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His forefinger scrolled slowly, meticulously down the page of the Weekend Shopper, stopping occasionally to highlight an advertisement that caught his eye.

Aspley Grove. Everything must go.

Stafford. All offers considered.

Wavell Heights. Deceased estate.

Victor read without emotion as he had so many times before. The irony wasn’t lost on him. In many ways, the advertisements reflected his life. So much reflected the life of this middle-aged man with greying hair and long, elegant fingers: the colourless mornings, the days spent in the back room of the suburban hardware store where he faithfully kept accounts and thought about his retirement, the empty nights in his half-empty rented unit. Even when he considered where he lived, next to the Prince Charles Hospital, the symbolism was not lost on him. There, almost exclusively, they treated damaged hearts. Life had a tendency to be cruelly ironic, he would often think.

Brisbane offered him little. Now, in the summer, it was a hot, sticky city with harsh, uninviting sounds: the violin lady in the unit above whose lonely playing was inevitably out of tune; the buses growling at regular intervals outside his unit, drowning the eternal drone of television programs which kept him company; the yells and slurs of drunken teenagers late on a Saturday night in the half-lit streets below. He wondered why he had even bothered to move here.

There was one release. Garage sales were his escape, his comfort. They offered something unexpected in his predictable week and they offered smiling, unfettered relationships, if only for a few minutes. Each Saturday morning, the ritual was replayed. When the grey morning forced itself through the thin curtains of his two-bedroom unit where he existed on his own, he would arise, leave the double bed unmade, put on the shorts and shirt that he had worn the previous evening, and walk to the hot bread shop not far from where he lived. There, Victor selected a copy of the Courier-Mail from the pile on the floor and left the exact money in small change on the counter. He would hear the clink of the coins on the glass surface but others seemed to be deaf to the sound. Two assistants, busily preparing for the day, no longer even looked at him. They were used to his routine. He always said “Thank you” as he left.

Back in his unit, a little breakfast, usually instant coffee and a single slice of toast, was followed by his only joy in this sad, empty city. From the newspaper, he removed the Weekend Shopper supplement and highlighted every garage sale in the surrounding suburbs, then, with the help of a street directory, he mapped out an exact itinerary. Carefully. Logically. Chermside. Aspley. Bridgeman Downs. McDowall. Everton Park. Stafford. Kedron. Wavell Heights.

Once in a while, Geebung. Back to Chermside. Any advertisement that declared, “Sunday only,” he marked with a different colour, in case he felt enthusiastic enough the following morning. But Saturday never varied. Saturday garage sales were his obsession, his religion.

That morning, the advertisements didn’t sound promising, but he knew it meant little. Experience had taught him that hope often led to disappointment. Sometimes, the most unlikely, the most ordinary of advertisements led to a satisfying discovery: the biography of an historical figure, a CD of rich, classical music, or a gift for one of his grandchildren who lived so far away. Who could tell? He walked down the stairs to his car.

Outside, he was met by the usual sights, and as usual, barely registered their existence. The unwelcoming red brick of the units left him cold. Junk mail overflowed from mailboxes: coloured brochures gradually fading in the sun or hanging limp after the occasional summer rain shower. A few wheelie bins, left out for several days after pick-up, congregated haphazardly on the footpath. On warm Saturday mornings, after a week of noisy, rushed activity, the whole city seemed exhausted.

Victor opened the garage to Number 3 and reversed the car onto the wide expanse of the concrete driveway. The garage door, heavily spring-loaded, had to be slammed to close properly. Back in the front seat, he reached over to the console. The radio leapt into sound. Beautiful music, the announcer asserted. Sometimes he would switch it off, especially when he thought the words of a song might sting his memory. After so long, it could still affect him if he wasn’t careful. Today, he wasn’t sure. He switched the announcer off and drove slowly onto the road.

There was once a time when the world around him was full of inspirational beauty: the promising anticipation of every new day, the richness of music that made the heart glow, the laughter of company and good wine, the touch of love. All that had faded in a flood of ordinary events that would only happen to ordinary people, people whose lives were superficial, uninspiring. His life was never going to be ordinary, or so others had told him. So he believed. Then it had all unravelled and he was lost. He moved to Brisbane. In Brisbane, he knew no-one and no-one knew him. But two years had passed, and hope had deserted him. Life became an existence. Except for Saturdays.

The garage sales in Chermside were unproductive. At one, he was tempted by an ornate metallic jewellery box for his grand-daughter but the tarnished surface held him back. Now she was a little older, she would notice and it would be important to her. At another sale, the woman seemed distant and disinterested.

“Would you consider five dollars?” on a small stationery set over-priced at ten.

“Nine.” One syllable.

He put it down.

Aspley Grove was imposing, modern and luxurious. Families lived in comfort, with four-wheel drives frequenting the patterned driveways and well-behaved children impeccably dressed who greeted you politely if their parents were busy. Everything was organised, often with computer-drawn signs promoting quality furniture inside. Sometimes, Victor would pretend to be interested in an advertised item so he could admire the tasteful décor inside. Inevitably, he left feeling a little envious, so he didn’t do it often.

He checked the advertisement again. Everything must go. He wondered why. Separation? Bankruptcy? Going overseas? You couldn’t always tell: the veneer of homes and families hid much. The sale itself revealed nothing. The double garage was filled with children’s toys in perfect condition, with clothes hanging in orderly fashion on racks, with gleaming kitchen and dining ware, with tasteful decorative items from overseas trips. The owners, joined for the event by neighbours (Victor could tell they weren’t family) who laughed and talked over coffee and toast while the children arranged and rearranged their toys, wondering whether they would be able to keep the proceeds of their childhood.

Nothing appealed. Victor noticed the sign that read, “Furniture inside”.

He said, “Thank you,” and left.

There was not much that morning. The people were pleasant enough, with an odd chat here and there brightening up his morning a little. Bargains were not forthcoming, though.

A desk organiser. A CD of classical music for two dollars. He had all but two tracks already, but why not? Finally, a small, framed landscape to fill the bare wall in his hallway.

It wasn’t much.

Stafford was disappointing. As he pulled up in his car, he knew it would be. The wire fence leaned tiredly astride untended grass. The wooden house was clearly in need of paint, but just as obviously, would be waiting for some time yet. A rental property. By the time Victor arrived, it was not yet 9 o’clock, but already there was a half-drunk stubby of beer left sitting on a bench. No-one was there to keep it company. He allowed himself a quick, unhopeful look at the scattered offerings, a few of them with prices scrawled hurriedly in large chalked numbers. Untidy. More like abandoned. All offers considered, certainly, but mostly on car parts, slightly rusted tools and magazines looking at least three years old. He didn’t even wait for the seller to appear from the recesses of the garage: he imagined what he might be like.

The day was becoming uncomfortably hot. Winding down the window helped a little. The city was becoming more active, the traffic increasing with the temperature. There were more cars, more red traffic lights, more sounds. Above, the sky was changing. The soft white-grey of increasing clouds was now tinged with darker, more threatening shades. The sky seemed to be lowering itself onto the city, a cocoon spinning itself in ever-decreasing circles.

Wavell Heights. Deceased estate.

Old houses ready for embalming. Relatives would tend to them, lovingly, so as not to tread accidentally on some memory. Old houses, yes, houses that had been home to the same people for decades, people from a time that moved more slowly, or sometimes moved not at all. Houses surrounded by verandahs. Houses that smelt faintly of old carpet and mothballs and talcum powder. Houses full of trinkets and old paintings, outdated furniture and bulky, misshapen cutlery. Carved doorways and high ceilings, tongue-in-groove walls and white casement windows. Lounge rooms embracing dusty, comfortable armchairs with large upholstered armrests. Bedrooms with silky oak dressers and mirrored wardrobes, too heavy for one person to move. Kitchens with laminated benches covered in delicate crockery recalling a time of afternoon tea and cake and conversation, long before the days of a quick message on a mobile phone. People knew each other then. They had time.

There was something sacred about deceased estates, a reverence. Victor would be slightly offended by those who did not show respect: dealers offering a pittance for a roomful of memories, parents who let their children pick up fragile ornaments and play with them, those who rummaged carelessly through boxes of old clothes and left them untidy on a bed.

Victor had respect for the past.

The house was what he expected. The only sign of change from the original design was a closed-in verandah, enclosed in the distinctive 1960s’ combination of glass: clear sliding windows for the most part, with a narrower skirt of opaque orange-gold below. It was probably an attempt to reduce the angry noise of traffic, but it also served to divide the old from the new. Originally built in the isolated, outlying districts of Brisbane, the house was now only separated from busy, suburban Edinburgh Castle Road by a low brick wall.

On the verandah, the old doors remained: double doors of white lattice that still allowed the sounds of the outside world to intrude a little. The doors were normally closed, only parting briefly to welcome visitors, before closing quietly behind them. The outside world of passing motorists and occasional pedestrians never saw them ajar. Today, though, they were open and welcoming.

Victor accepted the invitation to mount the steps. As he neared the top, he noticed only two people: perhaps there were more inside. It was getting late for garage sales, and by now they attracted only a few passers-by on their way home. The two figures, a man and a woman, were just leaving, empty-handed and talking between themselves. Victor stepped onto the verandah. To one side, a middle-aged woman in a pale yellow dress. A cup of tea rested on a small table. Her brief smile, and friendly “Good morning,” identified her as the seller. Behind her smile, something else, something faintly familiar, something he recognised. Perhaps it was a sense of loss, but there was strength there, too. The devoted daughter, he imagined. He returned her greeting and smiled politely.

“There’s not much left, I’m afraid,” she said. Then, as if remembering, “You might like to look through the rooms. Everything’s negotiable.” She looked a little tired. She would close the lattice doors soon, he felt.

This house had its ghosts. There was the ghost of the old woman who had recently died and still haunted the woman in the pale yellow dress, but there were other ghosts, too. There were gentle, nostalgic ghosts who whispered half-forgotten memories of times that faded into the past. There were ghosts that recalled the love of a man for a woman, and recalled the day their daughter was born. There were wonderful ghosts who reminisced about family gatherings of uncles and aunts and cousins and laughing and singing, or recalled friends who gave help when help was needed but not asked for. There were ghosts who returned regularly to remind everyone about the joys of Christmas, or the sounds of a child’s birthday, or the tender romance of anniversaries. There were ghosts who watched over the man and the woman as they slept peacefully in each other’s arms at night, until the morning the man did not awaken. There were cruel ghosts, too. Ghosts that took the daughter’s lover away to war for a time, ghosts that broke the heart of the only child when her life was shattered when she heard the news, ghosts from the future that promised only emptiness.

Victor understood ghosts.

These houses were nearly always the same. A carved archway over the entry door led to a darkened hallway through the middle of the house. Worn carpet echoed the muted sounds of footsteps over the years. Above, on a cord, a single hanging light with a yellowed shade constantly moved, ever so slightly, as if to prove there was life here. Along the hallway, doorways to left and right. At the far end, the hall led into a large kitchen, where smells of cooking used to linger in the air, tempting the visitor to sit at the table where friendship and good food beckoned.

Today, however, there were no tempting smells. Even without exploring individual rooms, Victor knew what he would see: a few leftover odds and ends spread out on the floors of rooms, or some larger items of furniture with “Sold” on them written on paper attached with bits of tape, announcing they would soon be taken away by anonymous buyers. Still, it might be interesting to explore. He felt like spending a little time here.

On his left, a doorway.

Through the doorway, he caught his breath.

In one corner of what would have been the lounge room stood a piano. Dark, gleaming, majestic. An upright piano almost black in colour, black in the half-light of the room, with an upholstered piano stool to match. Only one bulky armchair inhabited the rest of the room, but Victor barely noticed it. His attention was held by this totally unexpected discovery.

In those few moments, the rush of his own ghosts filled the room. Ghosts of Brahms and Liszt and Chopin. Ghosts of lullabies and rhapsodies and nocturnes. They brought other ghosts with them, too, and they were upon him before he realised. Images of the past. Fleeting moments of joy, and disappointment, and sadness, anger and despair. Not just images, but sounds, too. Sounds of a childhood piano, swelling sounds of a symphony orchestra, sounds of a woman’s voice whispering goodbye to him. He thought he had left them far behind, soft, grey, faded ghosts. They became memories of another life, another time, even another person. Time and distance had given him strength to escape.

There was no avoiding them now. His ghosts reached out and held him fast. Unable to move, he wasn’t aware of the figure in the hallway behind him.

“It’s alright if you want to play,” said the woman in the yellow dress, recognising what inspired his attention. She spoke gently so as not to startle him.

“Yes… yes… thank you,” he replied, without turning. “I haven’t seen a Lipp for a long time.” The gold embossing of the manufacturer’s name was clearly legible on the lacquered frame. Not as good as a Steinway, but close.

Victor continued to stand in the doorway, a pilgrim overawed, uncertain about entering the inner sanctum. The woman remained silent in the hallway, knowing it was best to let the visitor take his time.

Finally he moved to the piano but didn’t sit down. His long fingers brushed the surface of the instrument.

“It’s quite beautiful,” he stated. “Lipp,” he repeated softly to himself.

“It’s just been tuned. It’s always been looked after.”

“Pianos have always appealed to me,” he said. “I’ve never been without one until… until recently, you know. Maybe it’s time I had one again… I don’t know…”

“How about I give you my name and phone number in case you decide you’re interested?” said the woman.

“If you don’t mind,” he said politely but without too much enthusiasm. He’d learnt to automatically disguise any interest. Sometimes it helped get the price down.

“Do I want this?” he wondered.

He lifted the lid of the piano and looked down at the keys of the piano while she stepped back out onto the verandah to record her details on a notebook. He touched the cool ivory of one note. Always Middle C first: it was a compulsion of his. It reminded him of her, how she had said music was the centre of his universe. He sat down, played C Sharp, the key he wanted, then allowed himself several bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Simple but hypnotic. Almost instantly, he could visualise the lake that inspired the great composer. Elegant, calm, dark. The music floated on its surface.

The woman was right. The instrument was perfectly in tune.

“That’s very good,” said her voice, suddenly close to him. “You’ve played quite a bit, I think.” Victor was pleasantly surprised that she recognised his skill. “I never was much good myself,” she continued, “but my mother was a wonderful player. I could listen to her for hours. She was all I had. I’ll miss her.” She kept still for a moment, and Victor wondered if the pause was because of fond memories or a sense of loss or perhaps, something more indefinable. She handed him the scrap of paper, neatly detached from her notebook.

“Tessa,” he murmured, reading.

“Theresa, really,” she said, “but I like Tessa. And you’re…?”

“Victor.”

“Do you prefer Vic?”

“Victor.”

The slight rejection didn’t show. “Music can lift you when you’re alone,” she said. Victor wasn’t sure if she was referring to him or to herself. Maybe it was both. He felt a need to respond.

“You were right. I did play. There was a time when… when it was all I did.” He could feel her interest. More than polite. Sincere. “I played in concerts, you know. We used to tour, play in halls, in festivals,” then with a little pride, “and even at the Sydney Opera House.” He fell silent at that, wondering where it had all gone.

Tessa’s voice halted the slide into unwanted memories.

“I admire you for that, I really do. Don’t you play for anyone any more?”

“No. There’s no-one to play for, I guess.” He said it plainly, without self-pity.

“I think you’re never alone with music,” she said. “If you go back to playing, you’ll always have company, don’t you think?” Just for a moment, Victor found himself looking directly at her.

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about the piano. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Ring if you like.”

Victor said nothing. Reluctantly, he rose from the seat. He remembered the applause that used to greet him at that point, but he had never taken it as admiration for him. It was for the music. He was just grateful he could share it with others. He looked down at the piano again, felt the temptation to play a little more but instead, slowly lowered the lid over the keys.

“Thank you. Have a good day,” he said. It was nothing special. He had said it often. He walked out of the darkened house, not bothering to look through the rest of the rooms, and onto the wide verandah where one woman used to sit patiently waiting for her daughter to arrive on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Tessa’s attention was taken by another potential buyer, probably the last one for the day, someone looking at what was left of her mother’s china tea sets. He was aware of her voice fading gradually as he walked down the steps and along the broken concrete pathway. He didn’t look back. He thought of Moonlight Sonata and her yellow dress.

There were no more garage sales. It was too hot now, in any case. Heavy clouds above threatened rain at any moment and he had to get back to the unit. It had been a long morning.

The car was very warm now. He had spent more time on sales than he wanted. He opened the window a little and turned the radio on. He caught the start of a familiar song.

“Take my hand I’m a stranger in Paradise…”

Victor smiled to himself. Irony followed him everywhere.

He recognised the song from Kismet. Naturally, Victor knew the original source of the melody. Borodin. Alexander Borodin. The Maidens’ Dance from Prince Igor. Such a captivating melody, full of haunting tenderness and beauty. He increased the volume slightly and sang softly with the words as he listened. Tessa’s words came back to him, “You’re never alone with music…”

Outside, the first heavy drops of rain slapped the windscreen of the car. He switched on the intermittent wipers, slowly at first, then as the rain splashed down, turned the control so the blades thumped side to side, side to side, in an even rhythm. A metronome, he thought. The temperature fell almost immediately with the rain, the cooler air finding its way through the small opening of the window. A few spots of rain found their way into the car too, but he didn’t mind. Against his skin, it felt refreshing, soothing.

Five minutes to home.

He found himself wondering where he might put a piano. It surprised him that he was even contemplating it. Until now, he had locked away his past and denied it existed. It was his shield. He had done it so deliberately, so certainly, that no-one at work knew anything about his earlier life. In all of Brisbane, no-one knew, until today.

The rain fell steadily now. He drove carefully. At one red light, he noticed two children scurrying through the downpour towards a shop awning, laughing as they tried vainly to cover their heads with their hands. Cars slowed down against the onslaught of rain, losing that sense of urgency that only minutes before seemed so important. Some switched on their parking lights as a precaution, some even headlights. The lights punctuated the greyness of the rain.

It was music, music that gave him joy. He knew that. Why did it feel like a revelation?

Traffic hissed on wet roads. Life continued. Gympie Road flowed with people driving to different venues for countless different reasons. Exciting reasons. Mundane reasons. Fulfilling reasons. Desperate reasons. Financial reasons. Reasons of love or caring or a sense of responsibility. Selfish and unselfish reasons. Personal, secret reasons. Each car, each person had their own destination. Sometimes, Victor finally admitted to himself, that destination wasn’t always clear.

The silver rain fell.

The last clinging notes of A Stranger in Paradise faded on the radio.

He felt the sting of tears on his face, tears not of pain, but release.

Victor looked through the cleansing rain. He looked at the sights surrounding him: the wide streets, the indistinct figures in cars and under shelters, people with purpose in their lives, some even with passion. He looked at the colours, the life. And he saw the trees of the city, glistening rich and green with the rain. Everywhere, there were trees: by the roadside, in the yards of almost every house, trees climbing the gentle hills in the distance, trees embracing the landscape everywhere he looked.

He’d never seen the city this way before.

Perhaps Brisbane had more to offer than he had realised.

Perhaps, Victor thought, he might have to phone Tessa about the piano.