Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Australians have no love of food,’ Giovanni explained. ‘There is an Italian who has a shop near the town hall. I’ve bought some cheese and bread and salami for our supper. We will meet in my room and sing, eh?’

  They sang and drank red wine well into the night, Teresa popping next door to regularly check on the sleeping children.

  ‘Ma n’atu sole

  Cchiù bello, oi ne’ …’

  The brothers stood together in the centre of the room, Giovanni with his concertina in his hands, Rico with an arm around his shoulder, their voices raised in harmony. Teresa, sitting on the bed, laughed and clapped. ‘Bravo,’ she cried and spilt her wine.

  Around midnight the landlady started knocking on the door but Giovanni took no notice. He would worry about Pat Forman in the morning. Tonight was a night of joy. The Gianni brothers were reunited and they were singing as one, Teresa joining in the choruses.

  ‘O sole mio

  Sta nfronte a te!’

  It was strange how much shorter Rico seemed. Giovanni stood a good three inches taller. At first he presumed that he himself must have grown during their years apart. He knew his body had filled out but then he noticed that Teresa, too, was an inch taller than her husband. He noticed also that Rico’s shoulders and chest, well-muscled as they had always been, were now massive, bull-like. Not merely because they were out of proportion to his wasted legs—his brother’s whole body had changed since … A warning sounded in Giovanni’s head and he closed his mind to the De Cretico brothers. If he didn’t, the hatred would consume him.

  ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning,’ Pat Forman yelled, knocking on the door for the fourth time.

  ‘O sole, ’o sole mio,

  Sta nfronte a te,

  Sta nfronte a te!’

  They completed a final, rousing chorus and Giovanni at last opened the door to the frustrated landlady. ‘We finish now, Mrs Forman,’ he said. ‘We finish, I promise.’

  ‘I want you to leave first thing,’ she answered angrily. ‘First thing in the morning, you and your family, all of you. Out!’

  Giovanni smiled as charmingly as he could. What was wrong with these Australians, he wondered, where was the song in them? ‘It is the first time I see my brother for seven years,’ he said. ‘The first time I meet his children.’

  ‘I don’t care. I want you out of here. All of you. Out.’ Pat hadn’t liked Rico and his family the moment she’d laid eyes on them late that afternoon. They looked too Italian, dark, swarthy. Nothing at all like Giovanni. She’d been so pleased when Giovanni had come back to the boarding house. He spoke English quite well now and was always polite to her when they met in the hall. And at night, when she’d hear him quietly singing along to his concertina, she enjoyed it. She sometimes fantasised that he was serenading her.

  Giovanni shrugged and smiled again. ‘I am sorry. I am sorry that we keep you awake.’ He would speak to her in the morning, when she was not so angry. He knew she had romantic inclinations towards him and he was quite sure he could persuade her to let them stay. If not, who cared. He would find another boarding house. But there would be no more evening singalongs until they had a place of their own, he knew that much—the Australians had no music in their soul The sooner they went to the goldfields the better it would be for them all.

  Teresa retired for the night and the brothers settled down to talk. Giovanni opened the bottle of whisky he had bought specially, poured some into a glass and offered it to Rico, who took a healthy swig. Giovanni waited for the gasp or the cough he presumed would follow, as he was sure Rico would not have drunk whisky before.

  But his brother merely cleared his throat and gave a healthy growl of satisfaction. ‘Good.’ He looked admiringly at the liquid in the glass. ‘That’s good. Better than grappa and schnapps.’

  Another change, Giovanni thought. Rico never drank hard liquor. Wine. Only ever wine. But of course that was years ago. When they were boys. Now they were men. He poured himself a hefty drink and raised his glass. ‘Salute,’ he said and downed the whisky in one gulp.

  They sat side by side on the narrow bed passing the whisky bottle between them and talking of their family.

  ‘Filomena to be married! She is a baby.’

  ‘She is nearly twenty,’ Rico laughed. ‘She is a woman, and I tell you, Gio, she looks it.’ He weighed his hand in the air. ‘Breasts like melons. For three years suitors have been sniffing around her like dogs. I told her if I ever caught her with one, I’d kill the both of them.’

  ‘And Mamma?’

  ‘Mamma is the same. Her hair is white now, but she is the same.’

  They discussed their brothers and their friends and the village but, most of all, they discussed their father.

  ‘He is looking old.’ Rico shook his head. ‘No, that is wrong. Not old. He is as strong as he ever was. He is looking tired. Sad. It is the work, Gio. There is hardly any work. Your money has kept the family fine, you send more than enough, but you know Papa … He is a proud man. For his youngest son to support him …’ Rico shrugged. ‘He looks sad.’

  Rico stood and stretched. His spine was stiff, it was not comfortable for him to sit without support for his back. ‘Things are not good at home. It is the same all over Italy, they say. They told us in Genoa while we were waiting for the boat, that many Italians are leaving the country.’

  He pulled the one and only straight-backed chair over to the bed and sat facing Giovanni. ‘Enough talk of sadness. We will get rich. So rich that we can bring Mamma and Papa and the whole family to Australia, eh? Mamma can live in a mansion and Papa can dig for gold with us.’ He grinned infectiously, his black eyes sparkling, and Giovanni grinned back. They both knew Salvatore Gianni would die before he would leave his beloved homeland and the thought of their Mamma living in a mansion was ludicrous.

  ‘I have already saved enough to take us to the goldfields, Rico. All of us. You, me, Teresa, the children.’ Giovanni sprang from the bed and started ferreting under the mattress. ‘We’ll go to Kalgoorlie—where the big gold is. Look. Look at this.’ He produced a bulky brown paper bag and proceeded to pull fists full of notes from it. ‘There is enough money here to get us started,’ he continued excitedly. ‘I’ve been working two jobs down south ever since you told me you were coming. Look how much I have saved!’

  Rico was impressed. ‘Good. That is good.’

  ‘Two more weeks in Fremantle, then we leave.’

  ‘And I’ll work hard these two weeks and we’ll make even more money,’ Rico agreed as Giovanni stuffed the paper bag back under the mattress.

  ‘Our own house,’ Giovanni said, settling himself back on the bed. ‘We’ll rent our own house. No landlady. Our own house where we can sing together as loudly as we like.’

  Rico nodded then, after a moment’s silence, he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Now you tell me …’ he stretched out his hand and, with one finger, gently traced the scar on Giovanni’s cheek, ‘you tell me how you got this.’ A mischievous smile played on his lips. ‘You’ve learnt how to fight at last, eh? The other man—did you kill him?’ Giovanni shook his head. Rico’s eyes widened in mock alarm. ‘Surely he didn’t win?’

  ‘He ran away.’

  Rico sat back in his chair, eased his stiffened legs out before him and laughed uproariously. When he’d calmed down he grabbed the whisky bottle, took several swigs and passed it to Giovanni. ‘So, gentle Gio has become a big tough man, eh? That is good.’

  Giovanni felt obliged to take his turn with the bottle although he knew he’d had more than enough. Then, both feeling the effects of the alcohol, they sat in silence.

  To Giovanni, the air seemed heavy with things unsaid. He sensed that Rico did not want to talk about the accident. That was the term he had used when they had discussed their plans for the fortnight when Giovanni would serve his notice at the dockyards. ‘I still work well,’ Rico had said. ‘Since the accident I am very strong.’ He patted his shoulders and chest. There had been
a defiant bravado in his voice and Giovanni had merely nodded and agreed to speak to his foreman in the morning.

  Giovanni picked up his concertina and started very gently to play the lullaby their mother used to sing to their baby sisters.

  Rico smiled. ‘The concertina is looking old. You should buy a new one.’

  ‘The song it plays is still sweet.’ Giovanni shrugged. ‘Besides, I’m going to buy a piano accordion one day.’ Many a time he had saved enough to buy one but his guilt always prevented him. The music would be sour, he told himself, and sent the money to Rico and his family instead.

  Rico quietly hummed along to the concertina as he studied his brother. He knew only too well that Giovanni could have bought a dozen piano accordions over the years, just as he could have lived in a fine house as opposed to this hole, had he not stinted himself for the sake of his family. But Rico said nothing. Giovanni had done the right thing—the family must come first, always.

  Rico felt a sudden surge of animosity. Was he supposed to feel grateful towards his brother? Giovanni was a good brother, sure, a devoted brother, but Rico had earned such devotion. Many a time during the pain of his recovery he had regretted the fact that he had not cried out to the De Cretico brothers that night. He should have. He should have cried out, ‘It was not me! You have the wrong man!’ Now he was paying the price for playing the hero. As he looked at Giovanni’s fine straight body, he thought, once I too had a body like that. Once I was Rico Gianni, desired by women and envied by men. Suddenly he needed to get out of the room. He needed to get away from Giovanni.

  He stood slowly, easing the cramp in his lower back. ‘I am tired, Gio.’ Giovanni put down the concertina and Rico envied the ease with which he jumped from the bed. ‘It is good to be together again,’ he said as they embraced. ‘I will come to the dockyards at noon.’

  Giovanni watched his brother shuffle awkwardly out the door and down the passage. The gait was not so comical now Rico was tired. Without energy it was the shuffle of an old man, defeated. Giovanni wanted to weep.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, however, Rico’s facade was back in place and his gait was once more that of a clown. At five to twelve, just before his lunch break, Giovanni looked through the dockyard gates up the hill toward the boarding house which, although out of sight, was only several blocks away, and there was Rico lurching down the street, defying Teresa to keep up with him.

  With Carmelina on her hip and little Enrico at her side Teresa’s pace was indeed hampered. ‘Slow down, Rico,’ she kept calling. ‘Slow down, it is not a race.’

  ‘Eh, Giovanni!’ Rico bellowed when he was half a block away and could see his brother working alongside the other men. ‘Eh, Giovanni, we have brought you lunch!’ He waved the canvas knapsack stuffed with bread and olives and cheese. ‘Mangiare Italiano buono. Non roha Australiana quella.’

  Giovanni was pleased that Rico’s buoyant spirits had returned but he looked around self-consciously, wishing that his brother would keep his voice down. The foreman had been dubious about taking on a casual labourer who could speak no English. Strangely enough, Rico’s physical disability had meant nothing to the foreman when Giovanni had warned him.

  ‘Who cares if he’s a cripple so long as he can work,’ Bill Coburn had said. ‘And if he works hard like you say he does then he’s welcome aboard.’ Bill liked the several Italians in his employ, they were all hard workers. But it was a different matter when Giovanni told him his brother could not speak English. ‘I don’t know,’ Bill muttered, ‘could be trouble with the others. They don’t like it when you dagos don’t speak English.’

  When Giovanni promised that his brother would keep his mouth shut and they’d work side by side and it was only for a fortnight anyway, Bill said he’d think about it. ‘Let me meet the bloke first,’ he said. And here was Rico, bellowing at the top of his lungs that he’d brought good Italian food, not Australian rubbish. Giovanni ran to meet him at the gate.

  On the dot of noon a whistle blew and all ten of the stevedores downed the sacks of grain they had been carrying from the carts to the dockside. They gathered up their lunches, sat on the sacks and started to eat. They watched as Giovanni greeted Teresa and the children.

  ‘Keep your voice down. Parla più piano,’ Giovanni muttered to Rico, as he saw Bill Coburn walking towards them.

  ‘Perché?’

  ‘They do not like you to speak Italian.’

  The smile faded from Rico’s lips. What was wrong with speaking Italian? he thought belligerently.

  Teresa put Carmelina down and took the canvas knapsack from her husband. ‘Look after your sister,’ she whispered to Enrico, hoping that the men seated nearby could not hear. She too had no idea why she should not speak Italian, but if those were the rules, she would abide by them.

  ‘This is my brother Rico,’ Giovanni said as the foreman joined them. ‘Rico, this is Mr Coburn.’

  ‘Morning.’ Coburn shook Rico’s hand. ‘The name’s Bill.’

  ‘Buongiorno,’ Rico replied.

  ‘Come over to the office.’ Coburn nodded for both Giovanni and Rico to follow him.

  Teresa had taken the paper bag of food from the knapsack and was about to feed the children when one of the men, having fetched a wooden crate, came up beside her and gestured for her to sit down.

  Before joining the foreman, Rico turned to his wife, just in time to see the man put his arm around Teresa as he gestured to the crate.

  It happened in an instant. So fast that the stevedores, all of whom had been watching Teresa from the moment she arrived, silently and lustfully, were dumbstruck. With a howl of rage, Rico was upon the man. The full impact of his body weight would have forced them both to the ground but the man staggered back against one of the huge wooden carts loaded with sacks of grain and Rico, his hands locked around the man’s neck, staggered with him. He steadied himself and tightened his grip.

  ‘Se vai vicino a mia moglie ti ammazzo. I swear I kill you,’ he hissed between clenched teeth. The veins in his neck stood out as he channelled every ounce of strength he possessed into his fingers, intent on squeezing the life out of the man.

  The other workers were suddenly galvanised into action. Several of them tried to pull Rico away but it was impossible.

  ‘Get a stick for God’s sake,’ someone yelled. ‘Get something to bash him with, the bastard’s mad!’

  A few men looked around for a weapon while the others kicked at Rico’s legs and smashed their fists into his ribs, but nothing would make him release his grip. Like a fighting dog having purchased a hold on its victim, Rico had found his perfect point of traction. His feet were firmly planted, his body weight was against the man and the jaws of his fingers were mercilessly locked. They could batter him to death but, doglike, he would not let go.

  The man’s eyes were bulging, rasping sounds were coming from his throat. Rico squeezed and squeezed. Tighter and tighter. Then a voice beside him said, ‘Rico! Se tu ammazzi quest’ oumo, ti rinnego come fratello.’ In his madness Rico became vaguely aware of Giovanni’s face only inches from his. But what was Giovanni saying? What did he mean? Rico glanced sideward.

  ‘Hai svergognato la famiglia.’ Giovanni’s eyes were cold with contempt. ‘Non sei mio fratello.’

  Rico was shocked. ‘You disgrace our family,’ Giovanni had said. ‘You are not my brother.’ The voice was like ice. Giovanni despised him, Rico could see it in his eyes. But how could that be? Giovanni idolised him. All of their lives Rico had been a hero to his brother.

  ‘Lascialu stare,’ Giovanni ordered. ‘I said let him go!’

  The madness left Rico as quickly as it had engulfed him and he released his hold. The man fell to his hands and knees gasping and retching, his lungs fighting for air.

  Giovanni turned his back on his brother. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to Bill Coburn. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to the surrounding men, one of whom was by now clutching a wooden mallet. ‘I will take him away.’ Still he did not look at Rico.
‘Come, Teresa,’ he said and waited while Teresa gathered up the children. Finally he turned to his brother. ‘Rico.’

  Rico recognised the command. His madness had vanished as if it had never been, and he realised that it was a good thing Giovanni had halted his attack—by now he would either have been clubbed to death or facing a murder charge. But he felt no remorse. The man had touched his wife. If they had been alone the man would most certainly be dead, and deservedly so. Rico looked defiantly about him and then followed Giovanni from the dockyard.

  When they were out on the street Giovanni stopped. ‘Teresa, take the children home. Rico, come with me.’

  Teresa looked at her husband. She was grateful to Giovanni but she was accustomed to Rico being in command. Rico nodded, however, so she handed the knapsack to him and started up the hill.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Rico asked as they walked along the street towards the Round House.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Why? Why do we need to talk, little brother?’ Rico felt perfectly calm now. It was a pity he would miss out on a job at the dockyard but he would find work elsewhere. ‘A man touches my wife so I teach him a lesson. There is no harm done.’ He grinned. ‘You did well to stop me from killing him though.’

  Giovanni said nothing until they were at Arthurs Head, standing on the grassy knoll beside the Round House overlooking the sea.

  He sat on the stone wall and gazed down at the small beach below. It was a still day and the waves lapped the sand lazily. Way out there, beyond the horizon, was Africa, he thought. Across the vast Indian Ocean another whole continent.

  Giovanni felt depressed. All these years he had nurtured his desire to explore this vast brown land, to dig for gold. But always the excitement was to be shared with Rico. Since his arrival in Australia three years ago he had done nothing but work towards that aim. And now with whom was he to share all this? A madman. His childhood hero, the brother he had idolised, the man he had most wanted to emulate, was a madman.