The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —Did you?

  —What?

  —Visit the old man?

  —Yeah.

  —What for?

  For money.

  —Victor kicked a footy in his place. I was going to collect it.

  Tommy lay back, closed his eyes. He wanted to ask more but he was scared. There was a danger in his brother’s voice.

  Dominic continued to visit, to honour his debt, after this conversation. But only at night, when the street was empty. And he left by the old man’s back gate, disappeared along the railway line.

  On the day of Cheryl’s abortion, the Australian people voted against Gough Whitlam and his social-democratic government. Dominic saw her the morning after. She was pale and sick, could hardly look at him, all tears.

  —This is all your bloody fault, you fucking wog bastard, her mother hissed at him.

  Cheryl’s father, oblivious to the truth of his daughter’s illness, greeted him with a wide smile. In silence, Dominic held Cheryl’s hand.

  —Whitlam didn’t get in.

  —Who fucking cares?

  And that was all that was said.

  At home his mother was crying, angry, inconsolable. His father had escaped to the garden and Tommy was reading in their bedroom. Dominic grabbed two of his mother’s cigarettes and ran down to the river. He sat and smoked on a small hill that overlooked the grey thin buildings of the city. The sun was high, not hot but pleasant. A crow danced in the air above him. That’s my baby, thought Dominic, and for one brief moment he was sad. Then the crow was no more and the day was warm and the air was still and the year was closing and the world had changed and Dominic had escaped. He smoked his cigarette, prayed a small thanks, watched the lazy city.

  SECTION TWO

  Thomas Stefano

  When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful? For that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly as we would before the entrance to Hell.

  FRANZ KAFKA

  1

  Blonde Mary

  The television was on. The women were preparing the table, the men were round the barbecue. Tommy was alone in the lounge room, watching the TV. The birth of Christ. Mary was blonde, an LA nymph. Joseph was soapopera handsome, young and smooth.

  Tommy was thinking, sipping at his beer, how cheap Mary looked, what a cheap American slag. There was dancing in Jerusalem, the young Mary had just spotted the pretty Joseph. The camera cut back and forth, back and forth, to the blonde Mary with the silicon breasts, to the bearded Joseph with the sculptured chest. Their eyes met. Commercial break.

  —What are you watching?

  —The Christmas story.

  Lou was going to be handsome, no doubt about that. His eyes were dark, his skin, even at the height of adolescence, smooth. His body was trim from swimming. And he was tall. Tommy patted his paunch, put down the beer.

  —How’s things?

  —Good. The boy had become fixated on the television.

  Their conversation was always stilted, always short. Between Dom and Lou it was different. Dom spoilt him, that was that. Dominic had never indulged Tommy. Sometimes, Tommy thought, watching the Virgin’s face, lewd at Joseph’s advances, he wanted a world in which there were no brothers.

  Punch hard, punch fast. Dominic had a great right fist.

  Lou got up.

  —Looks pretty boring.

  —Go and help Dad.

  —No, you go and help Dad.

  In the kitchen his mother and his aunts were baking. Greek pies. His Aunt Sophia was across from the west, with Duke, her fat dull husband. Sophia was trying to help.

  He was going to bring Soo-Ling, introduce her around, but at the last moment he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the tension, the looks, the judgements.

  A Chinese girl’s slash is horizontal not vertical. Dom once told him that. And nigger cunt smells like mango.

  I’ve got an Asian girlfriend.

  —Get up, Tom, go help your father.

  His mother still carried a trace of the Mediterranean in her voice. The thick vowels and the soft consonants. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Joseph was stripped to the waist, drawing water from the well. Mary’s tits were plastic. They didn’t move with her body.

  He went to the toilet. Splashed piss on the floor and had to clean it up. Sometimes he pissed a split stream, as if his cock had two holes. He wiped the floor with tissue paper. In the bathroom he pulled up his shirt, looked at his belly. The fine black hair, the stretch of fat. He clutched at the flab, shook it, wished he could tear it off. He dropped his shirt and washed his hands.

  Outside, Artie handed Tommy the fork. Look after them. The meat was still red, seeping blood. Tommy turned the pieces over. His brother was kicking a soccer ball across the yard, back to boyhood. He kicked the ball over to Tommy and it shook the barbecue.

  —Watch it!

  Dominic too was getting fat. His legs were thick, the T-shirt he wore stretched tight across chest and stomach. But he still looked good, still played footy, still worked hard. His arms were long and strong, the arms of a carpenter. His hair, never black, had been dulled by successive summers to a dull bronze with flashes of red.

  When he was young, Dominic’s pubic hair had been bright red. The flamed bush, when he first spied it, had shocked Tommy.

  The air sizzled with the smell of charcoal and meat. His Uncle Duke was already drunk, slurring and smoking cigarettes. Maria, inside the house, had her lips closed, her mouth thin, she hated her husband’s family. Tommy watched her through the window, at the sink, her long dyed hair. His mother always had long hair, refused to cut it with age the way other wog women did. She still looked beautiful. Tommy turned away.

  —How’s work?

  Dominic opened a beer, sat on a plastic chair and wiped away sweat.

  —Okay, replied Tommy.

  —They still talking of getting rid of people?

  —They always do.

  Work, thought Tommy, I don’t want to talk about fucking work.

  —And how are you going?

  —Good, good. Business is fine, Dominic replied, and they fell into uncomfortable silence.

  Few people guessed, on first meeting, that Dominic and Tommy were brothers. They shared dark skin, their mother’s delicate mouth, but that was all.

  Dominic took off his T-shirt. His skin was olive, tanned by the sun. His chest and belly an explosion of fine blond hair. He’s not fat, he’s bulky, thought Tommy, and again he wished he could rip through his skin, get to the meat, to the flab, to the excess. Rip it up and start again.

  —Put your shirt on.

  Dominic laughed at Eva’s taut command. He slapped his belly.

  —Aren’t you proud of your old man?

  Eva was tall and thin, and Tommy thought her sophisticated. He envied his brother his wife.

  She did not reply. Instead she took a seat offered to her by Duke and ruffled Tommy’s hair.

  —You all right?

  —Sure, he smiled, it’s Christmas.

  The Stefano men all loved Eva.

  —Where’s Soo-Ling?

  —With friends.

  —When do we meet her? Dominic sat up.

  —Soon.

  —How soon? Artie was looking up, squinting from the smoke. He was balding, he was all grey.

  Tommy didn’t answer.

  Eva quickly changed the subject.

  —Dom, go check on the baby.

  —You do it, answered her husband.

  —Please, you go, Eva turned away from Dom, I want to talk to Tommy.

  Dom went in and checked on his child.

  The lunch was on the verandah, under the grapevines, with lots of beer and wine. Yiota arrived with t
he gangly Spiro and she brought octopus, salad and fresh bread. Their daughter, the dark gorgeous little Ourania, ran into the yard and jumped into Artie’s arm. Hello Uncle Thanassi, she whispered in his ear. Yiota joined Maria in the kitchen.

  The food was good, very good, and the group ate rapidly and ferociously. Maria kept refilling the wine, Artie the beer. Yiota kept serving the food.

  —Sit down, ordered Maria to Yiota, in Greek.

  —She never sits down, not till we finish. Spiro.

  Which is true, thought Tommy, Yiota rarely sat still. He smiled at Yiota, she came around to the back of his chair, hugged him. My little Thomas, she whispered, Thomaki.

  The day Spiro and Yiota had left the old house, stopped being boarders, Tommy had cried all night. Inconsolable.

  The conversation kept to family and work. That was safe. Lou took no part, just kept eating, until politics came up. It started with Dominic, who winked slyly to both his brothers and mentioned the word. Maria responded immediately.

  The argument was simple. The responsibility that government had to working people and to people unable to find work. Maria was defending socialism, Duke and Sophia arguing that Australians expected too much from welfare. Artie did not speak, he quietly ate. Lou, too, was quiet. Dominic didn’t give a shit.

  —I’d like to take some of those bludgers out to the farm and show them work. They don’t know what work is.

  —Farming isn’t work. Not in this country.

  Duke nearly choked on the barbecued meat. He glared at Maria.

  —I get up at four-thirty in the morning, he warned her.

  —And you’re drunk by midday. Only labouring people, factory people, know work.

  Dominic and his mother smiled at one another.

  Tommy felt the weight of his white collar.

  —Farmers work too, Mum.

  Maria turned to him, angry at his betrayal.

  —And what would you know?

  Tommy could not look at her. It was his father who interrupted.

  —As much as you do, Maria. Now shut up.

  His mother snorted, rose and went to the kitchen. She clicked on the stereo. A Greek song; they heard her softly singing. When she came back with a platter of fruit, she was smiling.

  Tommy was still hurting. He was scared by how much he did not understand of his parents. He had spent his childhood listening to arguments, shouting and bickering, but also to the breathless fucking from across the thin walls of the Clifton Hill house. He had been happy that when they moved out into the suburbs he was given the back bedroom. He was spared the sounds of his parents loving each other.

  His mother thought him soft because he did not believe enough, his father thought him soft because his body and his work was, and Dominic thought him soft because that’s what everyone thought of Tommy. Except Lou maybe. Lou never insulted him. The boy was sitting down next to the Christmas tree, dividing up the presents. Lou was now firmly a teenager and not a child; he looked awkward performing this traditional activity. Soon, in a year or two, baby Lisa, now asleep, would be doing the honours. Tommy wondered what kind of man his youngest brother would be.

  Lou handed Tommy the first parcel.

  —That’s yours, mate.

  He got a towel from his Aunt Sophia and his Uncle Duke. Body Shop cosmetics from Dominic and Eva. Fifty dollars in an envelope and a tie from his parents. And a CD from Lou.

  —What’s this?

  —It’s a rap thing.

  —Oh. He never listened to rap.

  —It’s good, urged Lou, You should listen to it.

  Strictly Business. EPMD. Which was the band, which was the title?

  —Rap sucks, complained Dominic. Lou had given him and Eva a CD as well, the soundtrack to Bagdad Cafe.

  Eva was excited by the present. She gave Lou a huge kiss.

  —I really want to see this movie.

  —It’s good, said Lou, embarrassed by the kiss but grinning widely. Mum and I saw it the other week.

  —That one with the fat woman?

  The boy nodded.

  —Yes, Maria said to Yiota, it was good. In Greek. She made me laugh a lot, the fat one. And she was beautiful.

  Maria had received a book, a biography of Frida Kahlo, from her youngest son. A Greek translation Lou had hunted out in the city. She hugged the book close. She had exclaimed, been grateful, over Dominic and Tommy’s presents, the scarf, the perfume, but she had quickly discarded them on the floor.

  Tommy noticed that. He had run around and around the department store, from counter to counter. He had rushed in after work, assuming he would find presents quickly; but caught up in the movement and frenzy of the Christmas rush, he could not decide on anything for his mother. He had smelt and smelt perfumes till his body was dizzy, his head sore. His mother had liked, but no more than liked, the present.

  Tommy counted down the remainder of the day, counted down the drinks. Wine, with fruit. Wine, with dessert. A short whisky with the coffee. Now he could go home.

  —Stay, pleaded Maria, your uncles are coming, later. Stay the night.

  —No, Mum.

  Stop it, stop it, let me go.

  It was Artie who stepped in, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  —Let him go.

  —Do what you want, replied Maria, and she stormed into the kitchen.

  Tommy kissed the women, hugged his brothers and his father. Lou was playing video games, slouched on the floor. Maria walked Tommy out, with a tray of food—the meat and pita—with a plastic bag of vegetables and fruits. He kissed her, held her tight.

  —Sorry, he said.

  —What are you going to do?

  —Stuff. Go out with friends.

  —Be careful, she said. She stood, waiting, till he disappeared from view. In the rear-view mirror he saw her make the sign of the Cross.

  When he turned the corner, when he knew he was left to himself, alone, in the car, it was a supreme joy. He put on the radio loud, travelled the roads, took the long way. The breeze. He had been holding in his body for hours.

  He got home, turned on the television, phoned Soo-Ling. He heard her answering machine clicking over. He hesitated. Hello, it’s Tommy. Happy Christmas. He hung up and was about to ring Nadia’s house, Soo-Ling was probably there, join another party; he put down the phone instead. He was enjoying the quiet.

  He took a walk down the road to the Food Plus. It was changing hands, becoming a Shell. There was a new guy at the counter, a young guy.

  Tommy wandered the store, searching for something to eat. Not the chocolate, you fat cunt. He searched the store and found the crisps. Low salt.

  The guy at the counter had a tag on his orange uniform jacket. The tag read Stephen.

  —Hi, Stephen.

  —My name’s not Stephen. The new uniforms haven’t arrived.

  The man looked down at his jacket.

  —This is shitty, isn’t it? The colour.

  Tommy said nothing. The man didn’t give his name. Tommy didn’t ask.

  Two dollars for a two hundred gram bag of shit.

  The neighbourhood was quiet. Only barks and wind in the air. He got home and turned on the television, watched the end of a movie. He went to his room, shuffled under the mattress, pulled out a magazine. A young blonde girl with ponytail, semen running down her cheek. Big red hooded dick.

  Tommy wanked, quickly.

  He finished, he yawned and he put the magazine back under the bed. He turned off the television and he brushed his teeth.

  The bed was hot. He tossed off the doona. In the dark, nothing was visible except for the shining eyes of the Virgin above his bed. Her eyes were moonlight.

  Tommy closed his eyes, fell asleep.

  2

  The Stepford Husband

  In the movie The Stepford Wives, Katherine Ross plays a young woman who moves with her husband and children from Manhattan into a lush and wealthy suburban life. But she doesn’t like it, she wants to be a phot
ographer—she misses New York. And she notices that all the ladies in Stepford, and indeed they are ladies, are all zombies. It turns out that the men of Stepford are replacing their wives with machines. The last shot of the film is Ross wheeling her trolley down a supermarket aisle, a soft-porn goddess in white. Her eyes are dead. They are the only part of the flesh that remains of the real woman and they are lifeless.

  Tommy Stefano saw the movie on a Saturday night in 1977, when he was fourteen and the family had just moved into their new house. In the suburbs, where no-one walked at nights and where every home had a garden. The television was a connection with a previous life and he immersed himself in it. His old friendships were now a bus and a train ride away. So they stopped. The kids in the new school were strange. Only a very few had mothers who spoke with an accent. A sea of blondes, and he had became a foreigner in his own country. When Tommy saw The Stepford Wives, he was mesmerised. Because, scared of the sudden smashing of his world, he had only one desire. To not be hurt, picked on, accused. Tommy had decided to become a zombie.

  The train was not on time and the crowd on the platform were beginning to shuffle impatiently. Tommy knew he would be late, he’d just scraped in, the 8.53 train. Nine-thirty, just about stretching it thin, people would disapprove. If time could stop, now, he thought, I’d like it to stop now. So I could walk around the statues.

  This had been Tommy’s fantasy ever since he’d been very young. He would fantasise about stopping time, but only for humans. And never for himself. He could then wander the world and do whatever he liked. Then finally, tired or bored, he would snap his fingers and everything would return to normal. When they moved to the new suburb, he began to close himself in his room, wank, watch a small black and white television. He began to stop time and within that eternity he could be anyone he wanted.

  —Why don’t you do something, mate, his father would say, waste some energy, get some of that fat off you.

  But Tommy preferred to masturbate.

  Dominic had escaped the new suburb. There had been the disco, the beach, and he had the car. The car was freedom. Dominic had moved out to Blackburn only reluctantly, the fucking arse-end of the world he called it. His mother’s crying and entreaties finally swayed him. But he spent the weekends with the boys in the city, picking up chicks at night. On weekdays he had an early rise and, returning from work, he would blot himself out with smoke, crash early. Or he’d stay in town. I’m staying over at Harry’s place, yeah his mum says hello. For Dominic home became the place you ate in and slept in. And the rest of the world was his to take—home just kept him safe. His mother wanted more of him, but Dominic was firm.