered demeaning, or at best off-hand. Secondly, social invitations. If a man invites a woman to dine with him in Russia, he wouldn't dream of expecting her to pay for her meal. Thirdly, endearments. Why do Australians use these so casually? Fourthly, money. Why are Australians so stingy? Why do husbands and wives keep separate bank accounts, saying "This is mine; that is yours"? Many forms of behaviour here, especially of men towards women, would be regarded as showing a lack of respect in Russia. She has the impression that people don't seem aware of, or sensitive to, others' feelings here.

Clyde listens and looks. He doesn't seem to mind Tamara's implied criticisms. He is clearly smitten, already dreaming of her beside him at the altar, "tying the knot" as the wedding bells peal.

Petya gets side-tracked by Mila in a discussion about the existence of God. Tom says "Oh for Christ's sake! Will you listen to this?" William goes out to look at the stars. He's not sure why he is here, or what to make of these people. It's a far cry from what he has read in Turgenev or Chekhov, superficially at least. Alison gazes at the setting moon. Five years ago, on a Mediterranean island, she and Petya spent their first night together, and her world had been spun into a different part of the galaxy. Not by the physical event so much as the meeting of different planets that nevertheless emitted weirdly compatible spiritual frequencies. Or so she had thought. She knows she is here now only for moral support, although Petya scarcely seems to need this anymore.

       * * *

The discussion about God has become deadlocked. Mila is stubborn as a mule. If there is no empirical proof of God's existence, then there is no God, she insists. Petya will make no concessions. God is an act of faith, he contends. Proof? demands Mila. Faith, insists Petya. What proof does Mila have that there is no god? Both of them turn on Alison, who soon feels trapped - between cultures, languages, viewpoints. She pleads a headache and, knowing it is socially inappropriate in the eyes of all present, says she'd better be off to bed. "There is no God!" bawls Tom from in front of the TV, where he and Slim are watching the football.

Slim excuses himself on the grounds that he has an early start the next day. Of course! April 25th. The national day for commemorating sacrifice in time of war. Dawn ceremonies will be held at war memorials throughout the land. Slim, having seen service in the Navy, is bound to honour that tradition. He is the only one not staying the night.

Alison takes the bundle of bedding Mila fishes out of the linen closet. The guest room is under the house. There are two single beds. The second is earmarked for William. Petya has grabbed a sleeping-bag, although he is clearly not planning to sleep for a while yet.

Resenting the way Petya has manoeuvred her into sharing a room with a virtual stranger, Alison quickly gets into bed, wanting to fall asleep before William retires, to spare them both embarrassment. William is seventy-five, and certainly not the importunate type, but nevertheless the sleeping arrangement strikes her as odd, to say the least. As it is, she wakes several times to hear debate raging overhead, and William, who is getting over a cold, snuffling in his sleep.

The next morning Tom and Mila, Clyde and Tamara are still asleep when Petya, Alison and William make their way to the kitchen, but the table is set for breakfast with bread, cheese, and various spreads. Coffee and tea have been left out on the bench. Petya claims not to have slept at all, William says he slept very badly, and Alison is still simmering with resentment at having to sleep under the scrutiny of a man she does not feel comfortable with. Although it is illogical under the circumstances, it feels like a betrayal. Petya should have been there to protect her.

Clyde and Tamara appear separately, Clyde looking sheepish and unshaven, Tamara characteristically cool and smartly dressed. Eventually Mila emerges, looking more woodenly miserable than the previous day, and offers without enthusiasm to cook bacon and eggs. William and Clyde, seeming not to notice her leaden expression, eagerly accept the offer. Petya, Tamara and Alison go down to the yard and chat, waiting for the others to join them in a walk to the creek. There is, incongruously perhaps, some mention made of Pushkin. Alison confesses that her favourite part of Eugene Onegin is Tatyana's letter - not so much for its content as for the way Pushkin manages to capture a young girl's innocent voice - her inflections. Tamara is scathing. "That kind of romanticism is not only unrealistic, but also very harmful," she declares, adding darkly: "Pushkin has a lot to answer for!"

There is a light cloud-cover and a Sunday-morning hush in the air when they set off across the paddocks, the farm dog bounding ahead of them. The grass is still wet with dew. "It's the first time I've missed the ANZAC Dawn Service", says Clyde. Alison glances at him sharply. Is he a veteran too? He looks too young to have served in Vietnam. Maybe East Timor? But he doesn’t seem to mind this break with tradition. Contemplating their little company straggling along the overgrown path, her thoughts begin to drift in William's mental footsteps of the previous day. Turgenev. Chekhov. She has seen films based on some of their plays; has read some of their stories.

The ramble through the morning paddocks to a sombre, stagnant, almost sinister expanse of water, complete with waterlily pads and heron, but no actual lilies, is not unlike a house-party on a Russian provincial estate. If this were a play or a story by Chekhov or Turgenev, they would all return to the house and drink tea and philosophise in a desultory way, and perhaps someone would find a quiet corner to read or write in a diary before setting off on a picnic, or in search of berries and mushrooms… there would be more activity in the kitchen, but Mila would organise servants to do it… and there would be those melancholy emotional undercurrents of unrequited love, with the afflicted parties in denial of their loveless fate. But the analogy with scenes from Turgenev and Chekhov doesn't really apply - it is all too tenuous, fractured…

It is an unwieldy and somewhat unpromising cast. Petya has discovered he cannot commit himself emotionally, cannot risk himself in love, and besides, finds philosophy and art far more rewarding than personal relationships. Consciously or otherwise, he embodies the belief of Turgenev's character, that every love, happy as well as unhappy, is a real disaster when you give yourself over to it entirely, so he keeps his romantic energies in reserve at all times. Tamara, also wary, is nevertheless quite attracted to Petya, in a distracted, abstract kind of way. Clyde is more doggedly determined than ever to attempt the impossible - winning Tamara's heart, which is closed to him. Alison ruefully acknowledges defeat in love at Petya's hands, but is not yet able or willing to untie the knot of their storm-tossed friendship, one strand of which has loosened and partly unravelled, while another has become more convoluted than ever. The associations that link them seem dense and impenetrable to outsiders, almost like blood-ties.

William’s dead wife is never far from his thoughts, her imagined presence his anchor and anchorage in life. Slim, perhaps still present in spirit, is standing to attention in front of some lonely, small-town cenotaph, and quietly wondering why Tom cannot show any tenderness to Lyudmila. Mila’s mutiny has hardened to something adamantine, which Tom is equally determined to break, to show himself and her who is boss.

Back at the house, they are probably facing off over breakfast, as she sullenly scorches another serving of bacon and eggs. Mila, a scientist, has no liking for, or patience with cooking. Tom's daily expectations chafe. Her psyche is a mass of saddle-galls. It is no accident that he's brought her out here to the depths of the country. If he can't subdue her spirit, he will bury her alive. The knots of their bondage will twist even tighter before being loosened, or, like the Gordian knot, cut through by violence.

The walking party returns to the house. The three guests do not stay for morning tea. As they drive away, Petya relates how he spent the night interpreting for Clyde and Tamara, who confided to him that Clyde had offended her mortally by inviting her out to dinner and then expecting her to pay for her meal, by not using her name to address her (which he apparently could not pronounce), by buying a sandwich for himself and not offering one to her - he had lost her before he was ever in any position to win her.

By coincidence, however, they had both had near-death experiences, at almost the same time, in almost the same circumstances, which they described in almost the same imagery.

Tamara had already been married and divorced three times. All her husbands, she conceded, had been good men - non-drinkers, non-smokers, and strictly monogamous. Their only shortcoming had been the fact that she had not found them romantic enough.

       * * *

The momentous news from Petya's mother turns out to be anticlimactic, yet in keeping with the subdued mood of the visitors and their hosts - something about her plans to separate from her present spouse. Petya finds it difficult to register this as feeling. He pats himself on the chest and ribs a few times as if checking for bruises. Nothing.

Alison reflects that the only member of their recent gathering who is in danger of falling into the trap described by Turgenev is perhaps Clyde. She has never encountered the lines from Turgenev's play, but they encapsulate a still-prevalent attitude to romantic love, one she secretly desires to see subverted. Then she remembers how humiliated Tamara felt by Clyde's lack of finesse, and reluctantly adds his name to the list of those who love neither wisely nor well. While privately at odds with the stance taken by Turgenev's character, she wonders if she will ever succeed in putting her beliefs to the test. She believes that true love knows no bounds, and transcends fear. Meanwhile, she looks to others to disprove the more utilitarian view.

William is most relieved to arrive home. He walks through the garden gate, unlocks his front door, waves to Petya and Alison, steps over the threshold, then closes the door to the outside world firmly behind him. He will have much to relate when next he receives a longed-for visitation from his beloved, departed wife. Perhaps she will be able to make some sense of all this nonsense…