The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  The gym offered routine, daily. He would rise, check the papers, ring for work, post his resume, and then he would walk into Box Hill, past the shops, through the park and into the gymnasium. His workout would last an hour and a half and he would sweat furiously, working off the fat. He began to look in mirrors again. But his weight refused to descend at a rate that made him happy. His lust for food did not diminish, if anything it increased, and he would gulp down chips and bread, sausage and meat.

  —You smoke too much. Soo-Ling said this to him nervously. He was rolling a joint, they were on her couch, watching Cosby on television. He felt annihilated.

  —Please, Soo-Ling.

  She refused the smoke.

  He wished he could leave her. Then there were nights when he would wake sweating, terrified of all things that lay beyond the bed, and he would reach out for her. Those nights she was not beside him he could not return to sleep. He’d numb himself with marijuana. He had been given a script for Serapax, to relieve his anxiety. But only Soo-Ling lying next to him could bring real peace.

  The simplest comfort remained the gym. There he realised that his weight was not obscene. He found that even with his sagging belly, his fat thighs, there were faggots who would stare at him in the shower. He was both repulsed and attracted to their greed for his sex. He would wash his cock carefully, pull at his balls to extend their length. This narcissism was another pleasure of the gym. But outside that closed world, his doubts returned. Among women he compared his girth to other men around him. They wore their shirts loose, their leanness was mesmerising. He would glance in mirrors and find that he still seemed bloated and unshapely.

  There was one more sanctuary. His visits to the porn shop. After the gym he would wander in and take his time walking along the shelves, picking up videos, putting them back, glancing at the covers and the backs of magazines. During the day a blond curly haired young man would sit at the counter, reading, listening to the radio and smoking his cigarettes. The young man would nod to Tommy then return to his reading. No fuss was made if Tommy remained in the shop for hours. Feeling the absence of a fortnightly salary, dependent on the dole, Tommy rationed his pornography. One magazine per week. No more than fifteen dollars. One video per fortnight, exchanged with another from his collection. Another fifteen dollars. Once, sometimes twice a week, always on the Thursday when the benefits got paid, Tommy would enter one of the booths and masturbate. Eight dollars for half an hour.

  The dole office, the gymnasium, the porn shop. The routine.

  He had taken the icon off his bedroom wall, had wrapped it in cloth and stored it carefully in his trunk, separated from the videos and magazines by sheets and blankets.

  —Maybe we should move in together. Soo-Ling took the remote control and switched channels. They settled into an old Benny Hill.

  Why? He said nothing.

  —You’re always here, which I like, she added quickly, but it seems a waste for you to pay rent on the flat.

  He nodded. Six hundred and forty-three dollars, sixty-seven cents remained in his account. What she said made lots of sense. He would ask her to marry him when he found another job.

  —You’re right. We’ll talk about it when the lease ends.

  She nodded, happy, and turned to the screen. The images flashed past, nonsensical, hypnotic. She was planning the future.

  Tommy laughed. An old man, rubbery face, toothless, was smothered in the bosom of a blonde tart with gigantic tits.

  Tommy clenched his stomach tight. The thought of not being alone, of living with Soo-Ling, every day, every moment, filled him with a vertiginous nausea that was close to disgust. But so did the thought of losing her.

  December 15. Lou’s birthday.

  Tommy drove slowly. Soo-Ling was putting on lipstick, rubbing her lips and looking in the mirror.

  It had been a month since he had visited his parents. Maria’s calls had become increasingly hysterical. One night she had rung up crying, cursing him for his indifference.

  —I’ll be there, he screamed into the phone, I’ll be there for Lou’s birthday.

  —You’re my son, I need to see you, she sobbed.

  I don’t need to see you.

  He fantasised, always, about her death. Her absence would be a relief. And then his guilt would confirm what he already knew: that he was hardly human, something obscene.

  Maria kissed Soo-Ling warmly, hugged her. The initial distance between them had vanished, replaced with a guarded intimacy: they rarely talked of Tommy, only of everything around him. Soo-Ling’s being Chinese no longer mattered once Maria saw she would stand firm alongside her son. An Australian girl would have left him as soon as he became unemployed, she said to Artie.

  —So would a Greek one, he replied.

  Politics had also cemented the affection between the two women. Soo-Ling, who had previously avoided politics, thought herself bored by it, had discovered an overwhelming interest in it once Tommy had become unemployed. The world of economics and politics no longer seemed a distant soap opera played out daily on the news at six but had begun to impact and force changes in her own life. The dole bludger was Tommy.

  —Imagine if the Liberals get in next year. Maria shook her head in horror.

  —It won’t make a fucking difference, said Artie.

  —Yes it will. Soo-Ling, quiet, amazed them with the force of her exclamation.

  —They’re the same, argued Dominic. Hawke’s mates with all the fucking capos.

  They’re racist. Soo-Ling remembered the previous leader of the conservatives, his call for a restriction of Asian immigration.

  But she said nothing.

  —Bloody Vietnamese everywhere. Dominic had once sung this complaint. He looked up, Soo-Ling carrying a tray of coffee.

  —Sorry, Sue, I didn’t mean you.

  I know, arsehole, I’m Chinese.

  Only Maria seemed a true ally. Once, tipsy on wine at a barbecue, just before Tommy got the sack, she had made a comment, crude, that Soo-Ling always remembered. She was referring to the short balding leader of the opposition in Parliament.

  —That bastard, what a wanker. And so ugly. There are Australian men, so pale, so lacking passion, they are like fish. Being with them would be like fucking a bloody fish. He reminds me of my bosses at the factories. I’d rather stitch up my mouni five times over than fuck a man like that.

  Artie had got up from the table, taken her drink and said, furious, That’s enough.

  Soo-Ling had smiled, grinned, and fallen in love with the woman.

  Tommy kissed his mother, shook hands with his father and excused himself to go to the toilet. He opened the bathroom door. Lou was naked except for a towel around his slender waist, combing his wet hair in front of the mirror.

  —Sorry, Tommy blushed and shut the door. On his brother’s flat stomach a thick web of hair had formed.

  —It’s all right, Lou yelled from inside, you can come in.

  Tommy opened the door. The boy smiled, leant over and kissed his brother. Tommy went stiff.

  —How are you? Is Soo-Ling here?

  Tommy nodded.

  —Great.

  There was a silence.

  —I’ll leave. Lou grabbed deodorant from the sink and walked out of the bathroom.

  —Put something on!

  The boy simply laughed.

  They were both embarrassed, though for Lou it was a response to his brother’s mistrust rather than a response to the situation. But Lou was aware that Tommy was distant from him, almost suspicious of him, and that their intimacy inside the bathroom was uncomfortable; it was almost ugly. In his bedroom the boy winked at the cat, stroked its fine short hair and stripped the towel from his waist. He looked at his body in the mirror.

  Jesus, you need to be bigger. He started to dress and forgot Tommy.

  You forgot to say happy birthday, you dickhead. Tommy pissed, holding his cock, resting the thickness in his palm. The boy’s lean body, no fat, no sagging or
decay. A spurt of semen in a young child’s mouth. He thought of the kidnapped girl. He flushed, looked in the mirror.

  Had he always been a sicko? From birth?

  His face had begun to lose the podge, the outline of cheekbone was now visible. But the double chin was still there. He stretched his jaw and then clenched his teeth hard, angry at his own foolishness. He knocked on Lou’s door.

  —Come in.

  The boy was fastening his belt, a black T-shirt and faded jeans.

  —Happy birthday, mate.

  Lou smiled.

  —Soo-Ling’s got your present.

  —Thanks. The boy bolted past, heading for the kitchen. Tommy felt as if he had been slapped.

  Maria had organised a sumptuous feast. In the kitchen Soo-Ling and Eva were preparing salads. There was roasting gemista, tomatoes, peppers and zucchini flowers filled with meat and rice, a large pan of creamy pasticchio and a platter of oily dolmades, the vine leaves shiny and deep jade. There was a roast chicken and golden slices of potato. Taramasalata and tzatziki, fresh bread and wine. Outside, drinking beer, Dominic and Artie were cooking souviakia. Soo-Ling was made dizzy by the smells, the kitchen was full of the succulent ether of oil and spice, oregano and basil. She stroked her chin, she felt encased in the oil. Lou was at her side, chopping tomatoes. The boy’s fresh face was smiling.

  —How’s the cat?

  —She’s good. She’s probably out in the garage.

  —Not in your room?

  Maria turned around sharply.

  —She’s not allowed in the house.

  Soo-Ling made a face, an apology.

  —That’s all right. He whispered it softly.

  Soo-Ling had chosen Lou’s present, a shirt of red silk. He opened it and impulsively kissed her. He put the shirt on, over the T-shirt, and it hung loose across his frame.

  —Tuck it in, urged his mother.

  —It looks fine like that, smiled Soo-Ling.

  Faggot.

  Tommy retreated from the women, out to the garden, to his older brother and his father around the barbecue.

  —How’s the job hunting going, eh Tom?

  Tommy opened a beer, looked around the garden. His father winked at him.

  —You’ll find one soon, won’t you, Tommy.

  And what if I don’t want to?

  —Sure Dad, after Christmas.

  Dominic turned the meat over.

  —Where’s Eva?

  —At her mum’s. She’ll be here soon. She had to pick up some stuff.

  The conversation turned to cricket and the weather. Lou came into the yard, calling for the cat. The three older men turned and looked at the boy.

  —Bass! Where are you?

  Tommy excused himself. He could not stay still.

  Dominic turned over the skewers of meat and the oil sizzled.

  —You think he’s all right?

  Artie nodded.

  —It’s been nearly six months now.

  —Jobs are hard to get. Lou came over next to his brother.

  —What the fuck would you know about it?

  Lou smiled and started calling for the cat.

  —How’s school going anyway?

  Lou shrugged. Okay.

  The cat was hiding under a canopy of lettuce leaves. Lou spied it and walked over. The cat slithered cautiously up to his hand.

  —Boo! Dominic screamed and the cat became liquid, dived over the fence.

  Lou turned around, shaking his head.

  —You’re an arsehole. He sat down next to his father. Can I have a beer?

  Artie handed over a stubby.

  —Well, Dad, has he told you anything? Tom, I mean. Has he got any interviews?

  Artie stood up and took the tongs off Dominic.

  —He doesn’t talk about it much. Shut it, all right Dom, around him. Don’t give him a hard time.

  —I don’t fucking give him a hard time.

  —Yes you do. Lou said this quietly. He sniffed the air and scowled, I hate the smell of meat.

  —You’re not turning vego on us?

  —Maybe.

  Dominic laughed. That’ll piss Mum off.

  Lou tapped the bottle. Soft thick short notes.

  —Soo-Ling reckons he should do more study.

  —Who?

  —Tommy.

  —Soo-Ling doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  Artie tasted a slice of steaming meat.

  —Dom’s right. He’s already been to college. He needs a job. He needs to settle down.

  —Soo-Ling’s got him hooked. Dominic laughed and, in a whisper, A china doll for a bride, hey Dad?

  Lou got up to go inside. She’s smarter than both of you idiots. He walked up to the laundry door, brushed past Tommy.

  —What are they laughing about?

  Lou didn’t turn around.

  —Just bullshit.

  The lunch dragged on for hours. In the background the television played the cricket and the radio played songs. The feast of pastries and meat was followed by fruit: grapes, and deep red plums from the garden, watermelon and peaches. Throughout the meal wine was drunk, and a bottle of champagne was opened to celebrate the boy’s birthday. The three brothers slowly all got drunk. Eva and Soo-Ling began drinking water. Maria, safe in her home, drank with her sons.

  The conversation nervously and studiously avoided the subject of work. But the alcohol loosened lips and concentration. Soo-Ling sat quietly, listening in. Maria, charged with drink, began to curse the fall of the Wall. Soo-Ling was shocked. She had watched the television over the last few months, a gratuitous happiness at seeing the division of Europe shattered by the exuberant celebrations of will. But Maria was damning.

  Tommy filled his glass, shaking his head. He tried to interject.

  —Mum, how can you believe that shit? You think it was better for people under communism. You’re a fool.

  Maria laughed cruelly.

  —I’m the fool? No, you’re the fools. A whining, mocking voice. Excuse me, Mr Bush, we’re Australia. What can we do for you? Whatever you want, Mr Bush. In Greek. The Americans fuck everyone. Only Australia, however, only Australia rolls over and lets them do it willingly.

  Tommy, furious, raised his glass.

  —To capitalism.

  Artie laughed and raised his glass as well.

  Soo-Ling realised the danger. The mother’s eyes were moist but angry.

  —Is capitalism offering you a job, son?

  Tommy sculled the glass, banged it on the table and poured himself another drink. His mother’s contempt lacerated him and he wished he had the guts to overturn the table, to bash his fist hard in her sly face. To walk out. To walk away and not return.

  Maria did not wish to hurt her son. But what Tommy did not realise, what none of them realised, even the husband who had lived with her for so long, was that when they dismissed her faith with jokes and light banter, they compounded a hurt which isolated her from them. Even within her own family, Maria had no-one with whom she could share her exile.

  The approach of menopause made it worse. The headaches and the fevers, the inability to sense the fury and the impossibility of keeping it in control. She was lashing, lashing out, Arto had never been so far away from her. Sometimes, next to her in bed, the touch of his skin repulsed her. Her despair was becoming poisonous.

  After lunch the men sat bloated in the lounge room, watching the television, reading the newspapers, while the women restored order to the kitchen. Lou walked the spaces in between, watching the cricket, drying the dishes. Maria had fallen into a silence, not angry but distant. Eva and Soo-Ling attempted conversation but Maria’s answers were short. They washed in silence. The young boy and the mother stayed close to one another, and Soo-Ling marvelled at the affection between them. Maria stroked the boy’s cheek, a soft line of suds. She blew it away and the boy giggled.

  —I’m going to go out after this, okay, Mum?

  —Where to?

  �
��Kylie’s. We’re just going out, a group of us. Celebrate my birthday. Dinner and then there’s this party.

  —How late are you going to be?

  —Not too late. All right?

  The mother nodded.

  But not too late. Greek.

  In the lounge room, Tommy heard the exchange. Bitch, he thought, you wouldn’t have let me out without a fight when I was his age. He’s just fucking turned sixteen.

  —Can Pete stay over?

  —Why? Maria looked suspiciously at her youngest son.

  —Can he?

  —Why can’t he sleep at home? He’s just down the road.

  Lou shifted uncomfortably, foot to foot. He looked over at Soo-Ling.

  —Why? demanded Maria.

  —He’s not at home at the moment.

  —Why?

  —He’s had a fight with his mum. She chucked him out again.

  Maria turned off the tap. She faced her son.

  —Where has he been sleeping?

  —I don’t know. Around. At the bus shelter in the plaza. Can he sleep over tonight?

  Maria said nothing. She stormed out of the kitchen. Lou and Soo-Ling silently continued the washing up.

  Tommy heard his mother in her bedroom. She slammed a drawer hard. He looked over at his father who was concentrating intently on the television.

  Maria came into the kitchen and handed a roll of notes to her son.

  —He can sleep here tonight. Give him this.

  Lou unrolled the notes.

  —Jesus, Mum, he exclaimed, this is one hundred dollars.

  Artie roared from inside the lounge room, What the fuck are you thinking of, woman?

  —It’s my money, screamed back Maria. Mine, all right!

  Tommy watched a ball claim a wicket. The television cut to an ad. He wanted his father to scream back. He didn’t. Instead he shook his head. Dominic pointed a finger to his forehead, rolled his eyes, indicated towards the kitchen.

  —She’s always been crazy, agreed his father.

  —Thanks, Mum.

  Maria turned away from Lou and shoved Soo-Ling aside.

  —I’ll finish them, she said gruffly. There was a tear in her left eye.