by Arnold Zable
‘Buona sera,’ he replies.
He speaks softly, as someone who rarely exercises his voice. Perry Como croons ‘Catch a Falling Star’. Bloomfield sits at a window table, beside the jukebox, and looks through the plate glass. He makes out a Zephyr and Morris Minor driving by. He looks back at a group of men mustered by the pinball machine. Valerio is the latest addition to the company, the most recently arrived immigrant to spend weeknights in the bar. He sends the ball scudding from one end of the table-soccer pitch to the other and controls the levers with a deft hand. He mutters vaffanculo when he misses, and leaps in triumph when he scores a goal.
Paolo the cafe manager serves donuts, cheese sandwiches, slices of cake. He stands behind the coffee machine, works the black levers, dishtowel tucked into his flannel trousers. The machine hisses. His palms are wet and blistered, his wrists ache. He is a barista, a master of the Gaggia. Espressos, macchiatos, cappucinos and machitos, emerge with speed from his fast moving arms. Paolo deals in caffeine and delivers his heady brew with a steady hand.
Bloomfield’s ear is cocked to the music. He plays with Como’s lyrics. He mouths them, enunciates each word. Bloomfield is easing himself into yet another language. He is a collector of linguistic fragments. He has lost count of the bits and pieces of languages he has picked up. He likes the sense of protection it gives him to be able to say ‘how are you’ in a dozen tongues.
‘Come stai?’ he asks, when Paolo brushes by.
‘Bene,’ Paolo replies.
‘Un cappucino per favore, signore,’ Bloomfield says, timidly.
‘Bravo,’ says Paolo.
Bloomfield smiles like a proud child.
Upstairs the men are playing Red Aces. On the walls, there are posters of cyclists, boxers, soccer champions mid-play. The players scan their cards for an ace of diamonds or hearts. Between hands they are reviewing tonight’s fight.
‘Campari was two pounds short,’ says one.
‘He should eat more pasta and bistecca,’ jokes another.
They are forensic scientists at a post-mortem, each with a theory of their own.
‘The Australian boxers are waking up. Less blind punching, more defence. They are copying our style,’ argues the dealer.
‘The fight was rigged,’ is the common consensus. How could it be otherwise?
Mostly, they are talking of work. This is where schemes are hatched, and where futures are conceived. This is the de facto labour market where newcomers exchange information around tables, intimate and snug. And there is serious money on the card game. Behind the scenes there is a bank. Hard-earned cash is changing hands. Cigarettes perch on the edges of ashtrays. Their butts lengthen into red shadows. Their owners are too engrossed to notice the waste. Or perhaps they like it that way. The idle cigarettes are faithful companions, tranquil witnesses of the game. The players harbour the same wish, to make money, and large amounts of it, quick.
A police officer enters the cafe. Paolo punches a bell on the counter. It resounds upstairs. Within seconds the men have put away the money and cards. When the officer emerges from the stairs he finds them quietly talking. They resume their gambling as soon as he leaves.
Bloomfield stays at the corner table until the last customer departs. He can no longer stave off his return. He leaves as Paolo is sweeping the floors. He walks from Rathdowne to Newry, turns right into Drummond Street and continues four blocks north, to the welfare house. He chants a smattering of Italian as he walks:
‘Un cappucino per favore, signore.’
He accentuates the roll of the r’s.
‘Un cappucino per favore, signore.’
He allows each word to rest upon his tongue.
‘Un cappucino per favore, signore.’
He repeats the phrase in a singsong hum. And stops, when he enters the house. He tiptoes over the floorboards. His fellow guests are asleep, he does not wish to disturb them. He wishes to remain a non-presence, to keep out of harm’s way.
The bathroom is lit by a single globe. Romek dips his shaving brush into a glass of water and lathers his face. He prides himself on the straight tracks he cuts through the lather. He admires the precision, the way the razor works the skin. He works with the guidance of a small mirror attached by wire over the sink. When the shave is done, he returns the razor and brush to the medicine chest. Its shelves are a mess of bandages, cotton wool, castor oil, hair creams and bottles of iodine, the all-purpose antiseptic for abrasions and cuts.
When the poached eggs are done Romek spreads the yolk on toast. As he eats he inspects the front page of this morning’s Age: ‘P.M. Sets Australia’s First Nuclear Reactor in Operation’ reads the headline, Saturday, 19 April, 1958. ‘Nuclear Patrols Threat to Peace’ reads another. ‘Moscow Envoys Meet But Top Talks No Closer’, states a third.
Romek plays with the words. He singles out key phases that pepper the lead reports and frames them in biro. He scribbles them at random in the newspaper margins as if compiling a shopping list. It is his first step towards creating his daily couplets, his simple English lines. He is astonished at how the words, when reassembled, form approximations of rhymes.
Cold War. Nuclear Age. Satellite States.
Nuclear shields. Ballistic weapons. Arms race.
Nuclear umbrellas. Iron Curtains. Outer space.
He looks at the lead photo. Prime Minister Menzies leans over a panel of levers and dials. ‘I feel like pressing that button,’ he is quoted as saying. Beneath it, a second photo features the chief scientist buttoned up in a suit. He is lowering a uranium fuel rod into the reactor. He is a practical man, thinks Romek, the bureaucratic descendant of Einstein.
Romek copies the list of words into a notebook. It is his way of learning his seventh language. He isolates one phrase, writes it in capital letters: BALANCE OF POWER. Every age has its incantations, and this is the catchphrase of the times. Romek reflects upon Winston Churchill’s definition, culled from a newspaper article published in recent days: ‘Balance of power is based on mutual possession of the means of mutual extermination.’
Romek returns to this morning’s words. He rearranges them, and works to refine them on the paper’s margins. This is where he resides—on the margins. He is on the outside, looking in; and there is a certain advantage in this. It allows him to indulge his own thoughts. Romek returns to his task. He works with the aid of dictionaries until finally, the rhymes fall into place:
Nuclear power, cold wars.
That which freezes, that which thaws.
That which simmers, that which cools.
Nature’s rage in the hands of fools.
Romek scribbles the lines into the notebook, but feels let down. Despite his valiant attempts, a single verse cannot contain the key concepts of the nuclear age. It is far too much to encompass. Besides, what good can it do? His couplets are the doggerel of a court jester, he muses, the words of a powerless man. Romek glances back at his tchemodan: ‘Mein hob oon goots,’ he mutters. ‘My worldly goods.’
He does not wish to possess more than this. And he is stubborn. He will always refuse to learn to drive. He will always refuse to expand his business, to extend his ambition. The tchemodan is where he has drawn his personal battle line in the nuclear age. Everything is reduced to just this, a man in a kitchen, about to step out into the world. ‘I am a small man,’ he writes. ‘Dwarfed by forces far more powerful. Others possess the power to determine whether I live or die.’
He reflects on the key term ‘balance of power’, two opposing forces keeping each other at bay. Just move a millimetre either way, and the world is lost. He too had been just a millimetre away when the forces broke loose. He had seen the crematoria fires. He prefers the Hebrew word, Shoah, the Annihilation, the complete destruction of an entire community, a way of life. And there had been the second Annihilation, a cruel aftershock of the main event, Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Complete with charred bodies. Smouldering remains. That is what all annihilations have in common, reflects Romek, th
e smell of charred flesh.
For now, it seems, the furies are balanced, the scales poised. The papers are full of it. There are numerous reports of summit meetings, diplomatic manoeuvres, mutual threats and the clandestine doings of cold war spies. Romek shrugs. He folds the newspaper neatly, washes the few dishes he has used, wipes down the table, gets rid of yeder brekele, every little speck. He repeats the same procedure every morning; he does not wish to leave any sign of his presence, not one brekele. When he is satisfied Romek lifts the suitcase, trudges to the gate, and disappears via the back lane, a brekele in the early morning mist.
Shaun Ferguson stands behind the counter and gazes over the heads of shoppers, over the aisles and fruit stalls, above the shed walls, at the beams that rib the tin roofs. In these roofs there resides an atlas of geometry, a tangle of triangles, rectangles and squares. He pats his black leather apron and, glass of beer in hand, he hums the opening bars of ‘Sixteen Tons’.
He is a big man, at least sixteen stone in weight. He puts his arm around Josh. ‘Yes, another day older and deeper in debt. It lurks in dark corners. Creeps up on you when you’re not looking. And you’re in trouble,’ he says, and glances back at the roof. ‘So, then it’s off to the dogs to lay a bet. May as well, if you’re in debt.’
A customer orders a pound of peanuts. Shaun fills a paper bag and places it on the scales. ‘Correct weight,’ he states, and throws in an extra handful. His is an instinctive generosity. If the coffers are full, he adds more. And if things are going well he cannot resist the temptation to sing. He sings out of tune, but thankfully, under his breath. And on this Saturday morning things are going very well. Nuts are a perishable item, and Ferguson sells them all: walnuts, almonds, roasted cashews, shelled nuts that can be gulped down on the run, and hard-shelled macadamias that require a hammer to crack.
Each assistant has their appointed task. The shelled nuts are Shirl’s preserve. She arranges them in compartments behind plate glass. Pete, the one-legged war veteran, leans on his crutches and works the till. Josh is in charge of the mixed nuts. They are displayed in a straw basket beside the stall, on the footpath. This is his third week in a new job and Josh takes pride in keeping the blend balanced. He adds brazil nuts and a scattering of macadamias to season the mix. He runs his hands through them, churns them over, and finally allows them to rest.
As for Ferguson, peanuts are his specialty. They are delivered hot, in their shells, packed tight in hessian sacks. He cuts them open and upends their contents into counter bins. He relishes the warmth of the hessian and the aroma of peanut dust. ‘Impress your customers with ample stock,’ he says. ‘Show them quantity and they’ll buy bulk.’
He puts his arm around Josh, and says, as if addressing an apprentice: ‘I know this game. I’ve been in it for years. And my father was in it before me. You too can become a nutter. But watch out for the rising costs. They overtake you when you least expect it. That’s how it was in the depression years. Another day older and we sank deeper in debt.’
At ten-thirty sharp, Ferguson sends Josh to the corner shop to fetch toasted sandwiches. The smell of decay wafts on a gust of breeze, sweet mingled with sour, the barren with the fresh. Josh glances at tomatoes pregnant with juice, apples fat with growth. He makes his way past Romek’s stall. Romek is nervous, self-absorbed. Especially now that Zofia has joined him. She cleans up the mess and restores order with a light touch. For the few hours that she occasionally helps out she is a woman transformed. She speaks to the customers with ease. She is at home in the world of commerce, back in the Krakow marketplaces of her youth. Josh skirts the stall at a distance to avoid being seen.
‘See that couple I’ve just been talking to?’ remarks Ferguson when Josh returns with the food. ‘They’ve been in touch with creatures from outer space. That’s what they told me. There’s a secret group that are in on it. They meet every year in the Arizona desert to converse with them.’ He stares at the departing couple as he speaks. ‘They’re ordinary folks like you and me,’ he says. ‘But they are in touch with aliens. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’
Throughout the morning they come, ex-footballers, former boxers, veteran sportsmen, old mates who pour out their tales to this generous man with a believer’s face. ‘There goes Les Foote,’ he says. ‘Played for North Melbourne in the forties. Never saw such an accurate kick. Even today he could hit a telegraph post from fifty yards away nine times out of ten.’
Ferguson speaks with reverence about the prowess of his sporting heroes. He is a man who trusts. ‘You meet great people in this business,’ he tells Josh, and does not seem to notice what is going on under his nose. Does not see what is so obvious to his workers. Pete, the one-legged veteran, has his hand in the till. Every now and then he pockets a few bob. His face reddens when he catches Josh’s eyes, and Josh senses the anxiety that skitters beneath Ferguson’s nervous laugh, Shirl’s shrill good cheer, Pete’s furtive glance.
He sees their collective exhaustion, and sees it reflected many times over in the stall owners around him, in the deliverymen, the stall assistants and market cleaners. He senses the accumulated weariness of those who, for years, have awoken before dawn to set out for another day of toil. It is a permanent stain upon their faces. It can be seen in the involuntary closure of their eyes. It is embodied in the way they walk, the steady plod that conserves energy. It is the walk of those who know their fortunes depend upon the long haul. All about him Josh sees variations upon his own father, countless Romeks who suppress their deepest yearnings to do what they must.
At noon Ferguson begins to pack up. He tops Josh’s five shillings an hour in wages with an extra pound. He cannot resist the desire to spread his limited wealth. It has been a profitable morning and he continues to hum ‘Sixteen Tons’. Occasionally the words break out. He jiggles his feet as if on the verge of a pavement dance.
As Josh sets out for the tram stop he speeds up into a run. He cuts through the market sheds and food halls. He knows the detours and byways, the quickest way to Elizabeth Street. He dodges the traffic with the finesse of a city boy, continues past the brewery, turns left into Swanston Street. He jogs past the university, crosses busy Cemetery Road. The footpath beside the cemetery slopes downhill and allows him to gain his second wind. He bends into Lygon Street and accelerates towards familiar ground. He races to Fenwick Street and sprints the three blocks to the horse trough at the corner pub.
He skims the trough water with his fingers and still, he runs. He turns sharp left into the back lane, soars into the home straight, and stops abruptly by the back gate. He sucks in his breath. His singlet is wet. Yet he hesitates at the finishing line. He does not wish to cross the threshold. He jogs back to Fenwick Street and heads towards the vacant lot.
In the distance he glimpses Romek and Zofia making their way home from the Lygon Street tram. They are an odd couple: he a small man, weighed down by a tchemodan, and she, labouring by his side, lugging string bags, one in each hand. She looks like a village water carrier dangling heavy buckets on either side. Before they see him, Josh veers into Sutton Street and disappears towards the vacant lot.
Saturday afternoon is the true beginning of the week’s end. Shutters are being closed, tills locked, businesses bolted. The week’s commerce is winding down. And they are being disgorged, the football crowds, from the Lygon and Nicholson streets trams, the Rathdowne Street bus, from cars parked bumper to bumper in the surrounding streets. It can be felt as they trudge, their anticipation, their collective relief. The working week is over, the coliseums are waiting, the teams are yet to run out onto the ground, and the scoreboard reads nil all. Anything can happen. Anyone can win.
It begins mid-autumn, the football season, and with it comes the scent of mud and westerly winds tinged with cold. Every Saturday there is a game within walking distance. If it isn’t at the Carlton ground in Princes Park, it’s at the Fitzroy oval on Brunswick Street. Today, it is both. The fans walk in opposite directions on Fenwick Street lik
e two rows of ants filing past. The Fitzroy Lions and Swans supporters head east, and the Carlton Blues and North Melbourne Kangaroos fans west, on the long walk to Princes Park. They shed the working week as they go.
There are fathers and sons, husbands and wives, young couples on dates, and entire families, wrapped in club-colour beanies and scarves. There are young men who move in packs. Their bodies lean forward in an aggressive stance. It is the walk of the herd. And there are those who walk alone, huddled within themselves, yet they belong to the collective intimacy of the swarming crowd.
Josh sees them from the median strip on Canning Street. He is playing kick-to-kick with Big Al. His latest football is made of cardboard shaped in imitation of the oval ball. Valerio watches its wayward trajectory from the footpath. ‘That is not football,’ he says. ‘I play real football.’
‘Soccer’s a poofter’s game,’ retorts Big Al. ‘Here, ’ave a go at a proper footy.’
Al kicks the cardboard missile towards him. Valerio catches it and tries, with mock exasperation, to work out which end is which. After a few false starts, he tosses it up and kicks it, mid-air, soccer style. The footy swivels midriff high into Al’s stomach.
‘Ya kick like a Spag,’ Al yells, as he doubles up.
Valerio shrugs his shoulders, makes his way inside and returns with a soccer ball. He plays solo, on the footpath, with a defiant smile. ‘This is real football,’ he repeats as he juggles the ball from toe to toe.
The air resonates with the crowd’s response. It rises from the bowels of two stadiums, one to the west, the other, east. Each bellow swells into a full-throated roar before deflating into a muted growl. Josh can decipher the code. The louder roars signify a goal, a drawn-out howl anger at an umpire’s decision, a sustained drone an intense passage in play.