Loaded

by Christos Tsiolkas

  –You enjoy dancing. I nod to Ariadne, though it doesn’t sound like a question. She can see I like dancing. This is a beautiful song, she continues. Bring me a flagon of wine so I can forget the pains that poison my life. We Greeks embrace our pain, don’t we? She looks around at the three men standing before her. Shall we dance? She grabs my brother’s hand and leads him inside.

  –Who is she? I ask Spiro. He laughs and tells me she is the woman who is breaking Peter’s heart. Janet, rough, large. I think of her. Think of not seeing her again if Peter splits from her. There is nothing painful in my thoughts. Janet is Peter’s business, not mine. Part of his life, nothing to do with mine. Spiro hands me a set of keys. Meet me upstairs in the storeroom he tells me, there’s someone I want you to meet.

  He walks off and I go inside and up the staircase which opens up into a dingy little room piled high with boxes of canned food and alcohol. A small wooden table and three wooden chairs. A full ashtray, tobacco papers, a deck of cards and two empty glasses sit on the table. I take a seat, rest my head on my arms and listen to the music downstairs. I remember a movie I saw on late-night television a long time ago. Gene Hackman locked in a room very much like this one. In the movie he was drinking. I feel like a drink.

  I search the room. Behind a pile of boxes I find a half-drunk bottle of whisky. I fill one of the glasses and sit down, pretending I’m not in Brunswick, Melbourne but in some room in Chicago somewhere. There is a knock on the door, the pretence is shattered and Spiro comes in, a blonde girl behind him holding his hand. A thin Greek boy behind them. Spiro locks the door and makes the introductions. Ari, Kristin, Stephen. Kristin smiles at me. Stephen looks nervous. She is wearing a long hippie dress, each ear has three earrings, an Indian scarf is tied around her hair. Stephen is dressed in a dark grey op-shop sixties suit over a white shirt. A navy tie is tied loosely around his neck, his top button undone. Black sneakers on his feet. His face is marked by spots, he is uneasy, nervous. His eyes large and dark. He is beautiful and I avoid looking at him.

  –Are you at uni? Kristin takes a chair next to me. No, I tell her. Ari is Peter’s brother, Spiro tells her. I like your brother, she tells me. I don’t answer. I don’t care.

  –Are you studying? Stephen sits on a crate. I don’t study, I don’t work, I tell him. He is about to ask me another question, then decides against it. Spiro is emptying most of the speed onto the table.

  –So what do you do? This woman won’t leave me alone. Whatever I like, I tell her. Spiro laughs. How old are you? she continues. Nineteen, I answer, twenty in a few months. I’m a Leo, I add. She whistles, dangerous, and smiles at me. I smile back. Stephen lights a joint and passes it to me.

  The smoke is good. The others talk among themselves and I listen in. Spiro arranges the speed into eight identical lines. We each take a turn to snort our share. The three thank me in turn. I take ten dollars out of my wallet and hand it to Spiro. What’s that for, man? he cries. For my share, I answer. He refuses it but I’m persistent. I’m enjoying being in the little room, away from the crowd and I’m sorry I short-changed him on the gram. Buy me a drink downstairs, I add, and he pockets the note.

  Stephen and Spiro start talking in Greek and Kristin enters in the conversation with them. I’m surprised, she doesn’t look Greek. She hesitates over particular phrasing but her spoken Greek is better than mine. More confident. I listen to her voice, it is melodic. Stephen is berating her, his tone pushy and angry as the subject moves to politics. Spiro pours himself a glass of whisky, and like me, watches the faces of the two young people arguing, occasionally winking at me. I’m happy to sit here, intoxicated by the drugs, the drink, and the beauty of the faces around me.

  –Marxism is dead, Kristin tells Stephen. He bangs his fist on the table and stands over us.

  –Communism, the degenerate state of the Soviet Union may be dead, but not Marxism. He looks around at me and Spiro for support. I avert my eyes. He’s talking politics and I’m thinking how hot he looks.

  –Marxism, he continues, is not dead, it can’t be dead. It’s the only theory that makes sense of alienation.

  I pour myself another drink. I’m not following the conversation which matters shit to me. I’m on edge. I want to talk, say something clever but I have nothing clever to say. Kristin raises her voice as she argues against Stephen.

  –Marxism led to the gulags. Stephen shakes his head. That’s bullshit, he explodes. He has eyes that are frightening. He has eyes that burn. Greek eyes.

  –That’s your answer to everything isn’t it, Kristin yells. Something Stephen said has made her furious. Spiro touches her shoulder and she pulls away. As someone who supported communism don’t you feel any responsibility for the failures of communism? she continues.

  –No. Stephen’s voice is calm. No responsibility at all. He pauses. Spiro is whistling a Greek tune. I’m feeling the speed run down the back of my throat. Stephen turns to Kristin and says, simply and quietly, no anger in his voice, I’m never going to stop resisting capitalism.

  –I resist it as well.

  –Then give me a fucking solution to it. Stephen’s spit falls in a spray over Kristin, over me. Until you give me a solution better than Marxism. I remain a committed Marxist.

  I get up, drink the remainder of my glass. I’m going downstairs, I say, and fill the glass again. Kristin and Spiro nod to me but Stephen’s face is impassive. I want to say something to him, but I am intimidated by the language he uses and instead turn, unlock the door and walk out into the hall. The sounds from downstairs rush into my ears, the wail of the bouzouki, the sounds of shouting. The whole pub is in a frenzy of motion. I breathe in the excitement echoing off the walls and I am glad to be free of the more intimate intensity of the small room. Stephen’s eyes, dark, angry. I am glad to escape.

  Walking down the stairs, heading back to the singing, the dancing, the conversations, I start a refrain in my head. Singing along to the thirties hashish song they are playing downstairs, I sing fuck politics, let’s dance. I sing it in a Greek accent, give the phrase middle-eastern inflections, draw out the words and my voice reverberates on the vowels. Fuck politics, let’s dance I sing coming down the stairs. I’m angry and I don’t know what I’m angry about.

  A Serbian guy lied to me the other day. I was sitting on a bench at North Richmond station, waiting for a train to the city. I had the Walkman on and was listening to the radio. They were playing Love Song, an old Simple Minds song. A young guy, stocky, unshaven and wearing cheap department store clothes sat next to me. I avoided him, he was avoiding me. When the song finished I turned off the Walkman and rustled through my bag looking for a tape to play. The man turned to me and asked, in broken English, sorry does this train go to Jolimont. Yes, I answered, took off my earphones and asked him where he wanted to get to. He had an interview for a cleaning job in some small hotel in East Melbourne. The sun was shining, I was feeling pleasant. I kept asking questions. Were are you from?

  –Greece, he answered. I looked at him, his skin was olive but his hair was dirty blond, his eyes clear blue. Which part? I said, in Greek.

  –Sorry, he replied, blushing, I’m Greek but I don’t speak Greek. I nodded at this, and put the earphones back. Bullshit was what I was thinking, but bullshit is everywhere. I lie to strangers all the time. I can understand not giving too much away.

  I started the tape and I was swaying to the sweet harmonies of the O-Jays. The man beside me tapped me on the shoulder. I stopped my machine and I was back at North Richmond station. Yeah, I demanded, aggressively. I’m not really from Greece, he told me. I didn’t answer. I’m from Yugoslavia. I did not respond.

  –I’m Serbian.

  I scowled at him. I didn’t know why he was persisting.

  –Sometimes, he continued, if I tell people I’m Serbian they are not very happy. Sometimes they blame me for the war in Yugoslavia. Politicians are to blame for war, I answered. He laughed. The train was approaching, I said good luck with the job in
terview, put on my earphones and went into a different compartment.

  The O-Jays were singing Backstabbers. They smile in your face. The Serb hates the Croat who hates the Bosnian who hates the Albanian who hates the Greek who hates the Turk who hates the Armenian who hates the Kurd who hates the Palestinian who hates the Jew who hates everybody. Everyone hates everyone else, a web of hatred connects the planet. A Cambodian woman across the aisle was trying to get her kid to shut up. I smiled at her and she smiled back. And the O-Jays were singing They smile in your face, all the time they want to get your place. Pol Pot was right to destroy, he was wrong not to work it out that you go all the way. You don’t kill one class, one religion, one party. You kill everyone because we are all diseased, there is no way out of this shithole planet. War, disease, murder, AIDS, genocide, holocaust, famine. I can give ten dollars to an appeal if I want to, I can write a letter to the government. But the world is now too fucked up for small solutions. That’s why I like the idea of it all ending in a nuclear holocaust. If I had access to the button, I’d push it.

  As we got into Princes Bridge station I was imagining the apocalypse. I was getting so excited it was making my dick hard.

  On the dance floor my brother is swaying clumsily, self-consciously. He hasn’t drunk enough to give himself over to the zembekiko. Ariadne is dancing with him, making no elaborate moves so as not to embarrass him, but even restrained her dancing is sensuous, her falls and twirls graceful; she moves in time with every painful note the band is playing. I watch them, a little embarrassed for my brother. I move to Joe’s table and he asks me where I have been. Around, I tell him. Dina is pissed and holding on to his arm. We haven’t seen you all night, she accuses me. Then, unexpectedly, she jolts, springs up and offers me her mouth to kiss. I kiss her gently on the lips, a kiss over in a second, but her lips feel soft against mine, warm. I sit beside her and she clutches my arm.

  –Joe won’t dance with me, she pouts. Joe doesn’t do Greek dancing I answer.

  –I know. She turns to her boyfriend and hits him hard on his chest. You should learn, she tells him in Greek. Joe, stoned, not drunk, because he is driving, gives her a smile and a long kiss. I turn away and Arno asks if I’d like a drink Joe and Dina continue being affectionate to each other and I try to have a conversation with Stav and Mary.

  I ask if they’re enjoying the night. They both nod in unison. Stav leans over and shouts in my ear, I hear you’re looking for work. Mary leans over as well. No, I answer, I’m not looking for work. Together they lean back. Stav leans forward again and I look at Mary to see if she’s going to follow but she turns her head and watches the dancing. I’m studying commerce, Stav tells me.

  –What’s that? Mary hears, turns back to look at me. She seems angry. Stav is flustered. He tries to explain commerce to me but I’m not listening. The band have started playing a favourite song of mine. An old song of Tsitsanis, Cloudy Sunday, and the singer’s seductive voice fills my ears. Stav’s earnest words slip away, murmurs that cannot stop my enjoyment of the song. I ask them if they want to dance and they both refuse. I turn to Dina but she’s in Joe’s arms, her eyes closed, humming along. I get up and as I am about to jump on the dance floor Stav yells at me, Mary is doing law. Lawyers can’t dance I tell him but they don’t hear.

  On the dance floor I move between bodies twirling and swaying to the pain of the music. But in our motions we transform the pain into joy. The speed lifts me above the other bodies and as the chorus is repeated for the last time I fall on one knee, jump up immediately, fall on the other, twirl, fall back on my knees and jump back into a standing position. The song ends quickly and I wipe a sweaty arm across my face and sit down. You’re a good dancer, Stav tells me. I thank him. Arno arrives with the drinks and I swallow from my glass.

  –Do you want to study? Arno has wide, round eyes that dominate his thin face. No, mate, I tell him, I don’t want to study and no, I don’t want to work. Joe gets up from the table. Ari, he says, you’re a dickhead. I take another swallow of whisky. His words hurt me, there is a stab right down in my gut. The whisky reaches that spot and the pain diffuses. Joey, I answer him, you better apologise. He ignores me and heads off for the toilet. I get up and follow him.

  –Fuck off. He spits the words at me. I keep following him, across the room into the toilet, and while he stands at the urinal pissing, I try to have a conversation. What have I done? I ask, trying not to plead, trying not to sound upset. He refuses to talk to me. He refuses to look at me. Someone flushes in one of the cubicles and I lower my voice and touch Joe on the shoulder.

  –Man, what did I do, what did I do? Joe finishes his piss, shakes his cock, flushes and turns around to me. Grow up, fucking hell Ari, grow up. Get a job, I’m embarrassed to be seen with you. I study his face. Notice the light layer of fat forming under his chin, the small strands of wrinkles around the eyes. Get a life are his final words to me and he walks out of the toilet. A young boy comes up beside me and washes his hands at the sink. How are you doing? he asks in Greek. I don’t reply, walk into a cubicle, close the door behind me, gather my fingers into a fist and smash into the cistern. The sound, a loud crash, reverberates around the cubicle. Mad motherfucker I hear the boy say and hear him leave the toilet. Alone, smelling urine, shit and cheap cologne, I spit into the basin. Fuck you, Joe, fuck you, you cunt. The words keep repeating. Fuck you Joe, fuck you, you cunt. I repeat them twice, three times, they become a chant. I breathe in deep, get out of the cubicle, comb my hair, check myself out in the mirror, run some water across my dry lips and go back.

  I watch Joe leave the pub, Dina holding onto his hand: watching an ordinary man walk out with an ordinary woman into an ordinary life.

  Joe’s mother went into hospital in our third year in high school. The woman flipped out, went crazy, took her Bible in one hand, an egg beater in the other, and roamed the streets of Burnley screaming that the Antichrist was coming. The news rushed through the school, there were whispers and jokes made in the locker rooms, in the kafenio, across the counters of the milk bars. My mother told me, and I listened wide-eyed, that the priest from the Burnley Street church tried to take her by the hand and she started pounding him with the Bible. My mother crossed herself as she told me.

  In the school yard the story became embellished with adolescent lewdness. She had tried to stick the holy book in her vagina, had tried to proposition the priest, the priest accepted, they fucked on the altar. The simple story was that the woman had gone crazy. The embellishments were nursery horror stories to frighten the children and to keep the presence of insanity away. Joe’s mother was normal, that was what scared everyone. An-eight-hours-a-day-factory-worker-with-two-normal-kids-and-a-fat-hard-working-wog-husband. The woman was so normal, a standard Greek wife heading towards middle age that her craziness affected everyone who knew her. The devil made her do it. That was the comfortable answer.

  Joe’s father kept everyone away, kept Joe and his sister away from school. I tried to call him and the phone was answered by his aunt who promised to pass my messages on. One Saturday morning I walked over to his house, Mum made me put on a clean shirt, and knocked on the door. Three old women in black, big crosses around their necks were sitting in the lounge. Joe’s father, in a bathrobe and boxer shorts, was sipping whisky and watching the cartoons. I greeted him, shifting nervously from one foot to another, and he got up, wrapped his arms around me and covered my face in stoned kisses. Behind him the three old women started a lament, cries of agony, of despair, a chorus of chants that frightened me, and I stiffened in the man’s arms: washed in his alcoholic fumes; in the tears falling from his eyes. I remember his bristles biting into my cheeks. Ari, Ari, he murmured, in time to the chants, God has abandoned us. One of the old women pulled me away from him and took me into the kitchen and gave me a glass of coke. She asked after my parents, my brother, my sister, asked how school was going.

  –Can I see Joe? I asked. She took me by the hand and we went into the master b
edroom. Joe’s mother was lying in bed, half-asleep, groaning from time to time, words in Greek that I couldn’t understand. Joe was sitting beside her, holding her hand, and Betty, just a child then, was building houses of cards on the floor. She looked up, saw me and winked. Mum’s still crazy, Ari, she said with a big smile. Shut up, shut up, the old woman screamed at her and slapped her across the face. The house of cards fell around Betty’s feet. I sat next to Joe and looked down at his mother.

  Joe’s mother looked like a teenager, lying on her wet sheets, falling in and out of sleep, wrapping her hand tight around her son’s fingers. I sat with Joe for half-an-hour, we were wordless, listening to Betty’s chatter, his mother’s groans, the laments of the old women. I avoided Joe’s face, looking at the vials of pills on the dresser, watching Betty play cards. Their mother, as they had known her, was dead. That was the reason for the laments. This beautiful young ghost in the bed had taken her place. We remained silent, remembering the dead.

  When I got up to leave Joe followed me out and we sat on the verandah, smoking cigarettes, saying nothing much. People would pass the house and ask after his mother. She’s fine he would answer, choking on the words, spitting out his hatred. Wogs, he muttered to me, hypocrites. I left him, wanting to go, not wanting to go, and walked home. The shops, the milk bar, the row of cottages I walked past were bathed in the light of a winter’s sun. They appeared alien to me that day. I remember walking past them seeing them as if for the first time. That day I began to feel alone in this world. I walked past Agia Triada, the Greek church in which I had been baptised in the blood of the holy trinity and I opened the iron door and walked in. I lit a candle and crossed myself, looking for God. No one answered. Of course. I looked at the icon of the Madonna, the picture in a gold frame, and looked past her mysterious smile, noticed the cracks in the purple of her robes, noticed the lipstick marks on the glass. The Madonna was mad. She too must have been beautiful when she roamed the streets of some middle-eastern village claiming that God had deposited his sperm in her belly. I remember thinking this thought, thinking that God would strike me now, that the chandelier hanging from the church ceiling would fall on my head. Nothing stirred in the church. I touched the icon, left the building and outside spat on the church steps. I turned, gathered my fingers into a fist and smashed hard against the iron doors. Fuck you, fuck you, I muttered, going crazy myself, not sure who I was cursing.