PRAISE FOR
Barracuda
‘Tsiolkas writes with compelling clarity about the primal stuff that drives us all: the love and hate and fear of failure. He is also brilliant on the nuances of relationships. Some of the scenes in this novel about the hurt human beings inflict on each other are so painful that they chill the blood. At times, the prose is near to poetry.’ —Sunday Times
‘By page 70 I realised that I was reading something epic and supremely accomplished. Thereafter, I found myself more and more admiring of the subtle, profoundly human way that Tsiolkas was handling his subject. And I finished Barracuda on a high: moved, elated, immersed … This is the work of a superb writer who has completely mastered his craft but lost nothing of his fiery spirit in so doing. It is a big achievement.’ —Guardian
‘This involving and substantial tale—surprisingly tender for all its sweary shock-value—is carried swiftly along by Tsiolkas’s athletic, often lyrical prose.’ —Daily Mail
‘Masterful, addictive, clear-eyed storytelling about the real business of life: winning and losing.’ —Viv Groskop, Red Online
‘The Slap, Christos Tsiolkas’s bestselling previous novel, declared “Welcome to Australia in the early 21st century.” The same semi-ironic sentiment echoes throughout Barracuda, which is, if anything, an even greater novel … It may tell an old, old story, but it has rarely been told in a better way.’ —Telegraph
PRAISE FOR
The Slap
‘Once in a while a novel comes along that reminds me why I love to read: The Slap is such a book … Tsiolkas throws open the window on society, picks apart its flaws, embraces its contradictions and recognises its beauty, all the time asking the reader, Whose side are you on? Honestly, one of the three or four truly great novels of the new millennium.’ —John Boyne, author of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
‘The Slap is nothing short of a tour de force, and it confirms Christos Tsiolkas’s reputation as one of the most significant contemporary storytellers at work today … Here is a novel of immense power and scope.’ —Colm Toíbín, author of Brooklyn
‘Brilliant, beautiful, shockingly lucid and real, this is a novel as big as life built from small, secret, closely observed beats of the human heart. A cool, calm, irresistible masterpiece.’ —Chris Cleave, author of The Other Hand
‘A novel of great emotional complexity; as the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Tsiolkas has a rare ability to inhabit his characters’ inner worlds. The Slap places family life under the microscope, and the outcome is nothing less than a modern masterpiece.’ —The Times
‘The Book of the Summer. Now and again a book comes along that defines a summer. This year that book is The Slap … The Slap has one elusive, rare quality: it appeals to both genders … The ideal summer read: escapist, funny and clever writing by a brilliant Australian novelist.’ —Telegraph (UK)
‘Strikingly tender … It claws into you with its freshness and truth.’ —Sydney Morning Herald
‘It’s often said that the best politicians are those who can instinctively divine the zeitgeist of their country’s centre. For the ones who can’t, I would place The Slap as mandatory bedside table reading. It’s a perfect social document of what Australia is today. More importantly, it’s also one hell of a read.’ —Venero Armanno, The Australian
‘Tsiolkas is a hard-edged, powerful writer, but glowing at the heart of all the anger among these feuding families are sparks of understanding, resignation and even love … The novel transcends both suburban Melbourne and the Australian continent, leaving us exhausted but gasping with admiration.’ —Washington Post
‘Think Tom Wolfe meets Philip Roth. Or The Sopranos meets The Real Housewives of Orange County.’ —LA Times
‘Fond, fractious, lit from within by flashes of casual lust and malice, it’s like Neighbours as Philip Roth might have written it.’ —Sunday Times
‘This ingenious and passionate book is a wonderful dissection of suburban Australian living … this is a beautifully structured and executed examination of the complexity of modern living; a compelling journey into the darkness of suburbia.’ —Independent on Sunday
‘… a “way we live now” novel … riveting from beginning to end.’ —Jane Smiley, Guardian
‘A rich, provocative and poignant examination, exploring such themes as loyalty, friendship and marriage, class, gender politics, generation gaps, Aboriginal assimilation, immigrant identity and, of course, corporal punishment. It’s an ambitious agenda, but nothing ever feels shoehorned in, and that’s down to the even-handed skill with which he draws his characters. No clear lines of morality are drawn, and that’s The Slap’s greatest strength.’ —National Post
‘An ambitious, state-of-the-nation novel of John Howard’s post-9/11 Australia. Tsiolkas manages to add winding complexities to each of the inner portraits—which might have spiralled out of control in the hands of a less-deft writer. Tsiolkas’s remarkable narrative fluidity proves that a fabulous page-turner can also contain great emotional power and intelligence.’ —Independent
‘Tsiolkas achieves an unusual double vision that both drives the story forward at speed and generates much of its pathos. We are presented with a cast of characters whose situation reflects the affluent, insecure, globalised Australia of the early twenty-first century. Yet this also makes the novel transportable into other cultures; it is at once quintessentially Australian, and a story that resonates in our own brittle and commercialised culture.’ —Times Literary Supplement
‘The Slap could well be one of the most successful state-of-the-nation novels of our times … A genuinely important, edgy, urgent book that hunts big game. Nothing escapes Tsiolkas’s lacerating gaze … The novel keeps readers constantly on their toes, pushing boundaries, questioning lazy assumptions, provoking and, above all, smuggling in unease under the guileful blanket of a gripping read.’ —Telegraph
‘With The Slap Tsiolkas secures his place as one of our most important novelists … By painting an Australia we can recognise in language so good you don’t notice it, Tsiolkas has written an absolute ripper.’ —The Age
‘A blistering portrait of domestic life. Tsiolkas dissects the psyche of each character with surgical precision.’ —Sun-Herald
‘One of the most astute chroniclers and critics of our age and culture, Tsiolkas is a passionate, poetic, political polemicist, but his critiques take the form of enthralling stories that are peopled with characters that bounce off the page.’ —Adelaide Advertiser
Christos Tsiolkas is the author of six novels, including Loaded, which was made into the feature film Head-On, The Jesus Man and Dead Europe, which won the 2006 Age Fiction Prize and the 2006 Melbourne Best Writing Award, as well as being made into a feature film. His fourth novel, the international bestseller The Slap, won Overall Best Book in the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize 2009, was shortlisted for the 2009 Miles Franklin Literary Award, longlisted for the 2010 Man Booker Prize and won the Australian Literary Society Gold, as well as the 2009 Australian Booksellers Association and Australian Book Industry Awards Book of the Year. Christos’s fifth novel Barracuda was shortlisted for the ALS Gold Medal and the inaugural Voss Literary Prize. The Slap and Barracuda were both adapted into celebrated television series. Christos’s acclaimed collection of short stories, Merciless Gods, was published in 2014 and his critical literary study, On Patrick White, came out in 2018. He is also a playwright, essayist and screen writer. He lives in Melbourne.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are sometimes based on historical events, but are used fictitiously.
First published in 2019
Copyright © Christos Tsiolkas 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be r
eproduced 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.
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 509 1
eISBN 978 1 76087 267 0
Map by Wayne van der Stelt
Set by Bookhouse, Sydney
Cover design: Christabella Designs
Cover images: Conversion on the Way to Damascus by Caravaggio (1601), Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome
For Malcolm Knox, with gratitude
‘… for he who always hopes for the best becomes old, deceived by life, and he who is always prepared for the worst becomes old prematurely; but he who has faith, retains eternal youth.’
—FEAR AND TREMBLING, SØREN KIERKEGAARD
Contents
SAUL I
HOPE
SAUL II
FAITH
SAUL III
LOVE
SAUL IV
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.’
—THE BOOK OF JOB
The world is in darkness. The hood the guards have placed over her head scratches at her cheeks and neck. She takes fleeting comfort from the smell of the greasy fibre, the odours of sheep and goat. From her first memory their bleating was part of her life. They were her companions during the day and over countless nights, when she’d join them in their rough stable to escape the drunken violence of her father and her brothers, and then that of her husband. The warm bodies of the goats had been her solace and her bed; they had been her work and her friends.
She also recognises another smell, far more noxious. Fear. How many others has this hood covered? The stink of their terror is soaked through the fibres. With every hoarse breath she too releases the acrid taint of fear. She must not let them know her dread. She prays. Our Lord is a shepherd, He is not a king or a priest or a master, our Lord is a shepherd. With every silent repetition of that prayer, the demon that is fear subsides. She falls into calmness.
The rope that binds the caul is loosened and a tremor of light battles with the darkness. The hood is snatched off her and the overwhelming sunlight burns her eyes. The world is white: blinding, terrifying white. At first there is only that brilliance of light. Then she discerns the shadows. And as those shadows take form she sees that she is in the centre of a circle. Surrounding her are bearded men, each one holding a rock. As her eyes adjust to the day, she can see the sun flaring off the wall of the Sacred City in the distance. Then she sees crows and vultures wheeling above her. They are in a gully—it is accursed ground. And with that thought, fear reclaims her. On this ground she will die. Piss runs down her legs, darkens her smock, streams onto the stony ground. Her hands are still tied behind her back so she cannot cover her shame. She drops to a crouch.
One of the men marches up to her and roughly grabs her shoulder, forcing her to stand. His nails dig through the cloth and bite into her flesh. But this pain she can endure. She stares at the man; he’s a youth, not much older than she is. His eyes are dark and pitiless. She knows those eyes, knows such contempt. He wants her to scream, to curse, he wants her to hate him. And she wishes she could curse, could strike him dead with her words. Then she remembers the shocking and unbearable commandment of the prophet. Love him. Love him as if he were of your blood. She shudders, she leans forward, her lips graze his cheek.
‘Whore!’ He strikes her with such force that she sprawls across the dusty ground. She sees him marching towards her, she sees his foot lift. She closes her eyes, bracing for the kick.
‘Enough.’ The priest’s command is sharp. She dares open her eyes. The man has returned to his place.
She struggles, falters, wavers to her feet. This time she sees an old man and a boy standing beyond the circle in the shade of a laurel. From the splashes of dye across their cheeks she recognises them as deathworkers. They will return her body to the earth when her soul ascends to the Lord. A little beyond them stands the man who tricked her. How gentle his questions had been; his sympathy almost womanly. She fixes her gaze on him, his broad forehead, the receding coils of his black hair. He looks away as soon as her eyes meet his. Fear. She sees that he too is filled with fear.
The young man who struck her has raised his arm, stone held high above his head.
‘Adulteress!’ he roars. ‘Ask the Lord to pardon your wicked sins!’
The circle of men rumble assent. At the meanness of that charge, she begins to weep. Her eyes turn again to the man who’d seduced her with his false kindness. She had believed him to be as she was, bonded to the Saviour, trusting in the marriage of their fellowship, understanding that she was now married to her brothers and sisters. He had nodded in fierce agreement, as if he too comprehended that real marriage wasn’t the ugly, forced rutting she had experienced with her husband. After discovering friendship, knowing kindness, awaking for the first time to a world in which men need not be cruel, how could she return to that vileness? And he had nodded and agreed. She had been drawn to his sympathy. Yet it had been his testimony which had condemned her.
Her innocence and anger fortify her. She is no whore and she has not betrayed the Lord. She faces her accuser. He will not look at her. Her mouth is dry but she must speak. She doesn’t care about the other men in the circle. She wants that coward to hear her words.
‘If you are without sin, then cast your stone.’
One of the men steps forward. ‘Shut your ungodly mouth!’
She spins to face the speaker and as she does the first rock smashes her shoulder. She stumbles and falls. A rock slams into her neck, it steals her breath. Another rips open her brow. And then she hears the crack of the world splitting, as if the heavens above are tearing. There is darkness. There is blood in her mouth. There is a pain so terrible that she knows it is not the world that is breaking but her own body.
And then the darkness lifts and there is light.
The men keep hurling the rocks but the girl is dead and so justice is done.
The priest hurries through the prayers, conscious of the pulsating heat of the rising sun and the black swarm of flies already descending on the pariah’s body. The white prison shawl is dark with blood. As he intones the last word, the men quickly bend to drag their hands along the ground, rubbing the grit across knuckles, fingers, palm and wrist, beginning their purification.
The priest turns towards the south gate of the city and the men follow him. Not one of them looks at the bowed man, hunched on his knees, his head and body twitching in furious prayer.
Saul looks up only when he can no longer hear their footsteps. He calls a final invocation to the righteous Lord. He forces himself to look at the body of the dead girl. The old deathworker has dragged his cart up to the corpse, calling for his apprentice. The boy jumps to attention, peels off his tunic and skirt, then wraps the cloth around his mouth and nostrils. Naked, he rolls the girl over. A splinter of shattered jawbone has pierced her chin and the split gash is the pink of meat laid on a butcher’s trestle. Saul leans forward and retches.
The old man looks at him, then strips. Every bone is visible through the scarred membrane of his aged skin. Years of poverty have sculpted him into the very form of hunger. He too bends over the body.
Saul wipes the bile from his lips and
chin. ‘Don’t bother searching her,’ he calls out. ‘She had nothing.’
The old man pokes at the body, not in the habit of believing anyone. Then, with a shrug, he nods to the boy. The boy stands and turns to Saul.
‘Uncle, what was her crime?’ He is Arab, both in tongue and in the shock of the hood of flesh that collects and covers the head of his sex.
‘She denied the Lord,’ Saul answers in Syrian, ‘the Lord of her people. She abandoned her family. She had to be punished for her blasphemy.’
At this, the old man snorts. ‘She was just a chick of a girl—what does she know of blasphemy?’
He wipes his nose and rubs his hand across his straggle of chest hairs. His next words are a sneer: ‘Did you hunt her down? Was she one of yours?’
As if Saul were a filthy mercenary, a slave trader, a collector of tax for the dirty Romans.
A thousand curses are on his lips. Shut your foul mouth, you Arab piece of shit. Child of a whore. But no sound comes forth. His head is heavy, the light is banished and the curses are snatched from his lips. The din is a madness in his head, and he has to cover his mouth to keep the words from escaping: If you are without sin, then cast your stone. Brazen, unholy words; the devil’s words. He knew those words were for him, that she was judging him. As if he were the one who stood condemned.
‘Are you ill, uncle?’ The naked boy is before him, his hand raised, seemingly about to touch Saul.
He jerks away from the filthy deathworker. ‘Do your foul work,’ he spits at him. ‘You’ve been paid.’
Saul turns from them, abandons the judgement ground, and climbs up the hill, thistles scratching across his calves. He can hear the vile old Stranger laughing; he hears the thud as the girl’s corpse is thrown onto the cart.
Someone calls out after him; the torrent of violence in his head is such he can’t discern if it is the apprentice or the old man.
Damascus Page 1