Read Online Flying Hero Class by Thomas Keneally - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Keneally
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passport: one of those well-made, middle-aged men who wear a tan in autumnal New York, as if they spend every second weekend in the Bahamas.
Through all thisâthe serving of meals, the speech by Taliqâthe Barramatjara Dance Troupe seemed to McCloud to sustain their normal calm. Bluey Kannata, star and troubled soul, remained penned in the window seat by Whitey Wappitji. McCloud had seen his head following events in the cabin, darting in that birdlike way he reproduced when dancing the emu or the brush turkey.
Across the aisle, Daisy Nakamura in her emerald dress had actually fallen serenely asleep. McCloud was astonished by her calmness, as distinct from the calmness of the Barramatjara Dance Troupe, by now well canvassed by the press and commented on in feature articles.
When the businessman returned, Yusuf searched Cale, who stepped forward up the cabin as if to accommodate the hijacker. The search over, the Englishman turned and, brushing against McCloudâs seat, murmured, âYou come next. First toilet on your left.â
McCloud considered not putting his hand up. But then he wondered why Cale had specified the cabinet on the left. Did he plan to leave something there? And if McCloud did not pick it up, wasnât Yusuf sure to find it in the end? McCloud therefore flinchingly raised his hand like a child in the classroom. He feared the Englishman was somehow going to give him an extra care, on top of his care for the troupe and for Pauline. It struck him now that he very likely had more responsibilities than anyone on the plane other than the captain and, of course, the handsome Taliq, who also hadâafter his own strange fashionâresponsibilities of a dual nature.
Yusuf, searching McCloud now, gave off a musk of mint and fresh, moderate sweat. A boy with a pleasant savor.
âMade in Singapore by Vincent Fong Tailors, Orchard Road,â Yusuf read from a label on the inside of McCloudâs jacket. He did not seem to be adducing the label as evidence of imperialist decadence. He seemed interested in an old-fashioned way in cloth and stitching. His features, McCloud thought, were little different from those of Lebanese immigrants who ran menswear stores in Australian country towns.
âI was in Singapore with a chamber orchestra last year,â McCloud said, an excuse if it was needed. He chose not to say it was a twenty-four-hour jacketââI donât wear suits,â heâd told the incredulous and natty Mr. Fong. McCloud felt guilty enough ordering the thing, since he knew that however good the cloth, no one could make a twenty-four-hour jacket without sweated labor. Heâd imagined a Singapore Chinese machinist working a treadle sewer by dim light while two of her small children coughed and were restive on a mattress in the corner. Such were the dreams of an uneasy foreign devil ordering clothes in Singapore.
âMy father was a tailor,â murmured Yusuf, continuing the search. âEven at home we used to see this Asian stitching. It stinks, you know.â
âI know,â said McCloud, displaying a section where the lining had come adrift. You have grievances? This is my grievance!
When he entered the cabinet and locked the door, he could not see any evident signs, unless you considered the sodden towel Cale had left in the basin a sign. He pulled open the small tray where after-shave and skin lotion were kept and found a note.
âFlush this,â it said. âIn view of the passport thing, my name is not Cale. My name on the passport I handed in is Bennett. Be careful with this Taliq, old son. My early judgment is: a complicated and well-trained fellow of some psychological resources. Again, flush this.â And then below that, C for Cale.
The onus is not so great, then. A drunk named Cale had become a drunk named Bennett. I neednât call him anything at all, since no one need know the two of us have talked.
Finished urinating, a
Through all thisâthe serving of meals, the speech by Taliqâthe Barramatjara Dance Troupe seemed to McCloud to sustain their normal calm. Bluey Kannata, star and troubled soul, remained penned in the window seat by Whitey Wappitji. McCloud had seen his head following events in the cabin, darting in that birdlike way he reproduced when dancing the emu or the brush turkey.
Across the aisle, Daisy Nakamura in her emerald dress had actually fallen serenely asleep. McCloud was astonished by her calmness, as distinct from the calmness of the Barramatjara Dance Troupe, by now well canvassed by the press and commented on in feature articles.
When the businessman returned, Yusuf searched Cale, who stepped forward up the cabin as if to accommodate the hijacker. The search over, the Englishman turned and, brushing against McCloudâs seat, murmured, âYou come next. First toilet on your left.â
McCloud considered not putting his hand up. But then he wondered why Cale had specified the cabinet on the left. Did he plan to leave something there? And if McCloud did not pick it up, wasnât Yusuf sure to find it in the end? McCloud therefore flinchingly raised his hand like a child in the classroom. He feared the Englishman was somehow going to give him an extra care, on top of his care for the troupe and for Pauline. It struck him now that he very likely had more responsibilities than anyone on the plane other than the captain and, of course, the handsome Taliq, who also hadâafter his own strange fashionâresponsibilities of a dual nature.
Yusuf, searching McCloud now, gave off a musk of mint and fresh, moderate sweat. A boy with a pleasant savor.
âMade in Singapore by Vincent Fong Tailors, Orchard Road,â Yusuf read from a label on the inside of McCloudâs jacket. He did not seem to be adducing the label as evidence of imperialist decadence. He seemed interested in an old-fashioned way in cloth and stitching. His features, McCloud thought, were little different from those of Lebanese immigrants who ran menswear stores in Australian country towns.
âI was in Singapore with a chamber orchestra last year,â McCloud said, an excuse if it was needed. He chose not to say it was a twenty-four-hour jacketââI donât wear suits,â heâd told the incredulous and natty Mr. Fong. McCloud felt guilty enough ordering the thing, since he knew that however good the cloth, no one could make a twenty-four-hour jacket without sweated labor. Heâd imagined a Singapore Chinese machinist working a treadle sewer by dim light while two of her small children coughed and were restive on a mattress in the corner. Such were the dreams of an uneasy foreign devil ordering clothes in Singapore.
âMy father was a tailor,â murmured Yusuf, continuing the search. âEven at home we used to see this Asian stitching. It stinks, you know.â
âI know,â said McCloud, displaying a section where the lining had come adrift. You have grievances? This is my grievance!
When he entered the cabinet and locked the door, he could not see any evident signs, unless you considered the sodden towel Cale had left in the basin a sign. He pulled open the small tray where after-shave and skin lotion were kept and found a note.
âFlush this,â it said. âIn view of the passport thing, my name is not Cale. My name on the passport I handed in is Bennett. Be careful with this Taliq, old son. My early judgment is: a complicated and well-trained fellow of some psychological resources. Again, flush this.â And then below that, C for Cale.
The onus is not so great, then. A drunk named Cale had become a drunk named Bennett. I neednât call him anything at all, since no one need know the two of us have talked.
Finished urinating, a
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