Harlequin Rex by Owen Marshall Page B

game, and both saw a value in that. Schweitzer himself might be competing with a scrub-cutter , a tax collector, a prosthesis technician, a sharebroker grown cynical within his career, a bathroom millionaire, or the most recent laundry employee. And, because of the nature of Harlequin, there were sometimes, in volleyball at least, advantages when the affliction began to stir. There was an ongoing controversy concerning the eligibility of patients to play when they had symptoms, for mild episodes ofHarlequin sometimes gave them spectacular physical virtuosity and intensity. The doctors were still unsure if such activity was beneficial.
    Raf was a champion himself: not especially quick, but tactically cunning, physically imposing, and with a spike feared in the business. Only Big Pulii before his death, and Bunt Lorrigan from Titi, could do it better. Others were more unlikely competitors, yet proved themselves adept. Elspeth Jones of Kotuku was thin and pale, but had a superlative skimming serve. Tony Sheridan was an accomplished retriever in back court: the precise hands of a physician, great feet like platters steady on the ground, great cock at the sagging crotch of his playing shorts, which were grey with faded green piping.
    Players practised for hours on end, rejoiced or were cast down by selections, argued about the team tactics. A hundred or more people might turn out to watch a routine game between blocks. Rules were parochial; each team had to have two women. New patients and new staff were assessed by guests as much for volleyball potential as any other contribution. Their block allocation was a source of rancorous dispute, with corruption often claimed, and often evident.
    Takahe was a good team but, no matter what David and Raf did, they could never inspire a win over Hoiho. The winner’s pennant was made of Susan Wedderburn’s lilac silk knickers, with TOP DOG embroidered on them in red thread by Sister Galleter. When Hoiho got stroppy they would parade the pennant around the grounds, or fly it from their TV aerial under guard.
    The number one court was on the level lawn by the main block. The grass had been established there the longest, and the buildings were a protection from the wind. Evan Beal was the gardener, and knew that strip of grass was more important than any of the flower beds, even those around the director’s house. Evan marked the court with weedkiller,and was abused for any miscalculation, until the fresh growth enabled him to redeem himself. He complained of the fetish sport, his real grievance being that he was too old to make one of the competition teams. When games were on, he was usually loitering around behind a wheelbarrow with a transistor hung from the handle.
    Volleyball was the present thing that they could fix on, separate from pasts which had cast them out, and from a future too threatening for many of them to consider. Volleyball was both defiance of where they found themselves, and submission to a new order. Within the realm of the centre it seemed no more ridiculous as a preoccupation than religion, or superannuation investment, did elsewhere. We are more easily ruled by custom than by logic, after all.
    David and Raf went down with the Takahe team to the number one court to play Kotuku. The team had supporters too, who walked down with them carrying plastic bags, or anoraks, to sit on in case the moisture came up through the grass. Not Howard Peat, whose pride prevented any display of community, not Mrs McIlwraith, who thought civilisation restricted to the indoors — I will not abide a man with hair sprouting from his ears, she said to Tolly Mathews — but Wilfe Orme, Sara Keppler, Jock McPhie. Gaynor Runcinski went from loyalty and an expectation of some tapestry of life about the court, and Abbey, whose talents were also cultural, joined her in the support of friends.
    ‘Easy beats, you Takahe ones,’ crowed old Sidey. ‘We’re going to kick your arse.’ Sidey,