Sharon listens to the hacking cough coming from their neighbour. The dog lifts his head from the cool of the kitchen tiles and looks at her questioningly.
“It’s the smoke,” she mutters, “getting into the old bugger’s lungs.” Her delicate hands are arranging slices of freshly cut tomato on the bread laid out in front of her.
The dog sighs in resignation and lays his head back down again, the thin ribs resuming their rhythmic rise and fall.
The back door opens and Greg steps inside. He closes it quickly but she feels the inrush of hot air on her bare skin.
“It’s getting pretty sketchy out there.” He stoops for another beer. His big loose belly bulges above the threadbare shorts.
He didn’t used to drink. Not back when their whirlwind relationship began in Fiji, ten years earlier. He was a tall, handsome fast bowler enjoying a recovery session with the rest of the Australian team. She was a taut little body tucked away in a bikini, holidaying with a girlfriend and naively unable believe her luck.
It was after their marriage that his back started playing up. The team medics kept it at bay with physio and painkillers for a while. But the pain got worse until he couldn’t play any longer. That’s when he started drinking. Thank goodness she had her teacher’s diploma by then.
“You should leave him,” says Suzie the art teacher during a break between classes. “You’re still young and good-looking enough to get another man, to have some kids for God’s sake.”
A wry smile of acknowledgement crosses Sharon’s lips. Yes, she does want kids. And Suzie’s right, the tests show that that Greg can’t be a father.
But he does what he can. Earns enough each week from odd jobs like painting and fixing to buy his beer and smokes. Always remembers to get her some flowers on the way back from the TAB.
“I’ve packed the car,” says Greg, taking up his sandwich with a blackened hand.
She nods, twists the door handle and steps outside. She gasps at the sudden slap of the heat. Acrid smoke catches her in the back of the throat like the barbs of a fishing hook. She squints up at the orange ball rolling across a red and black sky that pivots like a giant roulette wheel above the heat-tormented landscape.
The coughing from next door reminds her of when Kosjenko calls her over for tea that first time. It is a Saturday afternoon and the Croat knows that her husband is at the pub. She worries about the motives of their solitary neighbour, with his still-powerful body and big loose arms, but he is polite and doesn’t look at her that way.
He tells her about the war with Bosnia and how his chest was pierced by explosive fragments. He sees her looking at the majestic Bosendorfer, the concert piano dominating his modest living room.
“It came on the ship with me, it is the only thing left now.”
His big passionate hands begin the Busoni transcription of Bach’s Chaconne. The emotional intensity of the music sends shivers down her spine. Feelings of poignancy and loss fill her heart.
Sharon sees the happiness in Kosjenko’s dark-lidded eyes when he opens the door every Saturday afternoon thereafter, his white-stubbled face slowly crinkling in a wide smile. After accepting a cup of tea, she likes to drape her petite body across the old couch like a dreamy cat while she listens to his music. When he has tired of playing, they discuss art, philosophy, religion and world affairs.
Last week, when thick smoke is building above the western horizon, he asks her about the bushfires. She fetches her iPad and shows him the satellite view from the RFS website.
“That’s where we are, right at the end of this street.”
“Lucky I wasn’t sunbathing when they take the photo!” He throws back his grizzled head and laughs uproariously before the hacking cough grips his chest once more.
“I have never been in an Australian bushfire. It is quite major, yes?”
“Yes. You need to have your car packed and ready.”
Now, standing in the hot backyard under the roulette wheel sky, she smiles ruefully as she remembers his reply.
“Hah! The one thing I need, cannot possibly fit in any car.”
The coughing from next door stops and the seductive opening passages of Beethoven’s Appassionata take its place. She returns inside. Greg is putting down the phone. There is a worried frown on his face.
“They’re evacuating Ridgewell Road.”
“We’d better get ready then.”
“I’ll start by hosing the outside.” Greg dons his overalls, helmet and boots. He hangs a pair of goggles around his neck and closes the door tightly behind him.
She hears nearby sirens. The blades of unseen helicopters begin beating to and fro. The lacerating wind rattles the rapidly darkening windows. It is only mid-afternoon but she has to turn on the lights.
Fifteen minutes later Greg is back inside. He splashes cold water over his florid face and gulps down a beer. “I’ve never seen it come up so bad and so quickly,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “It’s heading this way. We should get out.”
She remembers her neighbour and picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Kosjenko, we have to get out. The fire is coming our way.”
There is silence at the other end. “Where do I go?”
“To the RSL club. They’ll have meals and showers.”
There’s another pause. “OK, I will see you at the RSL club. Goodbye Sharon.” The phone line clicks.
A deep steady roar fills her ears as she opens the front door. The rasping air is filled with flying twigs.
She leaves the shelter of the porch and makes a dash for the car. A scalding foretaste of the incendiary holocaust burns the back of her throat, making her gag uncontrollably. She wrenches open the passenger door and collapses inside. Greg throws the dog in the back and slides into the drivers seat with a grunt of relief.
They drive slowly through the broiling blackness and reach the turnoff to the RSL club. The smoke clears to reveal the immense orange radiance of the conflagration behind. A troubling thought surfaces – Kosjenko has never said goodbye to her before.
“We have to go back.”
“Whaaaat?”
“We have to go back. Kosjenko isn’t leaving.”
“This is dumb,” says Greg grimly as they turn back towards the firestorm.
“Just hurry, won’t you.”
Kosjenko’s car is still in the driveway. Flames are already shooting up from the deck.
He looks at her. “Don’t tell me you want me to try to get him out.”
“Yes,” she says evenly.
“Damn you, Sharon.” He says something else, something she doesn’t quite catch. The car door slams shut and he crouches low as he weaves his way through the swirling inferno of flying debris. He reaches the cottage and looks back at her for a moment before disappearing into the smoke. She is sobbing now, great jerking sobs that threaten to tear her chest apart.
The outside cladding suddenly bursts into flame and collapses in slow motion. She can see right into the house now. The exposed timber framework glows like the bones of a superheated X-ray plate. Kosjenko is seated at the piano, his great hands are moving up and down the keyboard. She almost convinces herself that she can hear the haunting chords of Bach’s Chaconne above the cyclonic roar of the advancing firestorm.
Two fire engines arrive, their garish blue and red lights flashing. But the flames have taken their inexorable grip on the unclad house by then. A puppet figure flails at the immovable pianist. The two figures become human torches. The second figure falls away in writhing torment. The hands of the first continue to run across the keys. She cannot bear to watch anymore and hot tears pour down her face.
When she looks up again, the piano glows white hot, like a great white whale before sounding for the last time. The collapsing pyre drags with it the firecracker flaring body, its hands now fused to the keyboard. A shower of sparks and gouty flame erupts.
She stumbles out of the ash-covered car. She is screaming hysterically, her eyes wide with horror. The fireys help her trembling body to the truck and treat her with solicitous care until the police and ambulance arrive.
The crews somehow manage to save her house and, after the road blocks are cleared two weeks later, she is allowed to return. She receives many sympathetic phone calls and visits, Suzie in particular commiserating with her on the tragic loss of her heroic husband.
During the quiet times, she stands in a particular spot in her kitchen and listens to the Chaconne coming from the charred ruin next door. The dog lifts his head from the kitchen tiles and looks at her questioningly.