Decadent Sydney
Andrew Riemer
Louis Nowra
NOWRA'S PUBLISHERS are promoting this lively fable of Sydney high-life, sleaze and corruption as a roman à clef. And so it is: I can think of several worthy citizens who are bound to recognise themselves in these pages. We shouldn't get too sniffy about that, however; gossip often enlivens a novel, giving it a dash or two of spice. It would be a pity, though, if these sensational elements were to divert attention from Nowra's gifts and accomplishments. Red Nights has much more substance than its cleverly disguised tour around some of Sydney's notable movers, shakers and operators (on both sides of the law) would suggest.
It is also a more satisfying novel than is usually the case with such thrillers. Indeed, the one less than satisfactory aspect of this otherwise compelling and hugely enjoyable tale is directly related to the conventions of hard-boiled fiction. The climax (enigmatically anticipated on the first page), where Nowra attempts to draw together his novel's many strands, struck me as a trifle rushed, even perhaps perfunctory.
The central character is Nelson Taylor, an '80s high-flier whose intricate but fragile world has collapsed around his ears. He is broke; his finances have dried up; he has exhausted the generous limits on his raft of credit cards. Worst of all, he has lost his most precious possession, the outward and visible sign of his conquests: a sumptuous harbourside mansion, the inspiration for which the novel's Sydney readers will have no trouble recognising. There, at the height of his fame and influence, Nelson used to stage his celebrated 'Red Nights' in the ornate ballroom and in the forty-seat cinema, around the pool and on spacious patios, while cool waiters circled among the great and the famous, dispensing exquisite food, drink and drugs.
All that glory is in the past, however. In the course of the twenty-four hours that Red Nights follows Nelson as he tries to juggle creditors, enemies, would-be well-wishers and various encumbrances, he is buoyed up by one hope. Perhaps he can dispose of his one remaining asset, a superbly equipped yacht the receivers hadn't managed to discover among the tangled networks of his companies and enterprises. That hope sustains him through the disappointments and setbacks of a day of sunshine and storms. In the earlier sections of this cunningly constructed morality tale, Nelson rests confident in his ability to charm and wheedle his way out of all difficulties. He sees himself as Houdini, or as the Boy Who Couldn't Drown. Once the deal over the yacht is clinched with the shady and shadowy Larry, Nelson is convinced, he will be on the up again, out of the Twilight Zone of the ex-trendy, striding towards a new fortune, new fame and even perhaps back to the great house overlooking the harbour, to more 'Red Nights' and the best life has to offer.
Inevitably, of course, as the day wears on and as the rainclouds close in again, Nelson's self-confidence becomes increasingly strident and provisional. Even he begins to suspect that keeping so many balls in the air -- Marion, his wife; Mark, his deeply disturbed brother; his mistress, a feisty investigative journalist; sneaky and slippery politicians -- might be beyond his skill. And as night falls over the lurid streetscapes of Darlinghurst and Kings Cross, the casinos of Chinatown and bars of Oxford Street, Nelson finds that his past has literally come back to haunt him.
One of the most attractive features of Nowra's novel is a sophisticated knowingness. His characters are deftly depicted individuals who are nevertheless broadly representative specimens. Nelson, formerly Steve from Cairns and the prawn fisheries of Queensland, is the archetypal '80s entrepreneur whose micro-scopically thin veneer of urbanity proved entirely adequate in a world of facades and illusions.
Marion, his wife -- who spends much of the novel holed up in a five-star hotel where the management's patience with the minor matter of the bill is fast running out -- is a sad remnant of the old social hierarchies cast adrift in the present dog-eat-dog world. The lesser characters are also memorably caught, thanks largely to Nowra, the practised playwright's acute ear for the telling cadence or turn of phrase.
Some of the best moments in the novel come, indeed, with overheard snatches of conversation that provide their own eloquent testimony. There is a virtuoso passage of cocktail party chatter (accompanied by the Sydney Glance, a kind of radar scan for notabilities), the equal of the celebrated chapter in The Vivisector where White settled many scores and grudges by means of a similar device. There is also some wonderful double-talk by politicians and a sententious lecture about propriety delivered by the owner of a Chinatown casino...
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Andrew Riemer is the chief book reviewer of The Sydney Morning Herald.