Days, months, years slipped by and suddenly Fidel was seventeen in his final year of high school—the sole cloud in the sky of his happiness being the absence of any response to his letters to his brother, Hylas. He’d even tried writing to the school, but it had been returned unopened, that’s why he knew the letters home must be arriving, as none had been returned.
Monique and Sanjay who had been talking for years about revisiting France and India to see old friends and relatives, decided to take advantage of Fidel’s honesty and reliability while he was still living with them, and asked if he'd be prepared to house sit while they were away so they could recharge their cultural and emotional batteries without worrying.
Fidel was speechless for at least ten seconds. ‘You trust me to look after your beautiful house?’
‘Of course; you’re seventeen, sensible, trustworthy, and know how to keep everything going better than we do. We can’t think of anyone more suited to the job. So will you?’
‘Will I? Of course I will and I’ll not abuse your trust.’
‘Silly boy, we know that or we’d never have asked. However, there is one condition.’
‘Yes?’ Fidel’s hopes sank slightly.
‘We insist on paying you a small retainer—a hundred dollars a week. It’s not much, but it makes us feel better.’
‘You don’t have to…’
‘We know, but we want to, so is that okay?’
‘Very okay! Thanks.’
‘Good. Robert and Bart will visit as usual and you’ll go and see them whenever you feel like it. You do realise they like you enormously and you'll be welcome there at any time, night or day?’
‘I think you're exaggerating a bit…I don’t want to wear out my welcome.’
‘I don’t think you could. And if there are problems they’ll always be available if you need them. And you may also have the use of the car; but any repairs are at your cost. I’ve amended the insurance to cover you as driver.’
Fidel shook his head in disbelief that anyone could trust him so completely.
‘We’ll occasionally email Bart, because he’s the only one of you with an email account, so you all know we’re still alive. We don’t expect long replies, just a ‘Hi, everything fine’ is all that’s necessary, so we don’t worry about you.’
Fidel had been working at part time jobs ever since his arrival in Brisbane, and despite paying his share of food and services and all his own personal expenses, had managed to save a little. Heeding Polonius’ advice to Laertes, he attached a debit, not a credit card to his bank account—not that he ever touched the balance, but the sense of self worth was priceless. Apart from basic living expenses he spent nothing. Sanjay had paid a year in advance to the Internet Service Provider, and like the rest of the family, Fidel had no mobile phone. In his case because he had no one he wanted to telephone, and even if he had, the landline was cheaper, not easily tapped and there was an extension in his flat. Living with Monique had made him slightly paranoid about ‘Big Brother’ surveillance. She refused to use any electronic device that could be traced, including satellite navigation in the car. She disabled it the day they bought it by the simple expedient of hitting it with a hammer till she could remove it, then gluing a jade sculpture of a frog over the gap.
Fidel was temporary master of a beautiful house and had a car as well. Not that he intended to use it except in emergencies; Bart had instilled in him the necessity of using his own energy as much as possible if he wanted to remain healthy, wealthy and wise, so he continued jogging to school and doing the shopping on foot.
The novelty of his first few days alone in the evenings was exciting. He read, listened to whatever music he liked, completed all his homework, studied, exercised, and did a lot of gardening. The Karims had not bothered with television, putting their set in Fidel’s room to use as he liked. He seldom liked, finding little to interest him. Even more absorbing than reading and listening to music was sitting quietly in the totally private, luxuriant; some might say overgrown garden, observing, thinking and dreaming. He had never had a garden all to himself and was every day astonished at the variety of insects, plants and other life that abounded. Sometimes he would take a pencil and paper and draw a particularly interesting insect or bird, noting the size, colour and what it was doing. After buying a set of aquarelles, he began applying soft colours to the better drawings.
Each morning he would make his breakfast on the tiny cooker in his flat and carry it around to the patio where he would sit in silence. Parrots, honeyeaters, butcherbirds, finches and a dozen other species of bird arrived to feed on the flowers, insects and seeds; also appreciating the peace. On moist mornings dewdrops scintillated; better than the best diamonds until they evaporated. Spider webs, butterflies, quivering leaves in the occasional breeze—everything intrigued him. Sometimes, when there was nothing urgent to do, concentration gave way to contemplation and then to a strange state in which his mind felt as though it suddenly turned inside out and everything was both in and out of focus. In that tranquil state he felt as if he could know everything there was to know if he put his mind to it. But he couldn’t be bothered because it didn’t matter—everything was as it was and he was content to simply be a part of it. An hour or more would pass. He took to setting the timer to prevent his arriving late anywhere.
For three weeks Fidel visited Bart and Robert regularly, always a more than welcome guest for the evening meal or simply a chat and game of scrabble. But Robert kept finding excuses to not return the visits. Finally, Bart became irritated.
‘What's the matter, Robert? Fidel is becoming upset. He hasn’t said anything but I can tell he’s wondering if he's done something to upset us. What's your problem?’
‘Nothing. I’m just busy.’
‘Crap. You're jealous, aren't you? I can tell.’
Robert flushed, embarrassed at the honesty. ‘Yes, I am. I know its stupid but I can’t help feeling that Fidel's usurped me. That Mum and Dad like him more than me. I can picture him swanning around in my house as if it’s his own. Why didn’t they ask me to look after the place and have their car?’
‘Would you want to?’
‘Of course not, I'm too busy, but I should have been asked.’
‘Clearly Monique and Sanjay imagined you'd be mature enough to be pleased with their decision. You have a life of your own now with me, as well as your studies, other friends and interests from which they are excluded. Fidel is the ideal person to house sit.’
‘So…you think I'm being childish?’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, yes!
Robert thought for a long five seconds, went to the telephone and dialled. ‘Fidel? I’ve finished all my assignments and we’re both bored shitless in need of stimulating company, does your last invitation still stand? It does? Great, We’ll be round in half an hour with dessert. Cheers.’ He turned to a grinning Bart. ‘And you can wipe that cheesy grin off your face old man. I’m only doing it to please you.’
‘And to salve your jealous conscience.’
‘Yeah, that too. Give us a kiss?’
‘Just the one till you prove yourself at dinner.’
They stood outside the front door.
‘You’re grinding your teeth.’
‘Steeling myself for the shock of seeing a stranger ensconced in the family seat—spreading himself around as if he owns the place, dirty underclothes chucked on the best armchair….’
‘I’m pretty sure he doesn't wear underpants.’
‘You’ve been groin watching!’
‘Hard not to when he runs towards you wearing those floppy old shorts.’
‘Yeah…I guess…’
Fidel opened the door and did a double take. ‘Robert! I scarcely recognised you.’
Robert had swapped his long hair for a buzz cut that looked like a dense black cap. It added a certain gravitas to his regular features, emphasising his hooked nose and apparent smile. He now looked slightly more than his twenty years.
‘I had a hair cut.’
‘It really suits you! You look sharper, and your neck looks longer—much better. What do you think, Bart?’
‘Much better, I was sick of long hairs clogging up the shower, but are we going to stand out here all night?’
‘Sorry! I'm a terrible host. Come in. Come in.’
Robert stood in the centre of the lounge and gazed around in confusion. ‘This looks exactly the same as the day Mum and Dad left.’ He wandered into the kitchen. ‘Don’t you do any cooking? It’s as spotless as Mum always has it—used to drive me nuts. Don’t tell me you’re a cleanliness freak like her.’
Fidel’s laugh was uncertain. ‘I…I don’t use the house. Just dust things and air it. I’d feel like an intruder living in here. I stay in the flat. I prefer it because it used to be your wanking pad and is full of psychic emanations that inspire me to be more like you.’ He watched in relief as Robert grinned at the outrageous flattery. ‘I use the sink bench, electric stove and hot plate and two pots; that’s all I need…you’ll be tasting the results soon. But I thought that, as this is your place, when you're here we’d eat in the dining room…is that okay?’
Silenced for once in his life, Robert walked up to Fidel and placed both hands on his shoulders. ‘Mum and Dad were lucky the night they found you, Fidel.’ His voice was husky. ‘And so was I.’
‘You're very wise, Fidel,’ Bart announced cheerily to stem a slide into bathos. ‘The less you have to clean and maintain the better. I’d have done the same.’ He thrust a parcel at his host. ‘Here’s dessert, it’s not going to melt so I’ll put it on the bench. Do you need a hand to bring stuff through from your flat?’
‘That'd be great, thanks.’
After everything was tidied away it was warm enough to sit out on the patio where they relaxed on loungers in companionable silence, gazing up at the stars.
‘Very clear sky. Going to be a cold night.’
‘Lucky you’ve got Robert to warm your feet on. I have to do press-ups till I'm warm enough to jump into bed.’
‘You'll have to find yourself a boyfriend.’
Yeah…know anyone who wants an ignorant adolescent?’
‘There’s a fat old man in the apartment across from us who looks desperate.’
‘He’d have to be.’
‘Fidel, you are slim, fit, good looking, and becoming sexier by the minute. One day someone will snap you up.’
‘Yeah right. Meanwhile, I need some advice.’ Fidel sounded diffident. ‘I finish high school in eight weeks, thank goodness. I'm sick of getting a numb bum all day listening to boring farts and fartesses tell me what to think.’ He scratched his head as if unsure whether to continue. ‘Is university any different? I don’t think I want to go on studying; I don’t think I'm clever enough—especially compared to you two. But do you reckon I should knuckle down and try tertiary studies of some sort—I've no idea what I want to do, or should I get out and find a proper job?’
‘What’s a proper job?’ Bart asked in comic despair. ‘Are there any left in Australia? Thirty years ago we had a booming clothing industry, an innovative electronics sector, we made every type of home appliance, most tools, cars, boats, all the spare parts. There were steel mills, oil refineries, printers and publishers, independent tradespeople in every field—butchers, bakers, booksellers, hardware shops, draperies, …you name it someone in Australia made it, small business people sold it and tradesmen repaired and maintained it. But all those jobs have gone to China, Taiwan, Indonesia….and nothing’s repaired because everything’s ‘disposable’ or there are no spare parts, so we throw millions of tons of perfectly good stuff into toxic dumps.’
‘But…there are still jobs…aren't there?’
‘Mainly in service industries such as the so-called health industry—sickness industry would be a better description, the finance industry, the education industry, the tourism industry, the fitness industry, the entertainment industry, the transport industry, or working as a salesperson for one of the few giant corporations that have swallowed up most small businesses, fuelling consumerism by advertising stuff made in other countries, selling stuff made elsewhere. Not one of those jobs is actually producing anything.’
‘Then…where does the money come from?’
‘We let foreign corporations dig up minerals, paying us a pittance for the right to take it back home, make something useful and then sell it back to us in the form of all the things we used to make ourselves. Most of the money comes from selling coal and iron ore, but no one wants coal any more—except Australia. Farming’s important, but it’s like mining, we sell the raw product instead of turning into something more valuable. Thousands of individual farmers have been reduced to a few hundred multinational graziers and croppers who take too much water and spray too many poisons, making the rivers toxic.
‘The good days of farming are gone, along with about ninety percent of the topsoil due to land clearing. On top of that, the climate’s changing so rapidly that growing enough food for an exploding population is a problem everywhere on the planet. Prices are skyrocketing overseas, so that’s where the food grown here goes, unless Australians are prepared to pay the same high prices. We’re well on the way to becoming a third world economy with a tiny elite of insanely wealthy people, a struggling middle class and vast hordes of poverty stricken breeders with all the associated problems.’
‘But what about fishing and market gardens?’
‘Giant trawlers scrape the bottom, literally, leaving only mud and destruction. Their catch goes overseas and the fisheries die. The best land for market gardens now grows houses as the city expands, leaving inferior land that produces inferior produce, heavily reliant on toxic sprays and fertilizers. Food imports due to free trade are putting many Australians out of business. It’s very worrying if you think about it. Pretty soon we won’t be able to feed ourselves.’
‘That’s so depressing, Bart! Can I make my job at the gym permanent?’
‘Afraid not, Fidel, it’s closing down—too old and old fashioned for the wealthy yuppies that have taken over the area. What it needs is someone with a few million spare dollars to give it a makeover. And that’s about as likely as this country switching to renewable energy.’
‘What do you reckon, Robert? You're at uni, do you think I should apply for a grant and go, or find work as soon as I leave school?’
Robert shrugged in genuine despair. ‘There are no grants, only loans for the tens of thousands of dollars universities now charge for degrees. They aren't interested in Australian students because foreign students are more profitable. You’ll be in debt for the foreseeable future with no guarantee of ever finding a job to pay it back. University education is no guarantee of work, and is usually not very useful in real life.’
Robert had majored in economic studies in the hope of understanding the financial system that underpins capitalist activity, and why increasing inequality seems unstoppable.
‘After three years’ study I've learned that economics is a very fluid concept that permits economists to use statistics to arrive at the outcome desired by their employer. In the case of politicians, they appoint accountants who will fiddle with the figures and provide them with a result wrapped in jargon that no one understands, so he can fool the electorate into believing what he wants is economically desirable. That's the reason most political decisions are disastrous. There’s a joke doing the rounds, want to hear it?’
‘Of course.’
‘A mathematician, an accountant and an economist apply for the same job. The interviewer calls in the mathematician and asks "What do two plus two equal?" The mathematician replies "Four." The interviewer asks "Four, exactly?" The mathematician looks at the interviewer incredulously and says "Yes, four, exactly." Then the interviewer calls in the accountant and asks the same question "What do two plus two equal?" The accountant says "On average, four - give or take ten percent, but on average, four." Then the interviewer calls in the economist and poses the same question "What do two plus two equal?" The economist gets up, locks the door, closes the shade, sits down next to the interviewer and says, "What do you want it to equal?"
‘Surely it isn't really like that?’
‘It’s worse. The entire monetary system is nothing but a gambling den where huge risks are taken with other people’s money; where money has replaced goods as something to be traded; where billions can be made overnight not by producing, making or growing something essential for human survival, but by buying virtual money in one currency and selling it for another. Money isn't backed by gold reserves or anything of value; it’s a worthless promise by morally corrupt governments that simply print more money if they need it. ‘
‘Robert! I'm shocked. Surely you're exaggerating?’
‘I used to think so too,’ Bart said mournfully, ‘but after a year of having my ears bent I'm convinced. We’re destroying the natural world to accumulate virtual money that represents nothing but unadulterated greed.’
‘Economics is soulless,’ Robert continued thoughtfully. ‘Monetary profit is the sole criterion for success. If a hotel, or open cut mine, or housing estate will make more money for the developer or a government than a pristine ecologically valuable lake and forest, then the hotel, mine or houses will be built. But if the total costs and returns were calculated, including the mental health of those affected, the loss of biodiversity, the loss of an important source of clean fresh water, the increased pollution, busier roads, need for extra sewage, roads, waste treatment, …then the profits will be seen as illusionary, far outweighed by the value of the natural resource. When a market garden is concreted over for a car park, the costs of replacing the food produced by the property are not taken into account, because that will be someone else's problem.
‘The sole value of anything to an economist is its worth in dollars or votes or power. Believe it or not we had to write papers that examined whether political candidates can earn more votes just because they're prettier! There's a field of economic study called 'Return on Beauty'. Currently, one of my economics professors is writing a working paper on how a smile can help political candidates gain more votes. He’s using Japanese software that measures the 'smile' index - 100 being a from-ear-to-ear grin and zero being closed lips. Public attitudes to the consequences of development versus conservation are reduced to monetary profit and loss equations. Morality doesn't get a look in. To an economist, ‘good’ is a profit ‘evil’ is a loss. I should have quit last year, but kept hoping to discover some redeeming feature.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. We are ruled by vile shysters who value nothing except the god of instant financial profit. They talk about growing money in an expanding economy as if money is a naturally occurring vegetable and the planet a balloon they can go on inflating forever! Why do such infantile people get elected to public office Fidel?’
Fidel shook his head in astonishment. He’d never even thought about money or any of the things Robert was angry about. He'd just accepted the world as it is, imagining it had always been like this and therefore the best way of doing things. He’d imagined politicians knew what they were doing; that they were the best people for the job; that they wanted to do the best for everyone and the planet. The notion that they might be criminally and immorally stupid was a novel idea he had to think about. He shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s because voters don’t know all those things? I didn’t until just now. I don’t think the teachers know about this or they'd at least mention it in passing. It’s not on the news or in the online papers I read.’
‘That’s because the news and all other mass media are owned by the people Robert is complaining about,’ Bart said with a smile. ‘So it’s deliberate policy to keep voters ignorant. It seems that most people find it difficult enough to understand how to live, without thinking about whether it’s right or wrong. Instead of reading a variety of ideas by independent thinkers, they allow themselves to be told what to think by mass media.’
‘Bart’s right, as usual,’ Robert added. ‘ Literature is full of words written by wise men and women who have urged us to value truth and beauty, the common good, and the notion that more than enough is too much. They have exhorted us to respect nature and all life if we want to survive and lead a ‘good’ life. But rational economics sneers at such notions. The man who is clever or sharp, or wicked enough to amass all the money in the world, is a good man, even if every other man woman and child are enslaved. I've spent two years trying to convince people that an expanding economy with the essential corollary of expanding world population is impossible. I failed a paper for suggesting this. I was told that humans will always find a way to expand and grow ever richer, more powerful and, apparently, more like gods. I’d have been better off doing a series of courses about things of intrinsic worth. Specialisation is the death knell of education; we end up with increasing numbers of people knowing more and more about less and less, who are then essentially unemployable.’
Bart clapped softly and Robert bowed seriously before laughing with him.
Fidel frowned. Surely it wasn’t a laughing matter. ‘If I understand you correctly, you think I shouldn’t go to uni.’
‘Not necessarily, I just wish I hadn't wasted this last year. I didn’t even meet many nice people…there’s a lot of homophobia; got nasty at times. Apparently it’s like that in most universities; the ability to remember facts and lecturers’ opinions doesn't indicate a tolerant or freethinking mind. I found more intelligence and more tolerant people when I worked in a warehouse last summer.’
‘Then I'm not going. I’ll find something useful and productive to do.’
‘I wish you luck.’
‘Thanks. What about you, Bart? What're you going to do when the gymnasium closes?’
‘I’ve already started my psycho-physic-repair studio.’
‘And that is…?’
‘Using my physical education and psycho-therapy training, I'm now a freelance healer of mind and body.’
‘Sounds adventurous. Where’s the studio?’
‘Wherever the clients are. I give individual classes in people’s homes, and group classes in community centres. If I get a name for myself I might rent rooms and join the alternative healing brigade.’
‘How many clients have you?’
‘Three so far…but I'm an optimist.’
‘What about you, Robert. What're you going to do next year?’
‘A very good and frightening question. I know nothing of value to anyone, so there's really only one option for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll become a freelance consultant.’
‘What's that?’
‘Small business people who are losing money, pay experts like me with a certificate from a prestigious university to prove I'm wise and all-knowing, to analyse their business model, tell them where they're going wrong and how to get back into the black.’
‘But you said you don’t know anything.’
‘Neither do they. What a consultant brings to a problem is a fresh look; no vested interest and no qualms about dumping or changing their sainted father’s ideas. They can’t see the wood for the trees, whereas a fresh pair of eyes sees the deadwood, the limits, and where pathways must be cut.’
Fidel shook his head in admiration. ‘I am so impressed!’
‘Ha! Wait till I've made my first trillion before passing judgement.’