by John Larkin
‘My mum’s a barrister,’ I say, brimming with pride.
The Kraken glares at me as if having a barrister for a mother is all types of wrong.
Did the last forty years not happen? But luckily, just as I’m wishing I had a bra and some kindling for a fire, Lisa returns with her books. She gives me a look. We both know what she was doing: she wanted to leave me alone with The Kraken to see how well I would cope. Had she left it any longer she might have returned to find me nothing more than a pile of spat-out bones and a couple of blinking eyeballs on the floor.
The Kraken gives me one last look and then stalks off towards the kitchen. When she gets there she calls back, ‘Lisa! Fai-di yup lei choo fong!’
Lisa gives me a smile, rolls her eyes and beckons me to stay where I am.
Of course, I’ve no idea what The Kraken just said, but judging by what happens next, it was probably something like, ‘Lisa! Get your butt in the kitchen pronto!’
The kitchen is obviously the hub of the house. The aroma is intoxicating. Over the years the culinary odours have seeped into the walls, giving the house a strange yet delicious essence. Cooking clearly plays a significant role in the Leong home.
Adopting what seems to be the custom, I kick off my shoes and place them with the thirty or so pairs already in the vestibule. From where I am I can see into the lounge room. I notice there’s a jade Chinese dragon on top of the piano. There’s also the ubiquitous bare-bellied Buddha smiling at me like someone’s just told him the one about the priest, the rabbi and the lawyer who walk into a bar and the barman looks at them and says, ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Man, that is one rotund enlightened being. For a guy who started the movement in abject poverty, he certainly stacked on the kilos once it got going.
Chris and Maaaate’s homes look nothing like this, their parents having embraced Freedom and Ikea. My dad emigrated to Sydney from Dublin when he was in his early twenties and yet the only Irish thing in the house, apart from him, is a shillelagh, which is kind of like an Irish nunchucka. It’s a heavily polished, short wooden stick which Mum lets him keep on display for no other reason than it could possibly be used to beat a spider into compliance.
There’s a bamboo cane leaning against the wall near the piano and a single chopstick next to the Buddha, which seems a bit out of place. There’s also a family portrait on top of the piano which, judging from Lisa’s age and the stupid hat that her father is wearing, was taken last Christmas. Lisa’s brother and sister look to be well into their thirties. Lisa must have been some sort of accident. A happy accident. Though looking at her beautiful face in the photo, she doesn’t appear too happy. But the weird thing is, as I look at all the other photos on the walls and cupboards and so on, I notice that the Christmas photo is the only one that contains Lisa, and even in that one it looks like her sister is holding onto her, trying to keep her in the shot. Maybe she’s kind of like the Harry Potter of the Leong family.
The whispered debate wafts in from the kitchen along with the smells. They speak in English: it’s The Kraken’s way of telling me that she knows what I’m up to. Lisa had told Mummy that her friend was coming over to study. The same friend who has been helping her with her English studies on the phone. Mummy acknowledges that this was indeed the case, however Lisa neglected to mention that this particular friend was in possession of a penis. All Lisa’s friends have boyfriends! But Lisa shouldn’t have boyfriends. When Lisa’s mother was a girl, she never had any boyfriends. Lisa counters with the slightly heartbreaking chestnut that I’m not a boyfriend but a boy-space-friend. Mummy replies that Lisa shouldn’t have either a boyfriend or a boy-space-friend. Lisa tries to shush Mummy and this escalates an already tense argument. Mummy argues that she is in her own home and will not be shushed by anyone, particularly her selfish, ungrateful, horrible, shameful, good-for-nothing daughter who doesn’t give a damn about her own mother. The same shameful, disgusting, ungrateful, good-for-nothing daughter who has no respect at all. At this point I’m forced to lose interest in the debate when it switches to Cantonese. I keep an ear out for gweilo (white devil) which, apart from yum cha and my goat-tennis-racquet greeting, is the only other Cantonese word I know. I don’t hear it. But I guess I don’t need to.
Eventually some sort of compromise is reached and Lisa and I are allowed to study at the kitchen table, which is where I expected us to be located anyway. Hell, if I’d been The Kraken (and it’s the sort of thought that could wake me up screaming at night) I wouldn’t let me study in Lisa’s bedroom either.
The Kraken makes herself scarce (though unfortunately not extinct) for a while and Lisa and I get down to deconstructing To Kill a Mockingbird. We decide that Atticus Finch was a precursor to Clark Kent/Superman, choosing to ignore the fact that Superman actually appeared first. We discuss the Deep South, we discuss slavery, we discuss what’s happening now – the demonising of boat people for political gain – and we arrive at insights into racial issues that no one in the world has ever thought of before. We are so clever we can hardly contain ourselves. We determine that as the races continue to interbreed (though we hate the term ‘interbreeding’), eventually there will be no such thing as racial purity (another term we loathe) but one big, happy race, so humanity will have to find other things to go to war over – borders, religion, oil, wealth. It’s at this point we look at each other and go ‘Duh’, though mine comes out more like Homer’s ‘Doh’.
Occasionally I attempt a couple of sneak attacks to brush the back of Lisa’s hand, but she’s too quick. She pulls away and stares at the doorway in case The Kraken has suddenly materialised. I notice the faint red welt marks on the back of Lisa’s hand and now I think I know why there’s a single chopstick on the piano, lying next to the gag-cracking Buddha.
The Kraken keeps suddenly materialising but she’s not using the irregularity of Chinese water torture. You could set your watch by her: two minutes between security sweeps. Maybe she’s working off some sort of ancient astrological chart that’s informed her that it is impossible for a man, even a red-blooded, depraved gweilo, to get her daughter pregnant in the space of two minutes.
On The Kraken’s third passing, I finally hit paydirt and manage to stroke the back of Lisa’s hand. Clearly Lisa has also calculated the timing of The Kraken’s orbits and doesn’t pull away this time. Her skin is all soft and silky smooth. She gives me the sort of coy look that only Michelangelo or that guy who was really into painting angels (Botticelli?) could come close to capturing. And on The Kraken’s eighth passing I lean across and kiss Lisa on her cheek. She turns to me and gives me a stunned expression but then, risking life, limb and possible dismemberment, she – she– reaches over and kisses me on the mouth. I have never experienced anything like it, in heaven or on earth. Our lips melt into one and the tingling sensation throughout my entire body makes me feel as though I’m simply going to float away. And when, with The Kraken inbound, we finally pull apart and look at each other, I know, I just know with every ounce of my being, that I am going to love this angel forever.
I was right. I did love her forever. What I didn’t expect was that forever was going to be over in less than six months.
I toss a couple of things (wallet, novel, keys) into my backpack and tell Mum that I’m going to catch up with Chris. Mum thinks this is an excellent idea as it will take my mind off … things. I wish she hadn’t said anything about ‘… things’ (especially with the gap), because now I’m thinking about ‘… things’ again and my screaming nerve endings are just about ready to rupture and bleed permanent insanity into my system.
Had I known that this would be the last time I would ever see my family, I might have made a bit more of an effort. Dad and Kate are still out the back, raking leaves, cleaning the pool, being inseparable, so I don’t even say goodbye to them. The last thing I said to Dad was that he should go and fuck a tuna. I said next to nothing to Kate, apart from knocking back her offer to play Uno. These are the last memories of me they will c
arry around for the rest of their lives. They deserve better. They all do. I wish I’d known what was coming. About the destruction and devastation I was about to leave in my wake. But how could anyone in my condition know what lay ahead? And that’s the thing I realise now that I’m here in nowhere or whatever this place is. It was a condition. A condition that slowly crept up on me and took over my sanity, my logic. A condition that with time, help and medication, I would have gotten through. After some time I would have started cutting back the meds, the trips to the psychiatrist, the outpatient group therapy, and moved on with my life as Lisa would have started moving on with hers. I would have truly begun healing. Lisa and I would have eventually emailed or Skyped and she would have come back in a few years’ time, even if just for a holiday, and we would have seen each other again. We might have even dated. We probably would have more than dated. Because no matter how psychotic and controlling you are, you can’t go around beating a nineteen/twenty-year-old, not unless you want them to start fighting back.
But I didn’t give it a chance because the agony was too much, my nerve endings had ruptured, my sense of logic and scale had vanished. It was too much because I had no reference point. I called it quits on an impulse when all I had to do was ride it out until it had passed. And pass it would. Mum said the sun would eventually shine on me again. But I didn’t believe her. It didn’t seem possible. I just assumed she was speaking in platitudes. Telling me what I wanted to hear. I was seventeen. I didn’t have the experience. I thought I would be stuck with this agony forever. But I just had the wrong mixture of chemicals whirring around in my brain. But how was I to know? How was I to know? How was I to know? My mind was broken. And when your mind breaks you need help. External help. Because the thing you rely on most to get you through the screaming darkness is the very thing that’s broken. And that’s where and why it all falls apart.
When your mind cracks and your nerve endings are rupturing, it’s weird how grey everything looks, even on the most perfect days. There isn’t a cloud in the sky as I step outside and make my way down to the village, but as I’m walking through the park, the day simply couldn’t be any darker. Even though it did nothing to me, I punch a tree in retaliation as I walk past. Unless the tree has feelings, it hurt me more than it did the tree.
Despite a gentle breeze, the temperature is already nudging thirty when I slide into a booth at Ciao Latte across the road from the train station. I look down at my painful, rapidly swelling hand. That’s the only way I know that any of this is real. The pain. Bad as it is, my damaged hand is nothing compared to my ruptured nerve endings and broken mind. God knows why I’ve come here. It certainly isn’t to meet Chris or Maaaate. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be anywhere. I just want this to stop. I want it to end. I think I’m doing it to torture myself. That’s the only way I could explain it. I was proud of my mind before it broke. Now I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Although after that night when I met The Kraken I was banned from helping Lisa with her homework again, Lisa started informing (not asking) The Kraken that she would be catching up with friends after school because that’s what every other year-ten girl in Australia did (even good tang wah girls), and what’s more, these catch-ups just wouldn’t be to study but to hang out. And furthermore, if The Kraken didn’t like it then she could get down on her knees and kiss Lisa’s butt. Though I’m pretty sure Lisa omitted this last bit from her side of the debate. Lisa of course was a shameful, good-for-nothing disgrace to the family. Lisa was beaten regularly, whenever she arrived home late from ‘catching up with friends’, but she didn’t care. Her new-found freedom was worth it and she assured me that the day was rapidly approaching when she would fight back.
I order a coffee, my third of the morning – not exactly good for my already screaming nerve endings – and think about the first time we met up here. It was the day after our To Kill a Mockingbird moment on the train and about a week before Lisa tested the water by inviting me over to study.
I buy Lisa a Tim Tam chiller and the first thing she wants to know is why we call Maaaate ‘Mate’. Nothing about Harper Lee, Truman Capote, Atticus Finch or racial prejudice in America’s Deep South (or Australia’s public transport network), and I’d mashed out some study on all of them the night before. Instead she wants to know about Maaaate. Maaaate?
‘It’s not “Mate”,’ I reply. ‘It’s “Maaaate”.’ I hit the extra ‘a’s, making it sound deep and guttural.
‘Maaaate,’ says Lisa, mimicking me as best she can.
‘That’s better,’ I concede, ‘but try to make it sound more like a dog growling.’
‘Maaaaaaaaaate,’ says Lisa, slightly overdoing it and possibly damaging her vocal chords.
‘Now you’re getting it.’
‘Which brings us back to my original question.’
‘It’s from those beer ads. The ones where the father and son-in-law get locked in the sauna. All they can say when they get out is, “Maaaate”. It’s kind of a westie thing and Maaaate’s from there, so it kind of stuck. Or we stuck it to him.’
‘Do you have a nickname?’
‘I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you.’
She takes a sip of her chiller. ‘Sounds like it might be worth it.’
‘It’s “Toke”,’ I say. ‘And if you can guess why, I’ll give you my firstborn, Rumpelstiltskin-style.’
She thinks for a moment and then admits defeat.
‘At the end of year seven I went to a maths camp with Chris and Maaaate.’
Lisa bursts out laughing. ‘You went to a maths camp? Why?’
‘I thought it might be fun.’
‘And was it?’
‘No. It was about as interesting as it sounds. Anyway, I was the only …’ I trail off. I’m not going to call myself a non-Asian, Anglo, whitey or skip. I’ve entered a political-correctness minefield and I don’t know where to tread. ‘I was the only … European.’
‘European?’ she says. ‘You’re European?’
‘Yeah. Italian, Irish.’
But she’s just playing with me. ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Token whitey.’
I smile at her. Cute, bookish and smart. I don’t want to give her my firstborn; I want her to bear it, and my second, third …
‘So what about you,’ I say. ‘Do you have a nickname?’
‘I do,’ she replies. ‘But it sounds better in Cantonese.’
‘What’s it in English?’
‘Well, loosely translated, it means: shameful, ungrateful, nasty, worthless, useless, good-for-nothing little bitch.’
‘I think I’ll stick with “Lisa”, if that’s okay with you.’
‘Whatever’s easier.’
I laugh at this point. I seriously laugh out loud. And I see that beneath the bookish exterior, Lisa has a subtle, dry sense of humour and if it turns out she likes art-house movies and indie music as well, I just might have to ask her to marry me this afternoon.
After that we kind of become inseparable. Well, we do for about fifteen minutes on a school morning and half an hour in the afternoons. And when she kisses me (she kisses me) in her parents’ house for the first time, I become a walking cliché. We hold hands every morning walking along the station platform as I float along beside her. She has one hand in mine, fingers interlocked, while in the other she’s generally holding the latest poem I’d written the night before. If Chris or Maaaate get hold of my poetry – and it gets back to school – I’ll be forced to commit ritual seppuku out of sheer embarrassment. I even try my hand at haikus, if you can believe it, creating, in seventeen syllables, a pictorial symbiosis of a cherry-tree leaf in autumn and Lisa’s stunning good looks. Some of my haikus even make sense. Well, they do to me. And all of a sudden pop songs of the type peddled by the sort of boy bands that shouldn’t be allowed out in public, at least without adult supervision, start to reveal their greater hidden depth and I get them. I understa
nd them. I truly do. Naturally I baulk at logging onto iTunes during this period for fear of what I might inadvertently buy. I have enough of my former self lurking within the confines of my mind to know that any potential crimes involving music downloads will be pounced on by Chris and Maaaate and the sordid details will be plastered about school the following Monday. That I find subtext in the music of vacuous boy bands should tell you all you need to know about my state of mind at that point. Which, when all is said and done, was a damn sight better than the state of mind I ended up with.
Lisa is a member of a Christian Crusaders group, which she dutifully attends weekly. It doesn’t take much convincing for me to put aside my existential leanings and join her brethren for Friday evening worship and games.
It takes us a while but we work out that although Lisa has to go to the Crusaders meetings and be collected afterwards, the bit in between – the actual attending bit, the crusading – is optional. Around pick-up time, her father would park his car down the road and, with a couple of beers under his belt, generally doze off. All Lisa needed to do was to climb in the car around crusading knock-off time and no one would be any the wiser. So we use this time to jump onto a train to the megamall to go to the movies, ice-skate or hang out at Max Brenner.
But as is the way when you’re crazy in love, you don’t always think things through. Eventually, questions regarding Lisa’s ongoing absence from Friday-night Crusaders were bound to be asked. The answers to which The Kraken wasn’t particularly going to like. Eventually there was going to be hell to pay – in this life and possibly the next.
I can only imagine the horrible sound of the swish of bamboo through the air and the thwack of it on raw skin, when Lisa arrived home from ‘Crusaders’ six months into our relationship to find The Kraken lying in wait, arms folded and foot tapping like a dog with a serious flea problem. Apparently The Kraken had been tipped off by Reverend Tong, the youth minister, when Lisa hadn’t turned up yet again.