Breakfast at Share’s was basic: black coffee and some sort of rusk. The rusk was only a marginal improvement on the proverbial branding iron, and the coffee did little to soothe the hang-over—I’m a hair-of-the-dog man, myself. I said so to Share, who looked terrible. She seemed unreasonably upset, but then Sharon Lesser was evidently a woman living on the far edge of the edge.
“We drank the dog last night, Purdue. Hair and all.”
The empty vodka bottle abandoned on the kitchen floor seemed
to bear this out. I took a pull of the coffee. It tasted like tin. “Okay, Purdue,” she said from the other side of the kitchen table, visibly pulling herself together, “about the consultation.” “The consultation.” I wanted to lay my head down on the table. “You seem a bit slow,” Share said. “The words are a bit slow coming.”
“My reactions are always a trifle torpid in the morning,” I said. “I’m not a morning person.” My dreams had been black and curdled. I’d half woken needing a piss, convinced I’d heard
Mauricio’s Mack truck slamming through a wall. No, that had been earlier. My house was gone, as planned, but sooner than planned. Oh Christ, the stupid fuck could have killed me. And I didn’t know where Share’s bathroom was, so I’d rolled over and gone again into the murky dark.
“Be that as it may, there’s still the matter of the consultation. I’m your client. I came to see you last night, remember? You know, you were running this feng shui Consulting outfit. You had a really nice office suite in the downstairs part of this really nice heritage listed gaff in really really nice Parkville. Is it all coming back to you? Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Now?” I said in dull amazement. “You want a feng shui consultation at this hour in the morning?”
“Stop fart-arsing around, Mr. Purdue. Do your stuff.”
“If you insist, Share.” I squared my shoulders despite the pain. “What needs to be understood about feng shui is that the words mean ‘wind’ and ‘water’. These two primal elements represent the space between heaven and Earth. In this space, which is our dwelling place, the mighty force known as ‘chi’ eddies and swirls with all the wild grace of wind and water. But for all its grace and power, water can grow stagnant, it can become trapped....”
“It can become putrid, can’t it, Purdue? Fouled with pollutants, dead rats, old condoms, plastic bottles, oil slicks, cryptospiridium, e. coli by the bucket load....”
“You seem to have grasped the concept admirably,” I said. The tinny coffee was all gone, and the chi with it, leaving something foul and brackish in the bottom of the cup. I reached for the pot and poured some more, shuddering slightly. “It is the feng shui consultant’s job to identify those malformed spaces where the mighty force of chi is trapped like the stagnant water to which we have alluded....” I trailed off. I was too old for this sort of thing, I decided. This time yesterday I’d thought of myself as a young fellow in the prime of life. Bang. Bang. And the house came tumbling down.
“What about Yin and Yang, Purdue?”
“I was coming to that, Share. The concepts Yin and Yang are very important to the practice of feng shui. They are the light and the dark in constant opposition. You don’t have any orange juice, do you? I hesitate to say so, but your coffee is appalling. Mineral water would do at a pinch. I’m a bit dehydrated.”
“Plenty of water in the tap. You’ve got to balance the buggers, haven’t you?”
“What buggers?”
“The Yin and Yang, you’re not brain-damaged by any chance?” I stood, made water flow into a tall glass. Chi sparkled in a beam of sunlight, or it might have been a film of detergent.
“It is indeed necessary to achieve a harmonious accommodation between the forces of Yin and the forces of Yang—”
“—in order to enhance not only one’s physical surroundings but also one’s life, career and interpersonal relationships...that’s right, isn’t it, Purdue?”
“You appear to know almost as much as I do, Share. I see you’ve had occasion to consult a feng shui master before.”
“I’ve read the same bloody website, Purdue.”
“The role of the internet in spreading the good word about feng shui cannot be overestimated. However, a word of warning: full mastery of the insights of this ancient art can be obtained only by many years of study and contemplation at the feet of an enlightened master. The temptation to use a little learning gleaned from the internet—”
“Without paying huge amounts to a charlatan like you.”
“—should be avoided at all costs.”
“Sugar, Purdue. Can you tell me something about its Yin and Yang?”
I was getting whiplash. Maybe I’d nodded off for a couple of seconds, the way you do when you are majorly jetlagged, but I hadn’t been out of the country for years. “What?”
“That white stuff, the sort you don’t snort up your nose. You put it in tea.”
I shook my head sadly. I suspected her tea would be as awful as her coffee. “Feng shui has little to say about sugar, Share. Tea in China is traditionally drunk without the addition of either milk or sugar.”
“But the average race horse in Australia is no respecter of tradition and takes its sugar neat.”
Oh. Oh fuck. I felt sicker, all of a sudden. “Just what is this all about, Mrs. Lesser?” Had we or hadn’t we? I honesty couldn’t remember. Our clothes had been all over the bedroom floor. But I’m notoriously untidy when I’m pissed, it didn’t necessarily signify a night of wild passionate screwing.
“I think you are a man of parts, Purdue. I think it is possible to consult you about a lot more things than this feng shui crap. Or do I mean horseshit?”
“I think it might be a good idea if you said what was on your mind, Share.”
“The stewards were very interested in Canned Fish.”
Yes, correct weight. For about half a minute I just looked at Share and she returned my gaze. She was a good looking woman, all things considered, although she looked terribly strained. Just how far had I managed to get with her? Were we known unto each other? We’d certainly woken up in the same bed. I couldn’t remember a fucking thing, literally. Dreams of my house falling about my ears, that was all.
“Canned Fish,” Share said, just in case I’d missed it.
“It’s a bit early in the morning for canned fish, darling. Kippers, perhaps.”
“No it’s not.”
“Well you tell me,” I said. “Just what do you know about Canned Fish?”
“That the nag suddenly developed a massive turn of speed in the 3.30 at Flemo a couple of years back. A few very select punters did rather well out of it. Your good self included.”
“Jesus, this is history, Share. We’re talking about a bygone
