Meatloaf in Manhattan

by Robert Power

  ‘Dr Browne, Nicholiavich Roshikiev asks what do you think of methadone in treating drug users? He says it is illegal here in Russia, but wants to know if it is useful in harm reduction.’

  ‘A good question. Let me speak plainly,’ I reply.

  ‘And simply, please,’ says Ivan. ‘My English is stronger, but not yet that good.’

  ‘Of course. So, methadone is a valuable treatment option in helping drug users to come off heroin,’ I reply and then wait while Ivan translates. Across the table, Enid is looking bored and uninterested; sentiments, I recall, that seem to permeate the sloppy reports she despatches back to her funders.

  When Ivan has finished his Russian and looks back at me, I continue.

  ‘It has been shown to lead to a reduction in injecting, as it’s mainly produced to be taken orally. Also it’s a way of keeping drug users in treatment and gives us the chance to work with them on their addiction and risk behaviour.’

  As Ivan translates for Doctor Roshikiev there comes the sound of voices and the clunking of discarded boots from the hallway.

  ‘The General,’ says Oleg, and we all stand up in anticipation.

  He enters the room, three steps ahead of his entourage. His uniform is tight on his body. The top button of his shirt undone and his tie loosened. His legs look too short and his torso too big. His belly hangs over his belt, barely trussed in by an off-white shirt straining at the buttons. He has a large, fleshy grey face and wispy black hair smeared on to a shiny scalp. He sits down and places his pack of Marlboro Reds and a silver lighter on the table. In spite of his jaded appearance I have heard he is trying hard to understand why he should help drug users; and trying even harder to comprehend a world turned on its head, where the old order lies in ruins, criminals flaunt their wealth in Moscow and drug addicts are given priority over the old and sick.

  ‘So, Doctor Browne,’ he says, offering me a cigarette, noting my polite refusal and then lighting his own, ‘you must convince me why I should tell my men to leave the drug injectors alone when they visit your needle exchange programmes. But before you do that, we must drink a toast.’

  The General pours vodka into the small crystal glass of each guest in turn. When he comes to me, I place my hand over my glass, already filled with sulphurous mineral water.

  ‘I’ve heard you don’t drink,’ he says, pouring vodka into his own glass. ‘And you don’t smoke. That worries me,’ he adds with a smile.

  Then he stands to make his toast. And we all stand to join him.

  ‘To a fruitful collaboration between the bad guys who lock up the drug users and the good guys who look after them. To the good and the bad,’ he says with a huge smile.

  ‘To the good and to the bad,’ we all add with a laugh.

  I look around the table at the smiling faces. Sitting in the hallway are two uniformed soldiers. Their epaulettes tell something of rank. There are two other men in smart black suits. When I was a kid it was simple. There were Cowboys and there were Red Indians (we’d never heard of Native Americans back then). The Cowboys were good and the Red Indians were bad. You chose whose side to be on and you knew how to act. But nowadays, who knows?

  Across from me sits Dr Roshikiev. A grandfather, the first Young Pioneer from Altai Krai to run one hundred metres under twelve seconds and, a decade later, the first doctor from Hospital Number Five in Barnaul to win a place at the Medical Academy in Moscow. A leading psychiatrist and narcologist who pioneered electro-acupuncture for the treatment of opium addiction. He meets my eyes with a warm and gentle smile, telling me nothing of what he makes of me and this invasion of modern thinking, this infusion of Western ways. How far must his life have been turned around? I wonder how do his memories and achievements find meaning in this new world order? His Russia of today, where powerful families rape vast tracks of the landscape for its minerals and buy fancy hotels in London and Paris, while doctors wait for months to be paid and live off the carrots and cabbages from their dachas. A world where the old values are scoffed at and derided as everyone chases the pot of gold. One where the city streets are run by new mafia groups who recruit their adolescent foot soldiers from their own martial arts clubs and infiltrate all levels of government.

  The previous evening I had sat with Oleg at the ballet as the young mafia hoodlums lolled in the best box in the house, swigging vodka and talking loudly for all to hear on their newly imported mobile phones. They left with banging doors, just as the ageing anorexic diva, a hopelessly ancient Giselle (despite the powdered cheeks and blonde pigtailed wig), took her dying breath. Oleg, ignoring the noisy exit of the narcomafia group, turned to me and said, ‘She has died because she is very, very, old’.

  ‘Like Russia, maybe,’ I suggested. He smiled.

  In the games room, one of the soldiers places the balls on the lush green baize as the General pieces his cue together. The cue is beautifully crafted from a single branch of ash wood, divided into three sections that fit together with military precision. The patterned grain in the wood is like the veins in an arm. Even the case is a work of art: its thick canvas material is fringed with a lovingly sewn border embroidered with delicate violets. Each piece of the cue has its own pocket in the case. The silver tip of the General’s cue, he tells me proudly, comes from deep within the Altai Mountains. As he screws each section onto the other he does so with the precision of the infantryman preparing his rifle for battle.

  ‘Russian billiards is not like your billiards,’ says Oleg, as I chalk the tip of the cue I’ve chosen from the selection kept in a special cabinet for visitors. ‘You can hit any ball onto any other. The first ball you send down decides which side of the table is yours. The aim is then to hit as many balls as you can into the pockets on your side of the table. Each one you score is placed on your rack,’ he explains, pointing to two wooden racks screwed onto the wall. ‘The first to score nine balls wins.’

  ‘So,’ says the General, running his hand along the length of the cue, ‘the good versus the bad.’

  ‘Who’s who?’ I ask, making the break, sending the balls spinning around the table.

  As the night progresses I find myself on one of those rare rolls where mind and body, spirit, soul and billiard cue merge. Every ball I hit finds a home, and the General’s subaltern reluctantly racks up my successes, each ball displayed like the shrunken head of a vanquished warrior. At one point the referee tries to cheat and places one of my balls on the General’s rack. A snarl from my opponent makes it clear he wants no help.

  The General drinks more vodka and smokes more cigarettes. I drink more water and eat from the plate of cheese and meat provided by the kitchen.

  I win game after game and the General insists we play on and on. During a break between frames, Oleg sidles over to me, and in that peculiarly Soviet way, cups his hand and whispers in my ear.

  ‘It is a Russian tradition that the General wins at billiards.’

  But I can’t play otherwise. I must play my game and he must play his. As the night wears on I feel as if I’m playing for more than just myself. As each game progresses my playing gets even stronger and more consistent. His balls are taken from the pocket and placed in his rack by his lieutenant; mine by myself. He is outraged when once again one of his lackeys cheats and places one of my balls next to his. Finally, after eight hours play I am still winning and the General calls it a day.

  We all gather for the last toast of the night, made by the host to conclude the festivities.

  The General looks worn and defeated. The vodka, cigarettes and rigours of battle have all taken their toll.

  ‘To our collaboration,’ he says, ‘the lawmen and the doctors.’

  ‘To our collaboration,’ we all echo.

  And then the General turns to me and hands me his cue.

  ‘This is for you,’ he says, the look of defeat still etched on his face. ‘Your skills in Russian billiards must be rewarded.’

  He thrusts the beautiful cue into my hand, grasping my arm
to indicate that refusal is not an option.

  ‘Spasebar, spasebar bolshoi,’ I reply. ‘And,’ I add, raising my voice, making sure everyone can hear, ‘I want to thank you for letting me win, when I know you could so easily have crushed me. That showed the real man in you.’

  The General’s face lights up: the small boy who has just been told his exam marks were mixed up and he is still top of the class after all. Everyone smiles and one more toast is made ‘to sportsmanship’.

  Back in my hotel room it is way into the night. My few clothes lie in a heap on the bed. The billiard cue is secure in its case, awaiting its unexpected migration. Soon Misha will be here to drive me to the airport for my early morning flight back to Domodedovo airport. The snow is still falling heavily outside as I take one more look out of the window on to the square. Lenin stands in that familiar pose, his overcoat opened wide, one hand on his heart, the other pointing to a wonderful future. Some thousand miles away, in the mausoleum in Moscow’s Red Square, his embalmed corpse lies in its glass case, eyes closed, waiting for the morning and the new day’s visitors.

  THE I ZINGARI CAP

  The I Zingari cap has been worn by a group of nomadic cricketers since 1845, with its distinctive circles of black, red and gold reflecting the I Zingari motto ‘out of darkness, through fire, into light’.

  Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, 25 August 2010

  ‘Out of darkness, through fire, into light,’ shouts the gypsy, so near to my face that I can feel the heat of his breath.

  The I Zingari cap is tight on my head. When did I put it on? I can barely think, the pain in my body is immense, more than anything I’ve known before. But I run on. One foot in front of the other, the stadium and finishing line in sight.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ I ask the gypsy.

  ‘From Cullin-la-Ringo,’ he says, the tell-tale gold tooth sparkling against his pitch-black skin. ‘I bring news of the battle. But I shall not expire at your feet. I am already dead.’

  Then he whispers, close to my ear.

  ‘I’ve come from your father’s grave in Goa,’ his skin lightening, like the depth of my dream, the smell of cardamom and cloves on his words.

  The roar of the crowd, the bright sun overhead is a dream come true. I run onto the track as a conquering gladiator. Thousands of smiling faces, cheering my effort. And then one voice.

  ‘Son,’ he shouts, waving wildly, running to the edge of the track. My father, dressed in the suit I buried him in, the I Zingari cap no longer on my head, but atop his skinless skull. ‘I spotted you,’ he says. ‘the colours, just like you said. Rings of black, red and gold. I knew it was you. By the cap. By the cap on your chinny chin chin.’

  ‘Don’t look back,’ whispers the gypsy in my ear. ‘Don’t ever look back.’

  I might be sleeping, I tell my dream, but I know that nightmares can turn into fairytales.

  Colva, Goa, India, 16 July 2007

  ‘If he had looked over the other shoulder, who knows, it may have all turned out differently.’

  That’s what the policeman told me, in the courtyard, in the stinking heat, standing on the verandah of the bungalow where my dad had lived in the small town by the Indian Ocean.

  ‘The murdering thief came in from the open widow. The dead of night. He struck your father from the right,’ says the policeman, his chopping motion indicating decapitation. ‘From the window, he came. The post mortem indicated your father looked to the left. Maybe he heard a creak. If he’d looked over the other shoulder, who knows, he may have saved his life.’

  Dark glasses, a moustache like a clothes brush: a rural policeman recounting the facts.

  ‘I knew your father. A proud Irish man. We spoke often, on this verandah, smoking cigarettes. A heavyweight boxer, he once told me. If he’d had a chance he would have knocked the thief to the floor. An uppercut, a left cross. Just like when he KO’d the British army champion on the troop ship to Palestine.’

  A rural policeman shadow-boxing, silhouetted against a huge Indian moon.

  How my father had ended up in the morgue in Panjim, Goa, was a trickle of events. My mum had passed away a year or so earlier. For a few months he bumbled around their rented house in North Melbourne. Then, one day, he called me to say he was going walkabout. The Salvos were coming around with a truck and they could have it all: the furniture, the clothes, the garden rake, the lot. He was taking a change of shirt and trousers, a wash-kit and towel, his old rucksack and his ATM card. That’d do. He’d be going to Palestine (where he’d been in the police), Malaysia (where he’d been in the army), and then he’d follow his nose. I said I’d take him to the airport and he said that would be nice. And so I did, and saw him off on the Malaysian Airline flight to KL. Coming back over the Bolte Bridge I remembered all his old war stories of keeping the Jews and Arabs apart and holding back the surge of Chinese from the plantations in Malaya. I thought how fine it would be for him to retrace his footsteps, to relive some old memories.

  When I got home I felt the bereavement of the orphan, like he was gone for good, so close after mum. So I pulled on my running gear and walked down the end of the road to Central Park. It was getting dark, but the old fountain by the conservatory was still gurgling out the recycled water. Approaching the oval I could see that most of the dog walkers had left the dusk behind and returned home. I walked the first half-lap as a warm-up, heading for the John Landy plaque that served as my marker. I always read it. Sometimes, like this time, I’d run my fingers over the embossed lettering.

  Malvern East, Victoria, Australia, 6 May 1954

  John Landy leaves his house, walking in the darkness to Central Park. He looks up at a possum in a wattletree who has no idea what all the drama is about, that Roger Bannister, on the other side of the world, has become the first person to break the four-minute mile. John tosses a stone in the air, for luck, takes a deep breath and launches his body for its nightly run. Forty-six days later, on 21 June, in Turku, Finland, he will break Bannister’s record with a time of 3 minutes 57.9 seconds.

  My dad sent postcards from Malacca and the Gaza Strip, then he headed east across Asia, finally stumbling into Goa. There he fell in love with a 33-year-old melon seller, whose husband had hung himself the previous year, leaving her with three small children. They set up home and he became ‘Papa’ to the boys. He enjoyed his life in the village. The pigs and shoeless children reminded him of his youth in the lanes of Dublin. He decided to get fit and bought a rusty old bike that he peddled along the beach.

  He’d phone me on the weekends. I remember that last call. He was as cheerful in the Indian sunshine as I was gruff in the dark chilly mornings of Melbourne. I was a bit short with him. It was too early and too dark and he was just too enthusiastic about his cycling and the balmy weather. I made up an excuse about working and said I couldn’t talk and had to go.

  The next call from India was from the police to tell me my father was dead and there was a murder inquiry.

  Something about the death compels me to run. It tires the body and frees the mind. I run for longer and further. Listening to the gentle crunch of the gravel underfoot, I imagine tracking the footsteps of Landy, late at night, preparing for his assault on the four-minute mile. One Sunday I venture further afield, along the Yarra, over the Morell bridge, then up and around the MCG. Outside the stadium I stop by one of the statues to catch my breath. It’s of three men, commemorating the first game of Australian rules football. One of the men holds my attention. It is Tom Wills. He stands in the middle of the trio, large against a blue sky that you could pour into a glass and drink. On the plinth below, the plaque tells of his great sporting prowess, his contribution to the creation and rules of the Aussie game, of his role in bringing together the first all-Aboriginal cricket team.

  Cullin-la-Ringo, Queensland, Australia, 17 October 1861

  Tom Wills is returning from a two-day trip to get provisions. He is wondering about the power his father holds over him. How is it, t
hat, without complaint, he leaves Melbourne for this wild, desolate and dangerous place? He takes the I Zingari cap from his head and wipes the sweat from his brow. He looks at the bright circles of his cap. He recalls the pride with which he wore it in Melbourne on his return from England, and how the girls would ask about the colours and the sash on his trousers. Tom, the gentleman, the best cricketer in Victoria, a footballer of huge renown. The English cricket team is on its way to play in Australia for the first time, but Tom will not captain the team assembled to meet them. Tom will not play at all, for Tom will continue along the track back to Cullin-la-Ringo, to the sheep and isolation of the station that his father is sure will secure the family fortune. The flies buzz in his ears, the sun beats harshly down on his neck, but the scene awaiting Tom will send all thoughts of cricket, red, gold and black sashes, and the English, far from his mind.

  Castlemaine, Victoria, Australia, 20 December 1867

  ‘If he’d only listened to me,’ says Tom to Sarah, the bottle of whisky all but dry, ‘and handed out the guns, they could have protected themselves.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ says Sarah to Tom, patiently, calmly. ‘Stop torturing yourself. Remember that he trusted them. You know that. Remember that. Your father trusted them. He said they were friendly. They’d been at the station all that morning and there was no threat. No danger. No one was to know how it would all turn out.’

  ‘His battered head was nearly off his shoulders,’ says Tom to Sarah, weeping dry tears. ‘I’ll never forget that scene, never.’

  Heidelberg, Victoria, Australia, 1May 1880

  Tom Wills was 44 years old when he took his own life. He tried to live up to his father’s expectations and stayed on as station manager at Cullin-la-Ringo for a couple of years after the massacre. But it didn’t work. He was no manager, nor outback boy, so he went back to the only thing he really knew: sport; ending up like a gunslinger with a cricket bat, plying his trade on ever diminishing stages. In true I Zingari tradition he travelled from club to club, from state to state, the itinerant sportsman. Along the way his drinking spiralled way out of control, leading him to the Kew Lunatic Asylum in Melbourne, with night-time hallucinations of Aboriginal warriors on the rampage.