Christos Tsiolkas is the author of four previous novels: Loaded, which was made into the feature film Head On; The Jesus Man; Dead Europe, which won the 2006 Age Fiction Prize and the 2006 Melbourne Best Writing Award; and The Slap, which was published in 2008 in Australia and has since been published all over the world. The Slap won the 2009 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, the 2009 Vance Palmer Prize for Fiction, the 2009 Australian Literary Society’s Gold Medal and the Australian Book Industry Awards Book of the Year for 2009. The Slap was longlisted for the 2010 Booker Prize. Tsiolkas is also a playwright, essayist and screenwriter. He lives in Melbourne.
Praise for The Slap
‘Once in a while a novel comes along that reminds me why I love to read: The Slap is such a book . . . Tsiolkas throws open the window on society, picks apart its flaws, embraces its contradictions and recognises its beauty, all the time asking the reader, Whose side are you on? Honestly, one of the three or four truly great novels of the new millennium.’
—John Boyne, author of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
‘The Slap is nothing short of a tour de force, and it confirms Christos Tsiolkas’s reputation as one of the most significant contemporary storytellers at work today . . . Here is a novel of immense power and scope.’
— Colm Toíbín, author of Brooklyn
‘Brilliant, beautiful, shockingly lucid and real, this is a novel as big as life built from small, secret, closely observed beats of the human heart. A cool, calm, irresistible masterpiece.’
— Chris Cleave, author of The Other Hand
‘A novel of great emotional complexity; as the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Tsiolkas has a rare ability to inhabit his characters’ inner worlds. The Slap places family life under the microscope, and the outcome is nothing less than a modern masterpiece.’
— The Times
‘Strikingly tender . . . It claws into you with its freshness and truth.’
— Sydney Morning Herald
‘The Book of the Summer. Now and again a book comes along that defines a summer. This year that book is The Slap . . . The Slap has one elusive, rare quality: it appeals to both genders . . . The ideal summer read: escapist, funny and clever writing by a brilliant Australian novelist.’
— Telegraph (UK)
‘It’s often said that the best politicians are those who can instinctively divine the zeitgeist of their country’s centre. For the ones who can’t, I would place The Slap as mandatory bedside table reading. It’s a perfect social document of what Australia is today. More importantly, it’s also one hell of a read.’
— Venero Armanno, The Australian
‘Tsiolkas is a hard-edged, powerful writer, but glowing at the heart of all the anger among these feuding families are sparks of understanding, resignation and even love . . . The novel transcends both suburban Melbourne and the Australian continent, leaving us exhausted but gasping with admiration.’
— Washington Post
‘Think Tom Wolfe meets Philip Roth. Or The Sopranos meets The Real Housewives of Orange County.’
— LA Times
‘Fond, fractious, lit from within by flashes of casual lust and malice, it’s like Neighbours as Philip Roth might have written it.’
— The Sunday Times
‘. . . a “way we live now” novel . . . riveting from beginning to end.’
— Jane Smiley, Guardian
‘This ingenious and passionate book is a wonderful dissection of suburban Australian living . . . this is a beautifully structured and executed examination of the complexity of modern living; a compelling journey into the darkness of suburbia.’
— Independent on Sunday
‘An ambitious, state-of-the-nation novel of John Howard’s post-9/11 Australia. Tsiolkas manages to add winding complexities to each of the inner portraits—which might have spiralled out of control in the hands of a less-deft writer. Tsiolkas’s remarkable narrative fluidity proves that a fabulous page-turner can also contain great emotional power and intelligence.’
— Independent
‘A rich, provocative and poignant examination, exploring such themes as loyalty, friendship and marriage, class, gender politics, generation gaps, Aboriginal assimilation, immigrant identity and, of course, corporal punishment. It’s an ambitious agenda, but nothing ever feels shoehorned in, and that’s down to the even-handed skill with which he draws his characters. No clear lines of morality are drawn, and that’s The Slap’s greatest strength.’
— National Post
‘Tsiolkas achieves an unusual double vision that both drives the story forward at speed and generates much of its pathos. We are presented with a cast of characters whose situation reflects the affluent, insecure, globalised Australia of the early twenty-first century. Yet this also makes the novel transportable into other cultures; it is at once quintessentially Australian, and a story that resonates in our own brittle and commercialised culture.’
— Times Literary Supplement
‘With The Slap Tsiolkas secures his place as one of our most important novelists . . . By painting an Australia we can recognise in language so good you don’t notice it, Tsiolkas has written an absolute ripper.’
— Age
‘The Slap could well be one of the most successful state-of-the-nation novels of our times . . . A genuinely important, edgy, urgent book that hunts big game. Nothing escapes Tsiolkas’s lacerating gaze . . . The novel keeps readers constantly on their toes, pushing boundaries, questioning lazy assumptions, provoking and, above all, smuggling in unease under the guileful blanket of a gripping read.’
— Telegraph
‘A blistering portrait of domestic life. Tsiolkas dissects the psyche of each character with surgical precision.’
— Sun-Herald
‘One of the most astute chroniclers and critics of our age and culture, Tsiolkas is a passionate, poetic, political polemicist, but his critiques take the form of enthralling stories that are peopled with characters that bounce off the page.’
— Adelaide Advertiser
barracuda
CHRISTOS
TSIOLKAS
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events have evolved from the author’s imagination.
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of material reproduced in this book. In cases where these efforts were unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to contact the publisher directly.
First published in 2013
Copyright © Christos Tsiolkas 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 731 0
eISBN 978 1 74343 482 6
Internal design by Lisa White
Set in 12/17 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney
And now tell it to me
in other words,
says the stuf
fed owl
to the fly
which, with a buzz,
is trying with its head
to break through the window-pane.
—The Best Room, or Interpretation of a Poem,
Miroslav Holub
For Angela Savage
Contents
PART ONE BREATHING IN
FIRST WEEK OF TERM, FEBRUARY 1994
FRIDAY, 8 APRIL 1994
26–27 JULY 1996
LABOUR DAY WEEKEND, MARCH 1997
AUSTRALIAN SWIMMING CHAMPIONSHIPS, BRISBANE, 20–23 MAY 1997
FUKUOKA, JAPAN, AUGUST 1997
FRIDAY 28 AUGUST 1998
FRIDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 2000
PART TWO BREATHING OUT
EASTER 2003
AUSTRALIA DAY, 2006
THURSDAY 24 JUNE 2010
WINTER SOLSTICE 2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
part one
BREATHING IN
WHEN THE RAIN FIRST SPILLS FROM those egg-white foams of cloud that seem too delicate to have burst forth in such a deluge, I freeze. The heavy drops fizz on the dry grass as they hit; I think this is what a pit of snakes would sound like. And suddenly the rain is falling in sheets, though the sky is still blue, the sun still shining. The Glaswegians on the pebbled shore are yelling and screaming, rushing out of the water, huddling under the trees, running back to their cars. Except for the chubby young man with the St Andrews tattoo on his bicep, criss-crossed white lines on blue; he is standing in the water up to his knees, grinning, his arms outstretched, welcoming the rain, daring it.
And just as suddenly the rain has stopped and they all slink back to the beach. Two young boys race past me and throw themselves into the lake. A teenage girl throws away the magazine she has been sheltering beneath, takes out a compact and starts to powder her cheeks and nose, to reapply colour to her lips till they are the pink of fairy floss. Someone has turned the music back on and the words when love takes over roar through the valley. A pale skinny youth with broken teeth and a mop of greasy black hair dives past me; sheets of crystal-clear water splash all over the wading tattooed guy, who grabs his friend, holds him from behind in a bear hug, and ducks him under. He sits on him, laughing. A woman shouts from the shore, �Get off him, Colm, get off him!�
The chubby guy stands up, grinning, and the thin boy scrambles to his feet, coughing water.
The girls and the women are all in bikinis, the boys and the men are all in shorts, and bare-chested or in singlets. Except me: I have jeans on and two layers on top, a t-shirt and an old yellowing shirt. The sun feels weak to me; it can�t get any stronger than pleasant, it can�t build to fire, it can�t manage force.
�Dan, I can�t go back there. I can�t. Everything is too far away.�
Clyde�s words have been going around and around in my head all day. Too far away.
In the restaurant the night before, we were eavesdropping on a nearby table: a group of friends�three couples, one Scottish, one English, one German. They were in their late fifties, the men all with beards and bellies, the two British women with newly acquired bobs, the German woman with her grey hair pulled back in a long, untidy ponytail. She had looked up when we first started arguing, when I first raised my voice.
�And I can�t live here.�
�Why?�
�Because this, for me, is too far away.�
We glared at each other across the table. One of us had to submit. One of us had to win. The young waiter arrived with our mains and we attacked them in viscous silence.
The group seemed to be old university friends, their lively conversation and loud laughter an invasion. The sauce on my steak was all salt and thick melted butter. I tore into it, was the first to finish. I pushed back the plate and headed off to the loos. Behind me I could hear the argument from their table. It seemed they got together every two years, in a different city. The German woman was pushing for it to be Barcelona next time, the Scottish man thought it should be Copenhagen and the English man wanted it to be in London.
When I returned we were both stiff with one another, miming politeness.
�They took a vote, it�s a tie between Barcelona and Copenhagen.�
�Really? Even the English guy voted against London?�
�Aye, even he realised what a fucken stupid idea that was.�
That made us laugh, the lovers� shared complicit laugh, a peace flag. I looked across and the German woman tilted her shoulders, smiling at me and feigning exasperation.
�Barcelona,� I called to them, �I�d make it Barcelona�the food will be better.�
The Englishman patted his big belly. �We don�t need more good food. We�ve had enough!�
We were all laughing then.
Clyde leaned in to me. �We couldn�t do that if we went back to Australia.�
I didn�t answer. It was true, and my silence confirmed it.
�It�s too far away, Dan, I cannot go back.�
It was true. I had lost.
And then the words came from deep within me, were said without my forcing them, they just came like curses. I whispered them: �And, mate, I can�t stay here.�
That night, in bed, he told me he didn�t want my skin next to his, that he couldn�t bear my touch, and I obediently moved to the edge of the bed. But soon I felt him moving closer, and then his arms wrapped over mine, binding me to him. All night he held me, and all night he couldn�t stop his crying.
The chubby guy�s neck and shoulders and face are sunburnt. All the Glaswegians, sunbathing, paddling, strolling, kissing, eating, drinking on the shores of Loch Lomond, all of them have pink shoulders and pink faces and pink necks and arms. There is one Indian family eating Tesco sandwiches on the shore, and one black girl I noticed back in the village, she was with her red-haired boyfriend looking into the windows of the Scots R�Us shop or whatever the fuck it is called. And then there is me. Even with this piss-weak sun, I have gone brown. If I stay here will my colouring eventually fade away from me? Will I go pale, will I too turn pink in the sun?
The chubby guy is still only in water up to his knees.
I am at the shoreline. The waves can�t muster any energy, the waves lap gently across pebble and stone. They push at my sneakers, they kiss the hem of my jeans.
I am taking off my shoes and I am taking off my socks.
Real water punishes you, real water you have to work at to possess, to tame. Real water can kill you.
And I am taking off my shirt, I am taking off my t-shirt.
Men and women have died in this loch, men and women have frozen in the water, men and women have been claimed by this loch. Water can kill you and water can be treacherous. Water can deceive you.
I feel a twitch in my shoulder, I can sense that the muscles there are stirring.
And I unbuckle my belt, I take off my trousers.
The chubby guy is looking at me, puzzled, his expression turning into a grimace. He is thinking, Who is this bawbag, this pervert, stripped to his Y-fronts on the shore? A girl behind me is starting to titter.
I am walking into the water, to my thighs, to my crotch, to my belly. It is cold cold cold and I think my legs will snap with the pain of it. I dive. Breath is stolen from me.
Muscles that haven�t moved in years, muscles that have been in abeyance, they are singing now.
And I am swimming.
I can�t hear them back on land but I know what they�re shouting. What are ya doin�, what are ya doin�, ya mad bastard?
I am in water. It is bending for me, shifting for me. It is welcoming me.
I am swimming.
I belong here.
First week of term, February 1994
The first piece of advice the Coach ever gave Danny was not about swimming: not about his strokes, not about his breathing, not about how he could improve his dive or his turns. All of that would come later. He would never forget that first piece of advice.
The squad h
ad just finished training and Danny was standing shivering off to one side. The other guys all knew each other; they had been destined to be friends from the time they were embryos in their mothers� wombs, when their fathers had entered their names on the list to attend Cunts College. Danny kept repeating the words over and over in his head: Cunts College Cunts College Cunts College. The nickname he and Demet had invented when he first told her he had to change schools. �Have to or want to?� He�d had to turn away as he answered, �It�ll make me a better swimmer.� �They�ll all be rich,� she countered. �You know that, don�t you, only the filthy rich go to Cunts College?� But she left it at that. She wasn�t going to argue with him, not about the swimming; she knew what the swimming meant to him.
Danny glanced at the other boys. They had hardly said a word to him all morning, just offered grunts, barely nodded to him. It had been like this all week. He felt both invisible and that there was nowhere for him to hide. Only in the water did he feel like himself. Only in the water did he feel that he could escape them.
Taylor, the one they all followed, made towards the change rooms and as he passed Danny, he said in a loud effeminate lisp, �Dino, I like your bathers, mate, they�re real cool.�
The others cracked up, turning around to look at him, to look down at his loose synthetic bathers, cackling like a pack of cartoon hyenas. They were all wearing shiny new Speedos, the brand name marked in yellow across their arses. Danny�s swimmers were from Forges�there was no way his mum was going to spend half a day�s pay on a piece of lycra. And good on her. Good on her, but he still felt like shit. The boys continued sniggering as they passed by him, all following after that pompous dickhead Taylor. Scooter, who was the oldest, the one with the palest skin but the darkest hair, Scooter bumped him. Just a touch, just enough of a nudge so it could seem like an accident. �Sorry,� Scooter said abruptly, and then laughed. That set them all off again. The same stupid cackling. Danny knew it was no accident. He stood there, not moving, nothing showing on his face. But inside, inside he was coiled, inside he was boiling.
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