Meatloaf in Manhattan

by Robert Power

  He replaces the bundles of letters back in the suitcase and pulls tight the padlock, locking away his one and only secret. A secret he has shared with no one, not even his wife. Then he pushes the case back under the chest of drawers. It safe. He, safe and comforted in the knowledge that his life has meaning and is serving a purpose.

  ‘Night, night,’ he whispers to his little room of dreams, as he switches off the light and makes his way up the stairs to imagine himself snuggling up against his sleeping wife.

  It is midnight too in Ocean Grove, down on the tip of Port Phillip Bay. Irene places the letter in an envelope. Something about the stamp, the solitary kookaburra sitting on a branch, makes her sigh. Then she writes, for the last time, Billy’s name and address. She walks out of the caravan, barefooted and dressed only in her white cotton nightdress. The stars prickle the sky. There is a warm breeze and she can hear the waves rolling on the beach, rhythmic as a drum beat, announcing her arrival. She posts the letter in the postbox next to the cafe. It is dark, but she knows her way along the narrow path through the shrubs, down the steps and onto the beach. Hers are the only footsteps on the wet sand. The tide has turned and the salty ocean is pulling away to the barely visible horizon.

  In his postman’s dreams, Billy stirs, hearing something akin to the sound of a wave, or the flutter of a message slipping through the letterbox, drifting to rest on the hallway mat.

  THE MAYOR’S FEAR OF THE PENALTY

  The Mayor of Durabaya buys the things he wants. He’s bought votes and influence, land and women. What some thought he would never be able to buy was the love of the people. So, when he realised the hearts of the citizens were in its soccer team, he bought it. The revenue and kickbacks from the multinational mining companies provided the funds, his life in politics in Tanah Papua provided all the necessary strings.

  ‘We will be the Barcelona of the East,’ he promises at his first press conference. ‘Within two years we will be champions of Indonesia, then Champions of Asia.’

  But two years have passed and the team has yet to hit a winning streak. Today is make or break. A loss will mean not even a mathematical chance of the championship. The newspaper and radio reporters in the rickety old stand sharpen their pencils and talons in readiness. The Mayor, huge Cuban cigar rolling around his mouth, waves to the crowd as he takes up his position in the dugout. No one waves back.

  The game is as forgettable as all the others this season, but the crowd is fanatical and noisy, eager to see the visiting superstars from Jakarta humbled by the gladiators from the provinces. But it is the city slickers who take the lead, with a scrambled goal with ten minutes to go. Then drama. The Durabaya centre-forward is tackled from behind just as he is about to shoot passed the defenceless goalkeeper. He crashes to the ground, the centre-half boots the ball into the terraces as the referee blows his whistle for the foul and points to the penalty spot. The crowd erupts in anticipation, the opposition players go through the pantomime of disputing the decision, jostling the referee and begging for a reprieve. The captain is booked for dissent and the players are waved away by the immovable official in black. The Brazilian striker, one of the five foreign players allowed under the rules of the Indonesian Football Association, places the ball on the spot. Twenty-five thousand fans quieten down. The Mayor stands next to the coach in the dug-out. His team, in their famous black and blue striped shirts, are on the edge of defeat and there are only five minutes of the game left.

  ‘He must score,’ growls the Mayor.

  The hushed ground is nestled in a bowl. From the west terraces the fans can see the bay and the sea and the lush, wooded hillsides rising straight up from the waves. Papua New Guinea is somewhere over to the east, but no one is thinking of politics right now, all that matters is the ball on the penalty spot and the hero from Sao Paola about to strike for goal. Up on the hill, on the road that runs above the stadium, Eduardo, a dreamy boy from the poorest of shanty towns, stretches his neck to see the tiny figures on the pitch. Off on the horizon Eduardo spots a white-sailed fishing boat heading out to sea. He looks back to the green soccer field and then back out to sea and the boat, thinking how those sailors have no idea of the drama unfolding. No one else sees the boat. Certainly not the Mayor, who is focused intently on the back of the Brazilian, willing him the crash the ball into the net.

  The goalkeeper takes up his position between the posts, leaps to touch the wood of the crossbar for luck, ready to be crucified if need be. He concentrates on the ball, putting aside the energy and excitement, anticipation and anxiety, which swirls and swells around the stadium. Twelve metres away from him, the only light-skinned player on the pitch steadies for his run-up, avoiding making eye contact with his adversary. Nothing to be given away, no hint of suggestion. The referee waits for the goalkeeper to stand still, raises the whistle to his mouth and blows. The keeper takes his chance and dives to his left. Instinct will tell him if the ball is anywhere around. The swish of the wind, the sound and smell of the leather. The striker kicks the ball low and to the other corner of the goal. It hits the base of the post and spins out of play. Prostrate, the goalkeeper looks up from the turf and smiles, crossing himself in praise of the God of the gloves. The Brazilian sinks to his feet and covers his face with his hands, as the crowd groans and jeers.

  ‘How could he miss?’ screams the Mayor, to the sea, to the air, and then, turning in anger, to the coach. ‘His job is to score. The goal was open. Do you not practise?’ he shouts into the face of the coach, who shrugs his shoulders. ‘I pay you enough, all of you, I pay enough,’ says he who owns the ground and the team and (though very few know it) the brothel in the old mansion immediately to the left once you turn onto the dirt road past the Catholic seminary.

  And then the Mayor does something he will live to deeply regret. Not the affair with his electoral adviser, nor the embezzlement of half the Independence Day fund. No, not things that can be paid off or silenced. What he does is much more serious. He lashes out and punches the coach. Not in the face, that would be very, very bad. But in the chest, which is bad enough. Hard and in the full view of a stadium of devoted fans who love their coach and their football team infinitely more than any of their crooked mayors. Those who do not see it are told in seconds and those who see it remember it forever. Before nightfall everyone in Durabaya will know, even the opposition leader, who is enjoying free time with Madam Anna, at the house at end of the road immediately left of the seminary.

  Next day the Mayor will make it worse for himself by buying every newspaper in town and ordering radio announcers and newsprint editors to ban all stories related to the incident. The next week the Mayor will not attend the game, but rather will stay deep in his palatial residence drinking brandy in a darkened room, curtains drawn, radio off. At that next home game, the last of a dire season, several journalists will distribute black armbands for the crowd to wear in protest against the suppression of a free press. But for now, with the eyes of the crowd on him, the Mayor looks as stunned by his unprovoked action as does the coach, who rubs his chest and bows his head. Back on the field the Brazilian is in the centre circle and the match restarts. There are now only a couple of minutes to go. The Mayor hurries down the tunnel and is ushered to his car by a bear of a bodyguard, the angry chants of the crowd still ringing in his ears. He sits in the car, head in hands.

  ‘Anton, wait a while,’ he says to his driver. ‘Just wait.’

  He bites the nail of his left thumb until he can taste blood in his mouth.

  ‘Drive me to the monastery, Anton. Now.’

  As the car leaves the carpark and turns up the steep hill, the crowd erupts. From the road above the ground the Mayor can see the tiny figures of his players leaping and hugging the captain who has scored the equalising goal with the last kick of the match.

  The car winds up and down the hills of Durabaya, until it slows past the Catholic seminary and then turns left to the ‘monastery’. Anton holds the door of the car open and the
Mayor gets out, saying nothing. Anton knows his duty, and his duty now is to drive away and come back in an hour.

  Inside the ‘monastery’ Madam Rosa, sixty years old, a veteran of affairs, the confidante and comforter of clerics and politicians, generals and bootleggers, takes the Mayor by his hand and leads him to her boudoir.

  ‘Poor Baby,’ she says, cradling him in her arms, stroking his thinning hair. Pressing him close to the pillow of her bosom. ‘Come let Mama soothe you.’

  He cries and he sobs and Madam Rosa holds him tight, letting the tears course between her fingers as she gently strokes his face.

  ‘Sleep Baby,’ she whispers in his ear, ‘sleep, oh gentle sleep, Baby.’

  And the Mayor sighs deeply, nestles into the soft caresses of Madam Rosa and drifts off into the folds of a milky sleep.

  Across town, Eduardo runs up the hill, leaping between mounds of refuse, across rivulets of drain-water until he reaches the simple shack of his home.

  ‘Mother, father,’ he shouts, ‘Frankie scored with the last kick.’

  Standing in the doorway, he sees his father and mother huddled by the radio.

  ‘We heard, we listened on the radio,’ says his father, smiling broadly. ‘I’m sure I heard you cheer. Above all the crowd, Eduardo, my dove, I heard you cheer as Frankie crashed the ball into the net.’

  ‘… Mayor Gizman was unavailable for interview,’ crackles the radio, ‘… and the Club President declined to comment on the incident …’

  ‘Where’s Raphael?’ asks Eduardo.

  ‘Outback with Chico, by the dump,’ says his mother, busy preparing sweet potato for their evening meal.

  ‘I must tell him all about it,’ says Eduardo turning to run up the hill.

  ‘Raphael,’ he shouts as he runs, ‘Raphael, you’ll never believe …’

  ‘Shhh …’ says his older brother. ‘Chico’s nearly done it. Don’t disturb us, kid, we’re working.’

  Eduardo squats down and watches his big brother in action.

  ‘Here, Chico,’ says Raphael, encouragingly. ‘Have a nut.’

  The monkey reaches out with his small leathery hand and takes the nut from the boy. Then he quickly puts it to his mouth, looking furtively around just in case another monkey might appear and steal it from him.

  ‘He still doesn’t know he’s the only monkey in town,’ laughs the big boy.

  ‘What are you trying to do?’ asks Eduardo.

  ‘I’m trying to make us money. Watch this now,’ says Raphael, holding out a peanut to Chico and then closing it in his palm. Chico tries to snatch it, but Raphael keeps his fist clenched. And then again. And for a third time. Then Raphael takes a small, slim cigar from his pocket, lights it and inhales deeply.

  ‘Ahhh,’ he says, ‘it is so good Chico.’

  He inhales some more, then opens out his hand, shows Chico the peanut and gobbles it down before the monkey can grab it.

  ‘For Chico,’ he says, handing the monkey the cigar, ‘Chico’s turn.’

  The monkey takes the cigar, turns it around in his hand, then lets out a deafening shriek as the hot ash at the tip burns his finger.

  Eduardo laughs out loud.

  ‘Get out of here,’ shouts his brother, ‘you put him off, he was doing fine. Go back down the hill.’

  ‘You wanna hear about the match?’

  ‘Later, later, can’t you see I’m trying to make our fortune. Who won’t pay to see my monkey smoking a cigar?’

  ‘He could be the mayor,’ says Eduardo. ‘He always smokes big cigars.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll dress him as the mayor. Little brother, you’re a genius. What a winner that will be. Mayor Chico. The future of our sad and sorry province. Will you lead us to independence, Mayor Chico? Here have a cigar. It will help you think.’

  Eduardo heads back down the hill, glowing in his brother’s praise.

  Madam Rosa shifts on the sofa, the weight of the sleeping man sending pins and needles up her leg. She looks at the grandfather clock that stands proudly in the alcove. Forty-five minutes have passed. Time to rouse Baby from his nap.

  ‘Baby,’ she whispers gently, blowing on his furrowed forehead, ‘it’s Mama. Time to wake up.’

  The Mayor stirs and grunts, pulling himself from the glue of a familiar dream. He hears the far distant voice of his long-dead mother. ‘You will be nothing,’ spits his mother, ‘amount to nothing, you thief. Your father is turning in his grave with the shame.’ And in the shallows of his dream the Mayor hears his father knocking on his coffin. Knock, knock, tick, knock, tick, tock. The Mayor opens his eyes to the room, the sight of the tall grandfather clock in the corner and the large powdered face of Madam Rosa and the feel of her fingers running through his straggly hair.

  ‘Time to get up Baby,’ she says, shifting under his torso, tensing against the cramp in her calf, smiling away the pain.

  ‘I’m the Mayor of Durabaya, mother, father, the Mayor …’ he says, rising from his dream, the ticking of the clock bringing him back to the room.

  ‘Yes, Baby, you are the Mayor of Durabaya.’ she says, sitting upright, her voice now matronly. ‘I think you have something to tell me. Baby, do you have something to tell me?’

  The Mayor sits up.

  ‘Sit up straight, Baby. What is it you need to tell your Mama?’

  ‘Mama … I’ve been fighting.’

  ‘With other children?’

  ‘Big boys, Mama, they were big boys.’

  ‘What have I told you?’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Answer me, Baby. What … have … I … told … you?’

  ‘No more fighting, Mama, no more fighting.’

  Slowly he stands up from the velvet-covered sofa, undoes his belt, lets his trousers and underpants drop to his ankles and bends over. Thwack, goes the swish.

  ‘No … more … fighting … no more stealing.’ Thwack. Madam Rosa whips his bare behind until welts appear on his skin and tears trickle down his face, his jowls quivering, sweat on his brow.

  ‘What do you say, Baby?’

  ‘Thank you, Mama, thank you.’

  Waiting outside in the car, Anton watches the light go out in Madam Rosa’s bedroom. He turns off the radio, silencing the barrage of comments on the Mayor’s assault on the football coach. The front door opens and out walks the Mayor, preceded by a plume of thick cigar smoke.

  Eduardo sits on his mattress by the window of the shack. His father is at the table, folding out the few crumpled rupiah notes he has made from his newspaper sales. His mother squats in the corner, peeling and slicing papaya. The boy takes the old tin from under his blanket and stares at the faded image on the lid. There is the scene of Icarus falling from the sky, plunging into the sea, into a bay, just like the Bay of Durabaya. Eduardo traces with his finger the boy with wings, burnt by the sun, plummeting into the salty water. He sees the huge dray horse pulling the plough across the field in the foreground and the galleon in the bay heading away to the ocean. Just like the horse and farmer, the ship is moving away, oblivious to the plight of Icarus, of his dreams to fly, his failure, his silent drowning, his death. Eduardo opens the lid and takes out his crumpled collection of football cards. Heroes from the past and present in blue-and-black stripes. He looks over to his father folding newspapers, to his mother peeling fruit, and he remembers the image of the boat in the bay as the penalty was about to be taken, and of the fisherman on board who had no idea of the game, or the score, or the Mayor punching the coach in the chest. He feels a strangeness and a smallness that is new to him, like the time Raphael showed him the Milky Way in the sky and said the Earth is in the solar system, and the solar system is just a tiny speck in the star-spangled stretch of space. So how small is Papua? How small is the football ground and the penalty spot? And does it matter if the Mayor hit the coach and the Brazilian missed the penalty?

  When the Mayor opens the door of his house he hears the familiar sound of his three children scuttling up the stairs, each hidin
g themselves behind their sumptuous bedroom doors. He slumps on the sofa and turns on the television.

  ‘Whisky,’ he shouts, knowing some minion close by will jump to order and bring him what he wants.

  Sometime later, just as it begins to get dark, he hears the front door open and his wife call out to the maid to bring the shopping in from the car. She enters the room and notices the look in his eye.

  ‘What?’ she says quietly.

  He stares at her, his demeanour darkening.

  ‘I told you never to wear that blouse to the shops. You had not expected me back so early. No time to change, eh? You look like a whore.’

  He walks forward, raises his fist, higher and more threateningly than chest level. Instinctively, his wife, the mother of his children, cowers and shields her face with her arms.

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleads.

  Eduardo lies on the cardboard on the concrete ‘veranda’ that his father is so proud of. He peers up at the clear night sky through a tiny hole he makes with his forefinger. He remembers his big brother telling him the Milky Way is nine trillion kilometres deep and nine trillion kilometres wide. But his mind keeps going back to the penalty kick and the twelve metres between success and failure. He imagines taking the kick himself and thumping it into the roof of the net. The crowd goes wild, the coach runs onto the pitch and the Mayor embraces him as a hero. At that moment he hears a crash and a slide as Raphael skips and stumbles down the hillside in the near dark.

  ‘Eduardo, mother, father,’ shouts Raphael, running and whooping down the hillside, ‘he’s done it, he’s done it. We have a smoking monkey. We will all be rich!’

  GROOMING

  ‘Say she was a princess,’ urges Jake, the younger twin by ten minutes. ‘Say she was used to luxury. When she was in Africa. Stuff like that.’

  Alec thinks a second, then types ferociously. They both stare at the computer screen and smile a twinny smile.

  YOU MIGHT FIND THIS HARD TO BELIEVE, JOHN, BUT MY FAMILY IN SOMALIA, BEFORE THE WAR, BEFORE WE CAME TO AUSTRALIA, WAS ROYALTY. IF THINGS HAD NOT CHANGED I WOULD HAVE BECOME A PRINCESS AND LIVED IN LUXURY. MAYBE YOU WILL BE MY PRINCE CHARMING.