New York Times and out himâthat sounded like the biggest paper in the US and itâs the one you always hear about in Australia. I thought the world deserved to know the truthâthat the greatest writer who ever died actually hadnât, and if his muse was just as alive, then the world should know that, too. But all that philosophy said, I didnât want to ruin theirlives and, while they lived in a bizarre cocktail of squalor and opulence, far be it from me to say they werenât happy. They seemed very content to be alone out there with only themselves and a few neurotic circus animals and some protective Mexicans to keep them company.
I was at a loss as to what to do next, given that I had been right all the time and Iâd made the trip all the way out there. It seemed a waste to just say, âHi, I liked your books, and I hope you have a nice retirement, bye.â I watched Carousel sitting there drinking another coffee, and Chicco struggling to wake up, opening one eye, then the other, and then closing both again and snorting his big nose with its hairs and sun spots. Carousel seemed thoughtful and I wondered if he was thinking about how he could get rid of me with the least amount of fussâhoping it wasnât to blow me up, moose-like, or bury me in shallow sand to become a modern mummy with only my ripped cliché shirt to tell people who I was.
But all he said was, in a sarcastic way, âYou kids have fun now.â And took a deep long sip ofcoffee. âI guess weâll see you later. Iâll get Maria to make up that bed with cleaner sheets.â
I sagged into my donkey chair with relief. I wasnât kicked out on my arse yet. All I had to do was walk in the footsteps of Jesus and pretend I was Carousel Kerouacâs granddaughter. Easy fucking day.
Adolf seemed perfectly accepting of the idea that things were falling into place. I guess the son of such freaks must have found the rest of the world an easy place to live inâeveryone so generally nice and accommodating. We each packed up a little bagâI had to borrow a hessian sack from Carousel since my backpack was torn up. I took a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and I packed my sunscreen and wallet. Thatâs all I figured Iâd need searching for Jesus in the desertâwater, food, cash and a good SPF. I hid my passport under the mattress and it took so much effort to lift the feather tick just enough to slide it under that I knew it was safe from just about anyone, especially oldsters.
We waved a strange sort of goodbye to my âgrandpaâ and wandered off down the road I hadwalked on the day before. Adolf had his shirt off by the time we reached the front fence and was down to a sarong within a further hundred metres of that. For every item he took off I put one on, like some game of strip pokerâhat, sunglasses, his long-sleeved T-shirt. As he turned even more golden I slathered sunscreen on my ears and the backs of my hands, and shared a sermon from my own religion with Adolf.
âYouâll get skin cancer, you know.â I hate to be a doomsdayer but Iâm Australian and from birth we are told two thingsââPunish anyone who is successfulâ and, âYou are going to die from skin cancer one dayâ, so we wear clothes and sunscreen and fake tan that smells like tomcat urine and mock anyone who lies on the beach for more than twelve minutes.
âNo, I wonât,â he smiled.
âAh, yes you will. You want some sunscreen?â I handed him my industrial-sized Mexico tube, already half empty after a week.
âNo, I wonât, and no thank you. I do not die of cancer, I will die when I am eighty-seven in my bed in my house.â
Without asking he took my backpack and carried it for me, making me more annoyed than thankful cos it wasnât heavy and I didnât need the help, and now I couldnât fiddle with the straps as I walked
C. J. Valles, Alessa James