Audi 2008 Annual Report Download - page 136

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Sydney
9
It’s typical of her. She was always trying to educate me, to make me more suit-
able. And now she wants to show me what a waste it’s all been, all these bitter
years. As if I didn’t know that already. As if I haven’t known it all along. Now I’m
angry all over again, and I can’t stand the thought of never seeing her again. It’s
four in the morning and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ll just get it over
with as quickly as possible. The botanic gardens are locked up for the night but I
can still follow the road along the eastern ridge of Mrs Macquarie’s Point where
it overlooks Woolloomooloo Bay, then the harbour, then the curving horizon. I sit
under a fig tree and wait for the dawn like a doomed prisoner. I’m still wearing
my second favourite suit.
The dawn is as beautiful as always. The night pales almost imperceptibly until the
sun appears over the headlands to the east. The harbour glows a rosy pink; it
looks like a rock garden freshly raked. I’ll walk back to work, drink some more cof-
fee and carry on as if none of this ever happened. I’ve been unhappy for ten years,
I can keep it up a bit longer. At the very edge of the point is a seat carved into the
sandstone for Elizabeth Macquarie, the second wife of the fifth governor of New
South Wales. From here you can see the whole harbour, from the Bridge and the
Opera House in the west to the island Ford Denison and the Heads in the east,
glowing with the morning sun. It’s one of Sydney’s most famous attractions, with
hundreds or thousands of visitors each day.
And Aggie is sitting there, tapping her watch because I’m late. For a mo-
ment I can’t believe my eyes, and then I’m overcome by rage. “This isn’t a secret!”
I shout at her, crazily. “What the hell are you talking about?” I can’t help noticing
that she still looks beautiful, her sharp features slightly softened, her pixie hair-
cut dyed a little brighter. She’s changed about as much as I have, in some ways a
lot, in others not at all.
“Don’t you remember?” she says. “We sat here together, quite by accident,
a few weeks before we met for the first time.” Of course I remember, but I can’t
admit it to her. “Thousands of people come here every day,” I insist. “It’s in all the
guidebooks. Everybody knows about it.” “No, they don’t,” she says. “Not what we
know.” For the first time I notice how hopeful she looks. Her face looks like it’s
about to split into a smile of the most blinding sunshine.
I feel like I’ve been tricked, she’s got me on a lawyer’s technicality. I summon my
objections, but I find I can’t say anything. And now her face reveals its smile, and