A Clue and Some Strange or Sage Advice

I was dreaming – at a park in Berlin and Milan Kundera walked up to me, kneeling in a ray of sunshine and said:

“Von Esther, Use Your Powers for Good – not Evil!”

I said, “But I don’t understand–”

He said, “What you write is little bits of fluff floating on the surface of water. And not grand oceans or mighty rivers. Puddles and washbasins of water.”

“You mean my writing is like, ah, fluff? Belly-button fluff or–?”

“Not like fluff,” he reprimanded me, “It is fluff. Floating on the surface of puddles.” He fixed me with a stern stare. “This is wrong. Use your powers for Good.”

I was at a loss for words. This was the last thing I expected in a park in Berlin. Maybe Lou Reed in a drug haze. Maybe Marlene on a good day. But Milan Kundera telling me off for crimes against – what? – literature? He was now frowning at me with his forehead.

“Your fluff is Roy Orbison Wrapped in Clingfilm. Billy Boyd, and any derivative of him, paired with any other man – or beast – who takes your fancy. You are worth more than this. You could use your powers for so much more!”

Right at that moment, when Milan was getting all worked up, Eugene Hütz, who had been leaning casually against a tree, eavesdropping, plopped himself down next to me. “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered to me. “There’s nothing wrong with writing the Billy Boyd love.”

Milan shot him a toxic glance, but Eugene continued unafraid, “Lots of people want to be carnal with me and Billy Boyd happens to be one of them. Of course, it is because I am such a premium lover, but someone has to write it, otherwise it will burn a hole in your head.”

Milan’s forehead scowled and Eugene pouted in his general direction.

I pondered, “But Eugene, how do I know that this you-and-Billy-Boyd thing you talk of isn’t just a product of my own imagination? That I imagined you up here because I don’t want to hear what Mr Kundera has to say?”

“Firstly, one,” said Eugene, “Why is he ‘Mr Kundera’, and I only ‘Eugene’? He has the respect because he is all severe and displaced ex-Czech living in Paris with that forehead, and I am but a Ukrainian New York gypsy punk? Eh?” He blew air out of his mouth upwards so that his strange black hair flipped away from his face.

He sighed, “But no matter. Secondly, two,” he counted on his fingers, “Two, ‘A’, to be more precise. If I were just a product of this head of yours,” he tapped a finger against my forehead, “Don’t you think you would conjure up a Billy Boyd too? Me, and not him? Not likely. Both of us maybe. But I am here in just as much right as he is,” He shot Milan a look.

“Two, ‘B’, my dear little lady, is proof that you could not have just conjured me. If you conjured me, would I not be eating something you eat, some cheese you sell at that cheese-selling job of yours, something that has seeped into your unconscious? And what is it you see me eating, eh?”

“Actually,” I said, “What is that?”

“This,” he said triumphantly, “Is beef jerky!”

I looked at Milan, whose face reflected the same bewilderment I felt.

“Ok,” I said, “Right.”

Eugene obviously felt he had proved his point and fell silent, gnawing at strips of his beef jerky and looking at me with big dark eyes. This sure was one weird park. What suburb was this anyway, Friedrichstein? I don’t remember how I navigated here or where it was I had come from.

A small Japanese-looking man approached our little party, glancing between the three of us. “May I?” he said, indicating at the patch of sunlight we were seating in.

“Of course, please.” I said. I thought that maybe he would turn out to be a bit more normal and a bit less quarrelsome than Milan and Eugene.

“If you don’t mind my saying, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were discussing.”

“Beef jerky,” Eugene nodded sagely, “Yes, it is a premium food group.”

“No. I mean Billy Boyd and Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling Film.”

He knelt down on a patch of sunlight between Milan and Eugene. “Before I go on, please let me introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Haruki Murakami. Pleased to make your acquaintance Miss Von Johnson, Mr Kundera, Mr Hütz.” He nodded at each of us in turn.

“How does he know all our names?” Eugene murmured to me under his breath. I tried to shrug without Haruki noticing.

“I don’t know about this Billy Boyd you speak of,” Haruki said, smiling pleasantly, “But I just wanted to say that I think the points made by both Mr Kundera and Mr Hütz have value. You shouldn’t dismiss one because it disagrees with the other.” He looked at me earnestly and paused before continuing. “I think Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling Film has a place in your writing. If not Roy and Cling Film, then someone else and something else. Wrapped or not. Do you see what I’m saying?”

I looked into Haruki’s encouraging eyes, which flitted with hazel sparks in the sunlight. I looked from him to Eugene, who was sucking on a piece of jerky and gazing at me with surprising seriousness. Then I turned to Milan who appeared slightly put-out but at the same time curious with what Haruki was saying.

“Your writing is leaning towards what it could be. You can feel it. You can almost touch it, almost taste it to write it.”

Milan shifted his legs. “And my point?” he piped up, “It doesn’t sound much like you agree with my point?”

“No,” said Haruki, turning to look at Milan. “I do agree with your point. Powers of any kind should be used for good and not evil. I would only disagree with your use of capital letters – I don’t believe in an ‘Evil’, capital ‘E’, any more than I believe in some universal force of ‘Good’, capital ‘G’.”

From the look on Milan’s face, I guessed he wasn’t quite sure how to take Haruki’s statement. It was like an editorial suggestion he knew he should adopt but which tasted sour in his mouth.

“And the Billy Boyd luuurve?” Eugene chimed in, snapping a piece of beef jerky as he did so. “There is nothing finer in this world, so what better thing to write about?”

“Yes and no.” Haruki said (to which Eugene rolled his eyes), “Love and sex are perhaps some of the best things in this life, and so of course she should write about them.”

“Ha-raar! Points to us!” Eugene exclaimed, slapping me on the leg as he did so.

“Mr Kundera, here, himself writes about love and sex. In fact, most of his books seemed to be preoccupied with the subject.” Eugene looked crestfallen and Milan suddenly more interested.

“It is not the subjects she should let go, but Billy Boyd.” Haruki was now looking straight at me. “I know you can do it,” he said quietly. He took my hands and in them he placed an object. I was vaguely aware of Eugene hitting his own head with the piece of jerky, and Milan looking at Haruki and me with something akin to – was it? – respect. I held Haruki’s gaze while he gently closed my fingers over the object. As I looked down towards my hands I felt the scene, the sunlight, the park in Berlin, all of them fading away. The last thing I remember was opening my hands to look at the object I held. It was a double adaptor.

In my own bed, Toby was snuggled up to me, deep in his own cat-dreams, a gentle Melbourne winter light filtering in through the cotton blind over my window.

“You know, he was wrong about the Billy Boyd,” a voice said next to me. I looked over to where the voice had come from and Eugene winked at me. “Don’t believe everything those writers tell you,” he said, tossing something onto the bed. “I’ve got to take a piss. I know you’re a lady, but I got to say – I’m going to piss like there’s no tomorrow.” He left the room and I looked at what it was he had thrown on the bed, what is was Toby had got up to investigate.

Of course. You guessed it.

A piece of beef jerky.