What the Light Hides Read Online Free PDF Page B

me.
    ‘Did you know,’ Ben continued, ‘that a whole family in India could live ten years on what one of your tables sells for?’
    ‘Ben,’ Vera said.
    ‘It’s a table, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m just saying. Why does it have to be beautiful? Why should people have to pay so much?’
    I tried to defend myself even though I knew it was futile. ‘Design and art are always worthwhile. Beauty is something that enriches every culture.’ I knew I sounded pompous.
    ‘Marx said that art was a commodity of the capitalist system,’ he countered. ‘There is no such thing as beauty outside a cultural definition.’ He looked up and winked at the waitress, who in turn blushed so hard she looked like she had run a hundred-metre sprint.
    Once again I resented the time Ben spent with my family, but the ample supply of Marxist arguments was Neil’s fault, not my mother’s. Ben seemed to spend countless hours in Neil’s tiny office at Sydney Uni discussing politics.
    Ben turned to me. ‘Build something that will help people, man.’ And then his mood shifted the way it so often did and his eyes flooded. ‘That should be the most important thing.’
    ‘Enough.’ Vera picked up a piece of plum-coloured sashimi on her chopsticks and offered it to Ben.
    ‘Mum, the eternal rescuer,’ he said, opening his mouth.
    ‘Good?’ she asked as he chewed.
    ‘Awesome,’ he said and gazed at the waitress again.
    ‘He thinks I am sacrificial.’ Vera joked and reached for my hand across the table.
    ‘Aren’t you?’ said Ben.
    She swivelled on her stool and looked at him. I knew that look. It was Vera baring herself, showing that something had hurt her.
    He looked at her for a moment, then said, ‘Sorry.’
    She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘Do you want to taste the shrimp?’
    It’s lunchtime and the Indian diner is filling up. The room echoes with voices. Two men in their seventies sit down at the table next to me. They get out a chessboard as they wait for their meal. One of them looks over at me and taps his hat. I realise he sees me as a fellow elderly citizen and feel like saying, ‘I’m only fifty, for goodness sake.’
    I finish my meal and consider stopping by Ben’s flat on my way back, but push the thought aside. I am not ready to think about packing up his things just yet. Instead I visit the supermarket and buy bread, butter, cheese, milk and a bag of green apples before heading back.
    I take the plane to a piece of rosewood, and then spray it with water in order to see the grain more clearly. It stands out like a drawing. It looks like a man staring out to sea. Turned on its side it could be an aeroplane zooming into a storm. It’s too beautiful, too distinct, and even though I am not sure what I want to make yet I am suddenly certain that neither the oak nor the rosewood is right for the project.
    I use all my strength to lift the log of spotted gum onto the bench and then I make a diagonal cut. The log opens up. The heartwood is a dark chocolate with a distinctive thin grain and the sapwood very pale. It’s almost the same colour as the small ironbark chest I made for Vera not long after we met. I gave it to her knowing that the gift had weight to it; a weight that went beyond what had been said between us thus far. I felt nervous watching her unwrap it on my workbench, but when the wrapping paper fell to the floor she looked at me and said, ‘David, this is beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined anything like it, but now I don’t want to ever be without it.’
    I had felt moved and relieved at the same time, and we had ended up making love on the dirty concrete floor. I had to pick splinters out of my hands afterwards.
    And now the decision seems easy. I’ve always wanted to make a larger chest for Ben, but never got around to it.
    I take off my jumper and begin by cutting the log into twelve pieces of timber, enough for a good-sized chest.
    I measure and then cut each piece to size before I begin