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  PRAISE FOR

  THE MUSEUM OF MODERN LOVE

  Winner of the 2017 Stella Prize

  Winner of the 2017 Margaret Scott Prize—Tasmanian Premier’s Literary Prizes

  Winner of the 2017 Christina Stead Prize for Fiction—NSW Premier’s Literary Awards

  Shortlisted for the 2017 Australian Literature Society Gold Medal

  Shortlisted for the 2017 University of Queensland Fiction Book Award

  ‘The Museum of Modern Love is more than just that rare treat, a book that requires something of the reader—it is a book that painstakingly prepares you for its own requirements. In a playful way, this bold new novel by Heather Rose is an astute meditation on art, bravery, friendship, love, how to live, and on dying … Once the novel is closed there is so much left to consider, leaving the reader at the start of a journey but well-equipped.’ Louise Swinn, The Age

  ‘If Heather Rose’s audacious and beautiful new novel were adapted for the stage, it would require a theatre-in-the-round treatment … That Rose’s novel evokes such a vivid mental staging is a testament to her powers as a storyteller. One of the delightful surprises of The Museum of Modern Love is discovering that the all-knowing storyteller is not your distant, narrative god descended from Dickens and Austen, but an intimate voice, someone we all recognise from our own struggles and lives. Pondering the parameters of this storyteller turns out to be almost as tantalising in this book as mulling its deeper questions: What are we? What is art? How should we live?’ Dominic Smith, author of The Last Painting of Sara de Vos

  ‘Framing a love story around a long-durational performance work, where the passage of time is essential, is a profoundly original idea. I loved this book.’ Marina Abramović

  ‘This captivating work explores the meaning of art in our lives and the ways in which it deepens our understanding of ourselves … Rose also combines intriguing characters with a laser-sharp focus on art to produce a gem of a novel.’ Library Journal, starred review

  ‘Clever, genre-bending … A portrait of human desire and human failing, but perhaps most profoundly, human striving for something greater than self. Rose’s melancholy book resonates with emotion, touching on life’s great dilemmas—death, vocation, love, art.’ Publishers Weekly, starred review

  ‘Deeply involving … profound … emotionally rich and thought-provoking.’ Booklist, starred review

  ‘From its conception to its last page, this book challenges our perceptions of where life ends and art begins …’ The Australian

  ‘The narrator’s voice gives the novel a quiet power, as if the universe was filled with a non-meddling benevolence. There’s a cinematic quality too, with even minor figures sketched in with sure and affecting touches. The Museum of Modern Love is alive with the surprise and challenge of presence in many of its forms—it is a very generous book indeed. Images and storytelling have been intertwined since the first human beings gathered by a painted wall to tell tales in the firelight. Heather Rose’s The Museum of Modern Love works with these ancient ghosts with exquisite care and intelligence. Positing grief and art as deep echoes that corroborate the transitory nature of our lives, Rose brings the reader to a place of acceptance despite the inevitable darkness. With rare subtlety and humanity, this novel relocates the difficult path to wonder in us all.’ The Christina Stead Prize 2017

  ‘A meditation on love and creativity … Special kudos to the author for a pedantry-free examination of art’s ability to change lives—and for this novel’s tacit implications of the vanishing space between fact and fiction.’ New York Journal of Books

  ‘A moving book that invites the reader to revel and re-evaluate.’ Booktopia

  ‘Rose brings a skilled and at times almost mischievous artistry, not least in effecting narrative surprises that both disorient and persuade.’ Sydney Review of Books

  ‘A glorious novel, meditative and special in a way that defies easy articulation.’ Hannah Kent, author of Burial Rites

  ‘The Museum of Modern Love is that rare and lovely thing: a novel of ideas that blooms into a persuasive illusion of real life … The lapidary brilliance of Rose’s sentences is never overblown and her style is one of prescient, unflustered beauty.’ West Weekend Magazine

  Heather Rose is the Australian author of eight novels. Her seventh novel The Museum of Modern Love won the 2017 Stella Prize. It also won the 2017 Christina Stead Prize and the 2017 Margaret Scott Prize. It has been published internationally and translated into numerous languages. Both The Museum of Modern Love and The Butterfly Man were longlisted for the International Dublin Literary Award. The Butterfly Man won the Davitt Award in 2006, and in 2007 The River Wife won the international Varuna Eleanor Dark Fellowship. Heather writes with Danielle Wood under the pen-name Angelica Banks and their Tuesday McGillycuddy children’s series has twice been shortlisted for the Aurealis Awards for best children’s fantasy. Angelica Banks is also published internationally. Heather lives by the sea in Tasmania.

  By Heather Rose

  The Museum of Modern Love

  The River Wife

  The Butterfly Man

  White Heart

  For younger readers aged 8–12 under the pen-name Angelica Banks with Danielle Wood

  Finding Serendipity

  A Week Without Tuesday

  Blueberry Pancakes Forever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2019

  Copyright © Heather Rose 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  The excerpt on p. 18 is from ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 516 9

  eISBN 978 176087 237 3

  Maps by Guy Holt

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: www.sandycull.com

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  For everyone who is still awake

  ‘A flow of words is a sure sign of duplicity.’

  HONORÉ DE BALZAC

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAP
TER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  A Pacific Gull is winging its way down the wide course of the Derwent River. It dips its dark-tipped wings past a curve of headland and slides west into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel. There, behold, at the mouth of the channel is an enormous suspension bridge, as high as the Brooklyn Bridge and two hundred and twenty-seven metres longer.

  For the last one hundred years and more, the only access to Bruny Island has been by boat or the two vehicle ferries running morning to night across the channel. Now, after four years under construction, the bridge is three months short of completion. Cables tension the entire structure, curtaining the sky. Two roadways, reaching from shore to shore, come to an abrupt gap over a calm indigo sea.

  At the near shore, where the bridge begins, is a hamlet called Tinderbox. It is here, on the beach, that the Pacific Gull lands. The night and the tide are at ebb. Dawn is a promise on the horizon. There are no lights on in the homes and no traffic on the road.

  The far shore, Bruny, is one of the largest and most popular islands off the Tasmanian coastline. It is almost one hundred kilometres in length, half as big again as Martha’s Vineyard but without the mansions, wealth or famous seasonal occupants. Bruny is a long stretch of farmlands, eucalyptus forests, green and gold hills, and long white beaches. For those who come to holiday, it’s a place for fishing, swimming, and simply sitting on your deck with a beer or a glass of wine and thinking about how good life is. Tasmanians do quite a bit of that, given the chance.

  Permanent residents on Bruny number just a few hundred. Several thousand shack owners swell the island population through summer and school holidays. And more than two hundred and fifty thousand tourists visit year round, staying in the hotels, cottages, caravan parks and national parks, filling the restaurants, buying local chocolate, local cheese, local whisky, gin and vodka, local salmon, oysters and local wine. If Tasmania is the new France for global gourmets, Bruny is the new Cote d’Azur. Tourists fill cruise boats and bus tours, car parks and craft stores. It is for the tourists, the Tasmanian government says, that the great bridge is being built.

  As dawn arrives, a large speedboat becomes visible, tucked under the cliffs at Tinderbox. It is steel grey, more an absence of light than a presence. Four divers surface beside the boat and clamber aboard. A fifth person emerges from the boat’s cabin and swings a winch into action. The gull lifts from the shore and flies towards the boat, alighting on the roof beside the radio antennae. The divers lose their masks and fins, then shrug off their tanks and lower their weight belts to the deck. Four large catch bags are winched out of the sea. The contents are heavy and unmoving. No wriggling fish, crayfish or abalone. Everything is done with as little noise as possible. None of them remove the balaclavas they are all wearing.

  ‘That bloody drill …’ says one of the divers.

  ‘Let’s move,’ says a second, surveying the shore and the sky. They look towards the bridge and fall silent.

  The boat engine comes to life and the gull lifts away. Within moments the boat is heading south out of the bay and leaving a widening wake down the channel. A security guard for the bridge comes out of his office on the hill at Tinderbox and notes the disappearing boat. He scratches his chin and frowns. He calls his colleague over on Bruny Island. It goes to voicemail. He calls again. Still no answer. The boat is mid-channel now and moving fast. He calls another number and looks to where he knows the foreman lives on North Bruny.

  ‘Yep,’ says the foreman. Dan Macmillan doesn’t sound like he was asleep, though he was when the phone rang. He’s quickly alert.

  ‘Can’t raise Clarke,’ says the security guard. ‘Just had a strange-looking boat close by. Don’t know when it came in. Didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Is it still there?’ Dan asks.

  ‘Headed down the channel now. Reckon you can see it from your place.’

  Dan gets out of bed and walks into his lounge room. The distant hills are just catching the early light, their forested peaks aglow. Dan picks up his binoculars on the bookshelf and surveys the water. He finds the wake and travels his gaze along it to the speedboat moving south fast. Too far away now to see much, but it’s no recreational fishing boat. He’s sure about that. It looks like a military vessel, almost invisible against the sea.

  ‘What’s that doing here?’ Dan says more to himself than the guard. ‘No-one called you?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Just saw it come out under the cliffs.’

  ‘Clarke see anything?’

  The security guard sighs. ‘Can’t raise him. It’s quick though. Quiet too. Navy?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Dan. ‘Pretty sure we don’t have boats like that.’

  From either side of the channel, the two men observe the great bridge and the colour coming back to the world. The wake settles and the channel resumes its vivid calm. The vessel is out of sight.

  ‘I’ll go down and take a look,’ says the security guard.

  ‘Check carefully. And ring Hobart,’ says Dan. ‘Find out what you can. Maybe someone forgot to tell us something.’

  ‘Will do. Let’s hope it’s nothing.’

  ‘I’ll go wake Clarke,’ says Dan.

  An hour after the boat disappeared down the channel, Dan Macmillan is on the shore at Dennes Point. The sky has faded to a blue so pure it looks freshly invented. He sees no sign of anything to concern him on this side of the bridge. The security guard has done the same on the Tinderbox side. Nothing. Dan has also woken Clarke and roasted him. Now he’s walking back towards the jetty. The only breeze is a zephyr rounding the point, gently ruffling the bay’s calm, casting mirrored shards of light across the channel.

  Dan is thinking of coffee and scrambled eggs when a deep rumbling shatters the morning’s calm. He spins around to see the bridge tower on the Tinderbox side quiver then shake. As he watches, the one-hundred-and-sixty-eight-metre tower drops into the sea. It takes with it cables and a large section of bridge roadway, all disappearing into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.

  Later, Dan remembers everything happening in slow motion. The bridge squealing like a meat grinder on metal. The cables straining, several vertical cables snapping, the noise of giant whip cracks. The sea churning and roiling. Shock waves rushing erratically towards the shore. The second tower shivering too, but holding. The bridge screaming and groaning until it settles in a twisted slump, cables swinging loose in the morning air.

  Residents come out to gape. After some time, police sirens are heard coming from Hobart. The media is in quick pursuit. By mid-morning, a flotilla of voyeurs aboard yachts, speed-boats, dinghies, paddleboards, windsurfers and kayaks is being held back by two police launches. On radio and television, the expression ‘terrorist attack’ is used.

  The premier, John Coleman, a large man with a salesman’s smile not in evidence on this occasion, says that an outrageous act of barbarism and sabotage has been enacted upon the Tasmanian people. The leader of the Opposition, Maxine Coleman, who happens to be the premier’s older sister, says it’s hard to fathom that such a thing could happen in Tasmania and that all Tasmanians will be in shock.

  By evening, every media channel in Australia is running a version of TASSIE TERRORIST STRIKE as its lead story. The federal police are raking through files that might indicate a suspect or suspects. There are helicopters and naval boats out searchin
g for that disappearing speedboat, but they find nothing. It’s as if it has evaporated.

  Leaders of several bridge protest groups are taken in for questioning. Marinas from Hobart to Kettering are searched for evidence of explosives. There’s some roughing up and the usual standover tactics, but no-one bends. There are no obvious leads but a world of suspicion. The bridge has had four years of serious opposition.

  The Pacific Gull is now long gone. It has flown on to more isolated stretches of coastline, searching for yet another place to feed and rest. The bridge drama, however, goes on. There is an election coming, and the premier is keen to show that he’s not bowed by any of this.

  ‘I want to reassure Tasmanians,’ John Coleman declares that first night on television, the broken bridge behind him, ‘that we will not be diminished by today’s violent assault on our peaceful community. Nor will this shocking act dissuade us from fulfilling my government’s brilliant vision for Tasmania. We will find these terrorists and bring them to justice. The Bruny Bridge continues to be a project of national significance. Come March next year, the bridge will be open on schedule, and the next chapter in the success story of Tasmania will begin.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  As the hours went by, the truck began to smell more and more of men. If we were passing through towns blasted to rubble, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that we were squeezed into the back of a truck, part of a midnight convoy entering a stronghold of land I had observed only on satellite images.

  When we finally drew to a stop, it was after dawn. I slipped the niqab over my clothing. The truck doors opened on a bleached dusty street with the usual piles of rubbish. Decomposing plastic bags were caught on thorn bushes and underfoot my boot broke an abandoned plastic fork. It was twenty-eight degrees and 6.30 am.