Sunset Stroll with Retriever

“It’s all a wonderful improvisation!” said Prof, sucking on his pipe and pouring himself a second glass of Armagnac.

“What?” asked William.

“Huh, pardon?” coughed Prof.

“What … is a wonderful improvisation?”

They had withdrawn to Prof’s study, for a browse of the weekend newspapers. Both felt light-hearted and relaxed, not only because of their morning trip to the Dog Rock Winery, but also because of the insidious magic of the April afternoon. The golden light, in perfect harmony with the autumn colours and the bricks of the old town, seemed to warm the old blood as efficiently as the liquor.

“Life!” exclaimed Prof rather theatrically. “Who would have thought, fifty years ago … that we’d end up sipping French cognac in a town with a French name.”

“… at the arse end of the world!” laughed William.

“What’s with this imperial arrogance?” coughed Prof, clearing his lungs and releasing a cloud of aromatic smoke.

“I beg your pardon: it was a true blue Australian Prime Minister who coined this expression. A republican Prime Minister, I might add.”

If only Prof had been right. But he wasn’t: as far as William was concerned, life was anything but a wonderful improvisation. It was more like an exasperating riddle that he was no longer equipped to tackle. More like a puzzle, a labyrinth, an impossible mix of patterns and randomness. Patterns, yes! But bizarre and unpredictable.

Although neither his religious childhood nor his scientific education had helped him deal with the complexities of life, William knew a thing or two about patterns. He could sense when something out of the ordinary was bound to happen. And he knew that the sum of all these out-of-the-ordinary moments was a perfectly designed pattern that made no sense to him, but made perfect sense within itself. Or: in the grand scheme of things. The very idea that there was, indeed, a “grand scheme of things” that always escaped him was enough to turn his mood sour.

“Chaos theory, now that’s something to wrap your mind around!” he mused. If William had been young today, he would have had so many choices to satisfy his appetite for research and speculation. But his time was up, he was at the age when every day was a gift and plans for the future never extended further than six months. Why was it that his over-active mind didn’t allow him to relax? Why could he not sit back and enjoy this splendid afternoon, without such fruitless deliberations? Why could he not recede into the safety of old memories, with dear old Prof by his side, and relive those happy moments when things seemed so much more straightforward? When life was what one made of it, instead of this slippery mess?

Mercifully, he was interrupted by a thundery, reverberating snore. Prof had fallen asleep. “How about a snack?” thought William. Yes, despite the trip to the winery, the tastings and the picnic, he was beginning to feel hungry again —such a nice, comforting sensation.

He sneaked out of the house through the side door. He took an involuntary glimpse at the deserted convent which reigned over the top end of Alma Street, an eerie and majestic Federation building that seemed to belong in the psychopathic realm of a Hitchcock movie. It was impossible to ignore it: tall, arrogant and impenetrable, surrounded by expensive palm trees and a recently installed two-metre fence of corrugated iron. A suitably intriguing landmark, at the border between society and nature, between consciousness and whatever lay beyond it.

For the township of St Arnaud ended right there. Beyond the convent, there was nothing but a melancholy expanse of bushland, inhabited by loud cockatoos. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Prof, on his second night in St Arnaud. Prof mentioned that the convent—by far the most elegant and imposing building in St Arnaud—had been built around 1900 for the Sisters of Mercy, who had come from Ballarat to establish a boarding school named after St Francis Xavier. At some point in time, the boarding school had been closed down, and the building was left to rot, like most of St Arnaud’s forgotten treasures. Much later, in the mid-eighties, an undisclosed buyer—some eccentric millionaire, no doubt—had purchased the property, turning it into a private residence. The new owner had never been seen or known to visit his acquisition, which was kept in a perpetual state of readiness for the all-elusive drop in.

“Ask anyone in St Arnaud!” Prof had exclaimed. “It’s our number one local mystery!” Still, Prof had added, it was good, in the overall scheme of things, that the convent had been saved from further decay, even though it had been completely hijacked from the town’s collective memory, to pursue a secret destiny all of its own.

William walked down Alma Street, towards the main road, feeling the autumn sun against his cheeks. This was his first moment alone. He’d been in St Arnaud for more than a week now, but he’d never had the chance of a solitary stroll. And the solitary stroll was the most essential component of his life.

He stopped at Le Cochon Rose and ordered a grilled salmon, which he devoured with delight. His mood was beginning to improve. Just as he finished ordering a lemon tart and an Irish coffee, a group of German tourists burst in. Loud, middle-aged, tipsy. On a gourmet tour of the region, most likely. He sank into his tart, trying to resume his thoughts.

A little man in a grey coat, with longish, slimy grey hair and a chequered cap came into the restaurant and, seeing that the all tables were taken, made for an indecisive retreat. He looked at William for a second, with a hint of melancholy resignation in his eyes. “Definitely a Retriever,” thought William, who had a propensity to speculate on similarities between humans and their canine counterparts.

“You can sit here! I was just about to leave, anyway,” said William. A smile of gratitude blossomed on the Retriever’s face. “Thank you. This is so kind!”

He took off his coat and cap, placed them on a chair, and sat down opposite William.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“The lemon tarte brûlée. Paul, the new chef, is quite exceptional. He’s the real deal: a three-star chef from France. From Auvergne, more exactly.”

He proceeded to inform William about the various chefs that had worked for Le Cochon Rose since the restaurant’s inauguration. The conversation then moved to the pizza-and-coffee shop housed in the picturesque building of the Old Post Office, arguably the number one architectural jewel of St Arnaud, which was now up for sale. The Retriever was a mine of information on local trivia. He enjoyed talking, even though he had some difficulty with what looked like a new set of oversized dentures. Possibly a retired teacher of history or social sciences, thought William.

William finished his coffee, paid the bill and thanked the Retriever for the pleasant conversation. His mood had improved considerably. He was not ready to return to Alma Street. Before he knew it, he found himself in the Queen Mary Gardens, strolling by the lovely pond and observing the ritual gliding of the ducks in the shadow of the weeping willow.

He continued his stroll along the winding alley, towards Napier Street, and silently acknowledged the solitary figure of Jacques Leroy De St Arnaud, Marshal of France. The largely ignored tutelary deity of the sleepy town had frozen in a perpetual salutation of the now empty main street, and William couldn’t help but to return the salutation with a barely perceptible bow. On the commemorative plaque, he read:

Marshal St Arnaud, although ill, commanded the French Army, combined with the British forces … during the Crimean War. In 1854, seven days after leading the victorious Battle of Alma, he was stricken with fever and died 3 days later on a vessel taking him to France … This was around the time of the New Bendigo gold rush when national spirit was running high …

Oh, how uncomplicated and honourable life was back then, in the days of nations, heroes and conventional wars, mused William. After all, Marshal St Arnaud had lived immediately after Napoleon’s defeat, he’d helped Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte come to power, one would have expected the old hatreds between the English and the French, exacerbated by the Napoleonic wars, to be still alight in the hearts of the people. But no: the genuine camaraderie forged by the Crimean War, and illustrated by the great friendship between the two commanders of the French and British armies, St Arnaud and Lord Raglan, was enough to turn the tide. As a result, the English soldiers who came to the New World in search of a better life went as far as to name their new town after the French commander. “A truly inspiring story that nobody gives a rat’s arse about, in this day and age,” sighed William.

He sat on the bench behind the statue, curious to see if the German tourists, who were now returning to the coach parked near the gardens’ public lavatories, would pay any notice to the Marshal and his plaque.

“Such a small plaque and so many inaccuracies!” barked a familiar voice. The Retriever had reached William’s bench from the alley behind.

“What do you mean?” asked William, as the Retriever asked permission to sit down on the bench.

“For starters, St Arnaud’s name was Achille,” he continued enthusiastically, with what looked like one of his pet conversation topics. “Yet it’s nowhere to be seen on this plaque! Jacques was his baptismal name, but as soon as he had enough power to change it, he chose Achille. Says a lot about his character, doesn’t it? Bellicose and bound to conquer at any cost. Achille Le Roy de St Arnaud. Notice the misspellings on the plaque: Leroy should be written in two words and De should not be capitalised. That’s how the name appears in French history books. Not that the French make much fuss about him, the way we do! Did you know that this is the only commemorative statue of Marshal St Arnaud in the whole world? I suppose there used to be one in that other town named after St Arnaud, in Algeria, but with the end of French rule the town changed its name to El Eulma, and I bet that whatever statue of the Marshal they might have had there has long turned into desert dust.”

“I can imagine why St Arnaud is not exactly popular with the Algerians … But the French should celebrate him for what he was: a military talent, a hero of the nation,” commented William.

“Yes, they should—and they do: St Arnaud’s body rests inside the Invalides. What greater honour for a man of war? Yet things are not as straightforward as they seem. A military talent, you say? Did you know that he was fired from the Army three times? Mainly because he led a bohemian life, riddled with debts, scandals and duels. He was violent, temperamental and undisciplined. He was also unemployed for many years, making a living from teaching foreign languages, music and fencing—but mostly from sleeping with rich women. He even earned a living as a comedian, at some stage! A gigolo, a noceur, an imposter, a lost cause, that’s what he was known as, during his twenties. His military career took off quite unexpectedly, ten years after he’d first joined the Army. It was purely a matter of circumstance.

“As for his heroism … It is widely accepted, nowadays, that St Arnaud saw the army as a milking cow: an instrument of plunder, an opportunity for quick enrichment, for endearing himself to the rich and the powerful, for political ascent. His speciality was repression: the suppression of the Vendee uprising, the pilfering of the Algerian colonies, the brutal reprisals of the 1848 insurrection, in Paris, followed by the coup d’état that instituted the reign of Napoleon III. Self-interest, violence, cruelty: that’s what St Arnaud stood for. Hardly what one would call an inspiring, progressive hero, don’t you think?”

“You nurture a particularly vivid dislike for the Marshal,” interrupted William, half-jokingly. “Almost personal, I’d say!”

“I think you’re right. Normally, I don’t have personal feelings for historical figures, but with the Marshal, it’s a different story. I was born in this town, you see … and I was raised to believe that he was—in a twisted sort of way—our local hero. So, when I finally found out what he was made of, I felt disappointed in a rather personal way. Even worse: I felt betrayed!”

“I can see your point. Nothing is what it seems to be, in this day and age! We live in a time of supreme relativism!” (As he pronounced relativism, he felt a familiar bitterness in his mouth.)

“Tell me about it!” exclaimed the Retriever. “Anyway, enough about silly old Achille. Why spoil this gorgeous afternoon? Besides, I should be on my way, I’ve taken enough of your time! It was such a pleasure talking to you.” He extended a bony, wrinkled hand, which William found surprisingly cold: a sign of deficient circulation, which also explained the uncommon paleness in the Retriever’s cheeks. He then plunged his hand inside the depths of his grey coat and produced a yellowish business card, which he offered to William with a timid smile.

William thanked him warmly, shook his hand once more, and watched him as he walked away, past the historic post office building.

By now, the German tourists were back in their coach. None of them had bothered to take a peek at Marshal St Arnaud. For a few moments, William felt sorry for the bronze figure which continued to salute the empty street, the dead courthouse, the equally dead municipal offices, with elegant, manly resolution.

He stood up from the bench, circled the statue, and took a good look at the Marshal’s face. Perhaps the Retriever was right. The Marshal’s thin lips betrayed an undeniable mix of cruelty and sensuality. His upwardly styled moustache, his raised cheekbones, his ridiculously masculine goatee spelled self-confidence and thirst for adventure, money and glory. His watery eyes seemed focused on a well-defined prey. And that almost imperceptible smile, slightly mocking, reminded William of someone familiar … oh, yes, of that lewd movie star of the thirties, that ruthless conqueror of female flesh, that sexual athlete from Tasmania, Errol Flynn!

He couldn’t help noticing the Marshal’s prominent manhood, causing his tightly fit Napoleonic trousers to crinkle.

Behind the Marshal’s statue, the pond reflected the pink light of dusk. The Queen Mary Gardens looked impossibly beautiful and forlorn. William felt like the last man on the planet. He was overcome by a deep sadness, a particular type of sadness with a well-defined source, which he was not yet ready to acknowledge.

He walked back down Napier Street past the empty shop windows, displaying the familiar “for sale” signs. Was St Arnaud so acutely charming precisely because it was a dying town? He turned left into Alma Street and continued to walk, uphill, in the direction of Prof’s cottage. In contrast with the delicate and ephemeral Victorian cottages, surrounded by floral abundance, the stately convent at the top of the hill looked severe and permanent, almost a threat.

“Hopefully, Prof has not yet woken up from his afternoon nap,” thought William, wishing that he would not have to explain his absence.