Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Angel on the Water

2002; Springer International Publishing; Volume: 28; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

0311-4198

Ann Nugent,

Caribbean history, culture, and politics

Her angel has gigantic wings; layers of shining feathers, each bursting with tensile light, packed all golden moist, honeyed like glistening toffee. She sits just above the water, on the second bottom step of the old Customs House. Behind her dark barred openings, the windows of colonial cells. Nearby a River Cat pounces from its pontoon. Muddied water slaps against the convict stones. He glides above the river, wings spread wide. Just for her. She imagines the air beneath him still and cool. His wings are so bright she shades her eyes. For no reason she feels like crying. Such golden light. She lifts her head. He's in the distance, smaller now. He hovers above the inverted arch of the Story Bridge, dazzling. A triumph of grace over gravity. He turns and slips once more into the moist air above the river. A long slow croon made visible; elongated, he glides towards her. He spreads his wings wide, wider. She sees the tip of his wing scrape the cliff face. She holds her breath, fearing him hurt. At his touch its dull powdery surface changes from parchment cream to brilliant yellow; the cliff is streaked from top to bottom with gashes of red, like the scrawlings of a giant-child's fingers. She believes that this is his play, his display for her. He looks at her. She feels her skin prickle; embarrassed. She knows he knows she's been looking at him. He rests his elbow on the cliff top, the palm of his hand against his cheek. She cannot see his wings, just two small hills of sandy gold peaked behind his shoulders. She looks across the river. His feet must barely fit between the cliff and the water's edge. Perhaps the water that laps his feet is the same brown water that's lapped hers. She wonders if he curls his toes. Around her the abrupt darkness of a Brisbane sunset. Along the riverside parallel rows of lamps burst into light. She hears the buildings emptying behind her. The hum of people hurrying. The Cat purring at its mooring. And then the deckhand's shout, the strident clatter of a gangway being slipped. Later, in the distance the dwindling bass of the boat's engine. He leans across the river and lifts her up. She feels his hands around her waist. Strong, she wonders if `strong' is the word for her angel's hands, `gently strong'. He places her in the scoop of the grey double-peaked bridge. He stands beside her, and the golden light that covers him envelops her. She holds up her arms and makes a sparkling arc above her head. She wriggles her toes, they twinkle. She shines all over, inside and out. The night air is warm around her and in it she smells the thick, sweet scent of oleander. She looks at his feet on the water. The soles of his enormous sandals are flat on its surface as though it were a huge marble platform made especially for him. His head is level with the peak of the bridge. She turns again to his face. She sees that his hair, which she hadn't noticed before, falls from his head and over his shoulders in great golden waves. She remembers a storybook picture of Jason with the Golden Fleece draped around him, like a cloak. Until this moment she hadn't understood his quest. Now she knows: it was not the gold, it was the light. She feels the dark pull of memory. She leans towards the riverbank. Out of the darkness All Saints School rises up. Its square, red roofed turrets squat at each corner like watchtowers. The All Saints girls sit in privileged rows beneath its citadels. Innocent prisoners, laps full of sandwiches cradled on waxed paper. She sees herself at the end of a row, half-on, half-off. Two of the girls turn their backs to the bridge and pretend to hold it on upturned palms. They are captured by a box brownie, snapped in black and white. …