attempt to resemble a real city by erecting a few skyscrapers; and it is a mixture of England and the tropics, with many public parks and suburbs, with lots of low houses and gardens full of flowers – all very welcome in a hot climate that slows the pace. In short, thought Erik Zondag, it is the very last place you would expect to find angels in the early years of the new millennium, though that was hardly a reason not to go looking for them. Who knows, he might even get a good story out of it for the paper. According to the instructions, he was to report to the tenth level of Wilson’s Car Park on Hay Street at 2.40 p.m. High-rise car parks were not his favourite architectural structures. Although it was nearly April, it was high summer and sweltering hot as he stood on the roof, scanning Perth stretched out below him, and the Swan River disappearing with a glitter of sunlight into the infinity of the ocean. It was here that Dutch traders had first clapped eyes on this continent, only to turn up their noses when they found nothing of value. No gold, no nutmeg – just weird furry animals that leaped instead of walked and natives that were nothing like the ones they had been dreaming of.
On the tenth level he encountered a young man who seemed to be expecting him. ‘Mr Sundag?’
‘Yes?’
‘Here’s a copy of the booklet, showing you the route you need to follow. This gentleman here will drive you to Barrack’s Arch, which is the actual starting point. The whole thing will take about three hours, and at the end the route will lead you back here.’ He sat in silence beside the stranger, who drove him to a brick building, where another silent man opened the door for him and then left him on his own. A dusty stairwell, a heap of rubbish on the landing, dry eucalyptus leaves blown in by the wind, old newspapers, steps painted a reddish brown. Silence. An empty room, an open sleeping bag, a couple of snapshots on a windowsill. Was this supposed to mean something? Was he following a trail? An indistinct map – not of any place he recognised, aerial photographs, spider webs. The roar of the nearby highway. There were six lanes here. Where did all those cars come from? Perth was not that big. He could hear the sound of his own footsteps. There was not an angel anywhere to be seen. He had obviously missed whatever it was he was supposed to see. Maybe it was all a stupid joke. He felt somewhat uncomfortable, and also tired, as if that endless flight was still playing havoc with his body. Why had he agreed to this nonsense? According to the booklet, when he emerged from Barrack’s Arch he was to turn left and walk down the hill to 240 St George’s Terrace. He walked as he normally would – a mere pedestrian among other pedestrians. They cannot see what I am up to, he thought. I am looking for angels, but they do not know that, and if I were to tell them, they would think I was crazy. That last part appealed to him. He found himself noticing things he would not usually have noticed. After all, anything might be a clue, a key, an allusion. Then he found himself in a bare room with just a few scribbled messages: Anne, which corner are you on? Etiam ne nescis? After that another heap of dusty leaves, spokes without a wheel, an entryway, a closed steel door, and then, suddenly, hanging on a railing, a few lines of Paradise Lost – the ones in which Adam and Eve, evicted from Paradise by a heavenly bouncer with wings, turn back for one last look:
In either hand the hast’ning Angel caught Our ling’ring parents, and to th’ Eastern Gate Led them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer’d.
And it was true. Before him lay a sorry patch of no-man’s-land: a rusty refrigerator, dead twigs, sand, weeds, a bare concrete wall. Behind him things were not much better: an empty lift shaft, disconnected electrical wires leading nowhere since the power had long since been shut off, and not an
On the tenth level he encountered a young man who seemed to be expecting him. ‘Mr Sundag?’
‘Yes?’
‘Here’s a copy of the booklet, showing you the route you need to follow. This gentleman here will drive you to Barrack’s Arch, which is the actual starting point. The whole thing will take about three hours, and at the end the route will lead you back here.’ He sat in silence beside the stranger, who drove him to a brick building, where another silent man opened the door for him and then left him on his own. A dusty stairwell, a heap of rubbish on the landing, dry eucalyptus leaves blown in by the wind, old newspapers, steps painted a reddish brown. Silence. An empty room, an open sleeping bag, a couple of snapshots on a windowsill. Was this supposed to mean something? Was he following a trail? An indistinct map – not of any place he recognised, aerial photographs, spider webs. The roar of the nearby highway. There were six lanes here. Where did all those cars come from? Perth was not that big. He could hear the sound of his own footsteps. There was not an angel anywhere to be seen. He had obviously missed whatever it was he was supposed to see. Maybe it was all a stupid joke. He felt somewhat uncomfortable, and also tired, as if that endless flight was still playing havoc with his body. Why had he agreed to this nonsense? According to the booklet, when he emerged from Barrack’s Arch he was to turn left and walk down the hill to 240 St George’s Terrace. He walked as he normally would – a mere pedestrian among other pedestrians. They cannot see what I am up to, he thought. I am looking for angels, but they do not know that, and if I were to tell them, they would think I was crazy. That last part appealed to him. He found himself noticing things he would not usually have noticed. After all, anything might be a clue, a key, an allusion. Then he found himself in a bare room with just a few scribbled messages: Anne, which corner are you on? Etiam ne nescis? After that another heap of dusty leaves, spokes without a wheel, an entryway, a closed steel door, and then, suddenly, hanging on a railing, a few lines of Paradise Lost – the ones in which Adam and Eve, evicted from Paradise by a heavenly bouncer with wings, turn back for one last look:
In either hand the hast’ning Angel caught Our ling’ring parents, and to th’ Eastern Gate Led them direct, and down the Cliff as fast To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer’d.
And it was true. Before him lay a sorry patch of no-man’s-land: a rusty refrigerator, dead twigs, sand, weeds, a bare concrete wall. Behind him things were not much better: an empty lift shaft, disconnected electrical wires leading nowhere since the power had long since been shut off, and not an
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