The White Body of Evening Read Online Free PDF

muttered something insulting to Rodney O’Dell, the young nephew of a co-owner, Sid upbraided him and told him to display a healthier attitude. Albert turned the word “healthier” over in his mind for the rest of the day, wondering exactly what it might mean to display a healthy attitude to work so utterly meaningless.
    His hands trembled as he typed up another letter of request. His fingers hit the keys with unusual force. Finally, at the end of his tether, he bashed the machine with his fists until the letterhead was an incomprehensible mass of inkblots and lacerations. In a blind rage he took a pencil off the desk and slammed it down into the open palm of his hand. The shock of it, and the stinging pain, returned him to his senses. He gazed numbly at the small, graphite-tinged puncture mark in the skin, clenched his hand around a crumpled piece of newspaper and walked into the bathroom to wash the wound.
    After that Albert forced himself to think about the child more insistently. It was an exercise in self-discipline. He’d have to keep his head down, for a while at least. He knew how difficult things could get if he lost his job. All year the streets of South Melbourne had seen groups of unemployed men loitering around the factories and workshops, or making their way to the Sandridge wharves, on the off-chance of finding work. He read newspaper articles daily about the destitute of the city, and the Benevolent Ladies Society talked up a city–wide suicide mania, after an insolvent had secreted himself away in a Fitzroy boarding house to blow a hole through his brain in peace. At the back of Albert’s mind were desperate schemes, like joining Lane’s New Australia expedition and shipping off to Paraguay, or moving up north where they still had gold.
    Of course Anna would never be in it, and with the house and all they wouldn’t be badly off as long as he could stay in work. He told himself this constantly, rehearsing the conditions of the minimal form of sanity that would let him shuffle along the surfaces of life without stumbling too heavily. He swallowed his pride and apologised to Sid who, harbouring a natural affection for Albert, patted him on the back and suggested that they have a drink after work.
    Albert also apologised to the co-owner’s nephew, claiming that he was having some trouble at home. He said this so genuinely that it surprised him. But wasn’t that the truth? While he could tell himself that he loved Anna, after a manner, he was also remote from her, unable to satisfy himself with her, unable to bend her in the way that he secretly craved. Something lurked within him. A clammy, shapeless thing that shifted suddenly out of its repulsive slouch according to its own primitive needs. When Albert felt it move he cowered from himself. It was always there, at the bottom of him, waiting to stir, waiting to grip him.
    “You are suffering from an instinctual deviation,” Dr Winton had told him. It was shortly after the debacle of the wedding night. He had visited the doctor at his rooms in St Vincent Place, complaining of lethargy and weariness. All he was looking for was a tonic or some pills, something to pick him up a bit.
    Winton looked at him, folding his hands over his knee. “Tell me what’s wrong, Albert,” he said. “I can call you Albert, can’t I?”
    Albert fumbled for an answer. He said he had trouble concentrating, tired easily and felt frustrated. Sometimes he felt himself trembling.
    Winton exhaled through his nose and nodded. “What about your private life?” he asked. “Recently married, I understand.”
    “Yes,”Albert said.
    “Tell me what it’s like for you, and your wife. Anna, isn’t it? I knew her aunt.”
    Albert pushed out his lower lip, then quickly sucked it in. The questions kept coming. They were intrusive and humiliating, but the doctor’s authority held him there and impelled him to answer. Albert suddenly felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of