‘It’s OK.’ He smooths his free hand down my cheek, just like I guided his hand down the stone wall of the cathedral today. ‘There’s been no dribbling to worry about. No dribbling at all.’
I smile and, still dreamily half asleep, settle back down to sleep some more.
Chapter Twelve
Of course with all that sleep I wake up again in what can only be called the middle of the night. I tiptoe around the room, unpacking the clothes I need for the day, having the quietest shower possible, scratching my pen as non-scratchingly as I can over the few postcards I write and sneaking down to the lobby to call Kath and tell her how things are going. When I get back upstairs, Jas is still fast asleep.
Lucky bastard.
I pull out one of the chairs from the small table beside the TV and sit down to check out the breakfast menu. It’s not very exciting, and every so often I find my eyes wandering over to Jas’s face. Eventually I put the menu down and just watch him. It’s funny that even though he’s on holiday he hasn’t been able to wind down. To me, it seems as if he always has one eye fixed over his shoulder. Though with crazies like Sharon on the loose I’m hardly surprised.
Jas rolls over and my eyes jump quickly to his face, checking to see if he’s awake. He’s not. Double bastard, I think to myself as I spot his eyelashes. I’d forgotten what gorgeous long, doubly thick eyelashes he has. Completely wasted on him, of course. I had to drag him over to the bathroom mirror to show him he even had eyelashes the day I pointed them out at the apartment. He wasn’t suitably impressed with the comparison between his and my stumpy ones. ‘Swap you,’ I think he said.
Typical Jas.
I suppress a laugh, but then stop as I remember something. Last night. I saw those eyelashes last night. Up close. I glance at Jas’s face again, smooshed against his pillow, and my chest feels tight. Too close. Way, way too close. I turn around now to face in the opposite direction.
God, I’m such a fool.
This, all of this, should be enough. I should be happy just that we’re on this trip together. Happy that Jas and I are friends again. I look down at the table and pick up my postcards. I turn each one over slowly in my hands. I should be happy that I have a friend again, in fact.
I’d lost most of my friends—all of them—really, over the last few years, as I shuttled back and forth from Byron to Sydney. Julie from high school, Katerina from uni, Sally from waitressing at the café. I turned down their offers of help when I was at my lowest. My most selfish. When I couldn’t face anyone but Kath and Mark. And I know I’ve got to make it up to them all somehow—even if they don’t want to be friends again. The postcards I’m writing are a start. An olive branch now that I’m finally getting my life back together.
But Jas is here now and I have the opportunity to fix things with him. I was stupid not calling him back. I just didn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of That Night. And because I couldn’t deal with things like an adult, I lost what was once the best friendship I’d ever had.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And I know the answer to that question now, the question I was pondering yesterday morning. I really don’t feel that way about Jas any more. I just want our old friendship back. I want things to return to the way they were before I wrecked them. We used to have the best time together. I’m not going to be juvenile enough to endanger that again.
‘Hey,’ Jas says, startling me. ‘You’re up.’
I swivel in my chair. ‘Yep,’ I say, a bit too brightly. ‘First stop today—new body clock.’
‘You get used to it.’ Jas yawns. ‘I can sleep any time, anywhere now. Buses, planes, couches, stretched across four guitar cases with an amp as a pillow…’
I roll my eyes. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Comes in handy.’
‘Want me to order some breakfast?’ I ask, holding up the menu.
Jas jumps out of bed. ‘Yeah, you pick. I’ll just have a quick shower. We’ve got to be downstairs soon.’
I order us up some toast, fruit salad and coffee. Enough to keep us going until we hit the land of sausages and sauerkraut.
When Jas and I are finished eating, we head downstairs to meet up with the group.
Shane’s doing a head-count in the lobby. Well, OK, a wig-count. Because this morning all of the Beer-drinking Society members are wearing wigs. All kinds of wigs—big black afro wigs, red Pippi Longstocking plaits, rainbow curls. I think about asking someone what the wigs are for, but my brain gives up on the task of forming the appropriate sentences. It’s too early and I haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet.
‘That seems to be it,’ he says, after a few more people turn up. He claps his hands together. ‘Right, people, this is it. As you can see, it’s wig day for the Beer-drinking Society once again, which means you can stop crossing the days off your calendar. The first day of the big “O” has arrived. Today we’re going to be taking a brisk walk over to watch the opening parade, and then, following that, you’ll get to see the Mayor tap the first barrel of beer. If you get pulled away from the group, don’t worry—just follow the crowd and you’ll be right. I’ll be outside the main gate at both five p.m. and ten-thirty p.m., if you want someone to walk back with you to the hotel. Or feel free to come back yourself at any time. I’d advise on the ten-thirty slot, though, because that, ladies and gentlemen, is when the beer stops.’
There’s a moan from someone up at the back of the group then. Probably President Damien, serial Oktoberfest visitor and, it’s looking like, resident nutcase. The rest of the Beer-drinking Society moan in unison after him. It’s as if they can’t believe the beer actually stops.
‘Yes, yes, I know it’s an inconvenience, but they have to give the waitresses a rest some time, so they’ll still be alive and kicking next year,’ Shane continues. ‘OK—a tip or two for you. There are fourteen different beer halls, but unless you’re in and seated inside one of them by three p.m., you will not get a seat. I repeat that. You will not get a seat after three p.m. And what happens if you don’t have a seat, Damien?’ He glances around the crowd for the regular. It is him up at the back. As I’d thought.
‘No beer.’
‘What’s that you say, Damien?’
‘No beer! Kein Bier.’
What is this, some kind of cult?
‘Too right, my friend,’ Shane continues. ‘That is unless you’re in the Hofbräu tent. Which leads me to my next tip. Stay out of the Hofbräu tent. Avoid it at all costs unless you’re full-blooded Australian or Irish. If you are not Australian or Irish, you will not be able to handle the Hofbräu tent. Ladies of any nationality, if you do dare to go in there, please don’t do it alone—take note that the Italians will go for your arse. Herren und Damen, you have been officially warned.’ Finished with his speech, Shane heads towards the hotel’s front door. ‘And we’re off…’ he starts.
Everyone quietens down, waiting to hear what he’s going to say this time.
‘…like a maggot in a dead dog.’
There’s a cheer from the Beer-drinking Society.
I really need that second cup of coffee. I look up at Jas and shake my head. ‘I’ll give you one guess where they’re going to head straight to when everything opens up.’
‘Er…’ Jas scratches his head deliberately. ‘Could it be…the Hofbräu tent?’
‘You guessed it.’
Outside, Shane moves into action, turning around on the footpath and walking backwards for a few steps. ‘Come on, people, let’s move it. We don’t want to be late.’ He steps up the pace a bit.
We keep walking street by street, considerably faster as we go along, and everyone warms up. It’s freezing out, and I can see my breath huff and puff in front of me as my legs whisk along trying to keep up with Jas’s pace—unfortunately these are also stumpy, like my eyelashes. After a while, Sharon and her sidekick Tara pass Jas and I by. As they go, Sharon gives Jas a meaningful look. One of those ‘I’m trying to flirt with you’ long, unbroke
n gazes.
‘Somebody likes you,’ I sing-song under my breath to Jas. ‘I think you’ve got yourself a groupie.’
‘Great. Just what I need—another groupie.’
I look up at him, surprised. ‘So you really have groupies? Like, lots of them?’
Jas stops me until everyone passes and we’re at the back of the group. ‘Don’t want anyone to hear,’ he says, before he continues. ‘Groupies, yeah. Plenty of them. There’s even a couple of semi-normal ones too. The ones who don’t think I’m God almighty and claim they like the music. Must be deaf.’
‘And do they really hang around outside your hotel room and things like that?’
Jas nods.
‘Wow.’ I whistle. ‘So, what do they want?’
Jas’s face seems a bit blank. ‘Beats me.’ But then he smiles and runs his hands down over his chest, past his hips to his legs. ‘My body?’ He grins. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
I hit his arm. ‘You dag. Nice to see how modest you still are!’
Jas laughs. ‘Yeah, just call me “Jenny from the Block.”’
I groan. ‘But, really?’ I get serious again. After all, I want to know all this stuff. It’s not every day you get to quiz a rock star, is it? ‘What do they want?’
Jas shrugs. ‘Usually they want to have it off with Zamiel. Me, I try not to think about it. Understanding groupies isn’t a good place to be at.’
‘So, have you ever slept with any of them?’ is my next question.
Jas looks at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘This is what I mean. Why would you say that? Am I really that different?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Jesus. No. Course not. You should see them. They dress like him. Zamiel, I mean. Not my scene.’
‘And the other guys in the band?’
‘That’s different. Let’s just say we have a security guard who knows their types.’
My eyes widen and my pace slows. ‘You mean he picks them out of the audience, or something?’
‘Pretty much. They like an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord after each show.’
‘Hey, you two!’ Shane calls out to us from up at the front of the group. ‘Step on it!’
‘Sorry!’ I yell back, and Jas and I run a bit to catch up.
Over the next few streets the crowd starts to get thicker and thicker, but Shane pushes on. We slow down, having to negotiate our way through.
‘That must be really strange—having people outside your hotel all the time, just waiting to see you,’ I say to Jas. ‘I can’t imagine it.’
But Jas shakes his head at this. ‘They’re not waiting to see me.’
‘Well, waiting to see Zamiel. Same thing.’
He shakes his head again, harder this time. ‘That’s what no one understands. Not the same thing at all. Always reminds me of when I was a kid and someone—my dad, I think—told me there was an actor inside Big Bird on Sesame Street. That it was just a costume. But the guy, the actor—you never saw him. Had no idea what he looked like for real. That’s me. I’m no one. Nothing.’
‘Jas!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘Say what?’
I catch his arm. ‘That you’re no one. That you’re nothing. That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘Why? It’s true.’
I shake his elbow. ‘It’s only true on the you-know-who front.’ I have to be more careful now we’re surrounded by people. ‘But if all that ended tomorrow, so what? You’re still you. And that’s better than being you-know-who any day. To me, anyway.’
Shane stops now and, slowly, the group stops with him.
Jas sighs. ‘I should take you on the road. Write me some mantras. At least get you to meet Zed.’
‘Zed the dickhead?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Maybe you should fire Zed if he doesn’t tell you things like that often enough.’
Jas laughs then. ‘Maybe.’
There’s a flash of neon yellow then, as someone falls in beside us. Damien. Complete with yellow wired plaits sticking out at right angles, no less.
‘Hey! You guys been before?’ he asks me. ‘To Oktoberfest?’
‘No,’ I tell him.
‘Didn’t think so. Bloody hell. You have really been missing out.’
I frown. What do we have? ‘Oktoberfest Virgins’ written on our foreheads? I turn and check him out. The poor guy looks as if he’s about to wet himself he’s so excited. ‘We’re here now.’
‘It’s the best. I come back every year.’
Jas and I look at each other. So we keep hearing. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am. I turn back to Damien, interested. ‘How do you guys afford it? Being students and all?’
He sticks his thumbs up Shane-style, ‘Fundraising.’
‘Fundraising?’
‘Yeah. You know—raffle tickets and beer-tastings, that kind of thing. And we run the uni toga party every year. The stuff we pick up after that pays for a couple of our tours as it is.’
‘What sort of things do they leave?’ I ask.
‘Mobiles. Laptops. Three-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheet sets they’ve pinched from their parents to wear as togas. They never claim any of it.’
Jas is staring at the guy goggle-eyed now. ‘No one comes back for their lost laptop?’
‘We put on such a good show, the next day they probably don’t even remember they took it with them. Well, better go catch up with my drinking buddies. See you later.’
Jas and I watch Damien skip away like a frisky impala. I’m still watching when there’s a nudge to my elbow.
‘Somebody likes you,’ Jas sing-songs my own words back at me.
‘Ugh. Just my luck.’
We start to hear it then. A marching band. It seems this is where we’re going to watch the parade from. I catch sight of Damien’s wig pushing its way to the front of the crowd to get a better view. That poor boy. For a second or two I worry about how he fares in the real world and what he’s going to do when he finishes uni. But I stop myself smartly. Who am I kidding? He’ll probably be an Oktoberfest tour guide.
I can hear the parade coming closer and closer now, but unfortunately can’t see a thing. I look up at Jas the giraffe, who has a great view. At five-foot-five, I’m left jumping around like a three-year-old, trying to see above the crowd.
‘I’d offer you a spot on my shoulders. Might put my back out, though.’
‘Gee, thanks. I can just see myself up there, waving around in the breeze with all the kiddies on their dads’ shoulders. Maybe I should check with Damien. I’m sure he’s got a spare keg around somewhere I could stand on.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll just have to tell you what’s going on. There’s a few different bands coming, and then, up the middle, there’s some horses with kind of…er…wagons or something. With waitresses on top?’
I nod. ‘Mark told me about that. It’s the brewery floats. I had a go at him for it.’
‘Why?’ Jas asks.
‘Well, when I was a waitress I never got a day off to swan around on a float in a parade.’
‘How many beers could you carry at once?’
‘About two.’
‘Yeah? I think they’ve got about six in each hand.’
‘OK.’ I scrunch my nose up. ‘Point taken.’ I take my backpack off for a minute and search around for the photocopied information sheets that came with my tour itinerary. When I find them, I have a quick read through. ‘After this, we have to make a run for it to the Schottenhamel tent to see the Mayor tap the first barrel of beer. Everything should get going after that.’
Jas nods. ‘In a big way, I’m guessing. This is huge.’
‘Is it ever.’ I can see the marching bands passing by now, and the mood of the crowd around us has lifted both visibly and audibly. Everyone waves at the people on the floats and in the decorated carriages. What really gets my attention, however, is the crowd. Th
ey’re having what looks like the time of their lives. A number of them are even wearing what seems to be national dress, with the guys in leather trousers and braces and tiny, quirky little hats. The women have long skirts and jackets, or cotton dresses with white low-cut tops underneath. Dirndl, I think they’re called.
All the German good cheer going on around me makes me think of the parades I’ve been to back home. Somehow I can’t see Australians doing this—the national dress thing. A flag here or there, yes. A spot of face-painting, of course. But national dress? The closest we have to national dress is thongs, shorts, a white towelling hat, matching zinc on the nose and the obligatory esky.
We watch the entire parade, and then get pushed along in the crowd with everyone else until we’re in what must be the Schottenhamel tent. Jas keeps a firm hold on me— I think in case I get trampled underfoot. We’re right up at the back when we finally stop moving. And when I say back, I mean back.
‘How many people do you think are in here?’ I glance up at him.
He takes a look around him. ‘I’d say ten thousand at least.’
‘No way? Really?’ But I believe him. After a few years of moving around from stadium to stadium he probably knows how many people a place can hold the second his eyes sweep over it.
The atmosphere gets rowdier by the minute. Eventually I see what all the fuss is about. There’s a guy up at the front, on the stage. Holding something that’s shaped like a golden tap. He’s surrounded by the media and there’s a bit of stuffing around before he seems to get on with what he’s supposed to be doing. Then, all of a sudden—I’m inspecting the guy next to me’s funny-looking leather braces at the time—there’s this bang, bang which makes me jump. When I see him again, the guy is shoving the golden tap into the barrel and, this accomplished, he turns around and yells something in German. Everyone cheers heartily.
‘Should I go up and get us a cold one?’ Jas laughs.
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