‘Excuse me-’

‘It would be grossly inconsiderate not to interview her. Tom, Vernon?’

Tosh said in a rush, ‘Within context-sensitive parameters, HR strongly advises against unsuccessing in-house candidates.’ His hair had shaken free in two shining wings. He was an angel who did not fear to tread.

Kevin Dodd would have done very well as a goldfish; it was something about the set of his ears. ‘Well, if we’re pushing the envelope… The young English lass, what’s her name now- Felton?’

Tom looked up. Rebecca Finton was the DPhil on his list.

‘Becky Finton, that’s it. She was at the Modern Times conference in Zürich.’ Dodd cleared his throat. ‘Very, ah, striking.’

Vernon angled his pad towards Tom. ‘SHAGADELIC! PHWOAR!!’

The meeting went on being progressed.

Anthea held the lift for him.‘Can you believe Kevin?’ She thrust out her lower lip and blew a little puff of air upwards. The springy red curls on her forehead shook.

A poster beside them warned of a graduate forum on ‘Performing Masculinity’. Bruce Lee’s body, taught with fury…

Anthea said, ‘It’s OK for you to laugh. That’s one of my students.’ Then she laughed anyway. ‘Lunch?’

‘Love to, but I’ve got to dash.’

The door pinged open.‘We’re having a party. I’ll email you.’ Thirty seconds later she called, ‘Bring your girlfriend.’

When he turned, she was smiling. ‘So it’s true.’

He thought, then said, ‘Esther.’

‘Three degrees of separation in this town, Tommo.’

‘Really, that many?’

That Nelly and he were coupled in gossip pleased him. He walked to the car park through light strokes of rain. From the dome of an umbrella going the other way a voice said, ‘Yeah, but will I like philosophy?’

In talk at least he lay enlaced with Nelly. Tom’s fi ngers curved in his pocket, assuming the round weight of her breast.

On the way to the Preserve, his mood darkened. The premonition of failure returned and spread its wings. Stuck in traffi c he stared past his wipers, seeing his book unpublished, his career stagnating. The pursuit of knowledge: as a young man he had thought it honourable, a twentieth-century way to be good.

His faith had wilted when exposed to departmental realpolitik; had shrivelled before the academy’s whole-hearted adoption of corporate values and the pursuit of profi t over larger aims. Yet a trace of his original reverence had endured, as a phial of scent perfumes a drawer long after the last subtle drops have evaporated. The constant element in a life is usually the product of illusion, dreams directing history with surer cunning than any charter. Perfection of the life, or of the work. Tom had never hesitated; never imagined he might botch both.

There came to him, with graphic intensity, a memory from his first year of teaching. Lecturing on Dubliners, he had looked up from his notes and seen a student slip from the theatre: silhouetted against a bright oblong before the door swung shut behind her. Tom found himself controlling an impulse to shout encouragement, urging her to flee while there was time. Only weeks earlier his appointment had filled him with elation. Now he gripped the lectern and saw the track on which his days would run.

He pressed the button that lowered the car window. Despite the gloom, the air no longer pinched. The mild, rainy afternoon, scented with exhaust, might have been Indian. Another self flickered at the edge of Tom’s vision: short-sleeved, subtitled in Hindi. He climbed a grimy stairway, through waftings of urine and mustard seed. On a bus bulging with bodies, he reached past layers of hands that matched his own.

For a period in Tom’s adolescence this parallel life had been very real to him. He could still call up a repertoire of scenes rehearsed to perfection. They were not nostalgic, not a revisiting of childish haunts, but sustained visions of an Indian existence. Their function was propitiatory. If he set himself to imagine an Indian life, he would not be returned to one. This bargain with fate involved dropping down the social scale, so that every element of his fictional existence-the clothes he wore, the food he ate, the language he spoke-was borrowed from lives remote from his own. Thus, at the sight of a Friday night treat of fish and chips, Tom pictured himself squatting over a tin plate of spiced pulses. He strolled between the laden shelves of a supermarket while serving glasses of germ-ridden water in a squalid teashop.

Then, quite abruptly, he had abandoned these dreamy designs. If an inattentive moment found him in their thrall, he would break free through an effort of will. He told himself the practice was frivolous, incommensurate with the gravity of his fifteen years. What he feared, in truth, was more insidious. His life in Australia was rendered superficial by the everyday density of his inventions. Beside his hardy Indian familiar, he appeared cursory and surplus. Even now, after the passage of so many seasons, Tom had no wish to prolong their encounter.

The rain had thinned. There were bundles of light above the river. Tom thought of the life he had led, and the life he had missed, and how he would never see his vague teenage face recycled in a child. A message loomed against the sky: The More You Spend, The More You Earn; and Tom, picturing his life, saw the impress left by feet on a beach; as if what mattered had walked away.

At the Preserve, Nelly was putting clothes into a bag for the country. When she got into the car, Tom noticed a wide black band of insulating tape stuck across the toe of her left boot.

They talked about Osman. Nelly turned a pink knitted hat in her hands.

On the freeway, she told Tom she had another piece of bad news. The Preserve had sold at auction in May, but the developers had overstretched their resources. Work on the building had been postponed and Nelly allowed to stay; for twelve months, she had been assured. But a letter had arrived that morning giving her until the end of January to move out. ‘I’ve seen the plans. They’re going to squish three apartments onto each floor and put a penthouse on the roof.’ She folded her hat down the middle and said, ‘I’m trying to think of it as a kind of collage. The uses and reuses of a building.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Brendon’s mentioned some place in Footscray we could share. But I don’t think he’s planning too far ahead right now.’

Then she said, ‘There’s a six-month artist’s residency in Kyoto coming up. Starting next September.’

Kilometres streamed past. Tom said, ‘That sounds pretty exciting.’

‘There’ll be stacks of people after it. But some guy Carson knows on the board says my chances are good.’

In the mid-1990s, Nelly had begun showing photographs of wooden printer’s trays of the kind once used to store metal type in compartments of different sizes. She would paint the sides of her trays to resemble elaborate carving. Within these frames, some compartments were left empty; others held an object or image. Tom studied a tray whose sumptuous recesses had been lined with the royal blue velvet of jeweller’s cases. Nestled within were banal found objects, one to a niche in reverent display: a pineapple-topped swizzle stick, a hairslide, a condom wrapper, two dead matches, a doll’s dismembered arm. These items deposited by the human tide passing through its streets bore witness to the city’s energy and erosion. Tom was reminded also of the fascination detritus holds for the very young; of the way a small child will pass over a costly toy in favour of absorbed play with bottle tops or a rag or the foil from a toffee, investing the valueless things of the world with joy.

Nelly was given to recycling images: inserting them into new contexts, reproducing them on different scales. Tom noticed that she kept returning to the skipping girl figure. He came across a series in which a painting of the neon sign had been photographed, then smeared while the paint was still wet, photographed again, smeared again, and so on. The image disintegrated over five paintings, the last showing only billows of gorgeous, violet-tinged reds worthy of Venice. Tom pictured Nelly working with swift concentration, her photographer beside her, stepping back from her canvas with wet red hands. In a museum’s online collection he found a photo of a