‘Hello, mate,’ I would say as I picked up my scalpel and began slowly to pull the skin and layers of yellow fat back from around his knee. Of course, we were told nothing about the bodies except the cause of death. But I would wonder what secrets and dreams had died inside the flesh I was cutting up. Were they still there in some way? Hiding just beyond my reach? It was hard to forget that the body I was carefully chopping to pieces had once lived and breathed, laughed and made love. Had he been a bastard to his wife or a loving devoted uncle to someone? Sometimes when these thoughts really took over, when they diverted me from the serious business of learning about the intricate systems of the body, I wondered if I was suited to medicine at all.
Within a couple of months I began going to the cafe with various companions at least a couple of nights a week. Sometimes just with Annie and Declan and Patrick, who lived in their house. Other times I’d go with a group from Amnesty. We’d got to know each other well, so some of us would often want to kick on together after our meetings.
Carmel had settled into life at the cafe with hardly a hitch. After the initial two-week morning shift she worked from six until midnight. By eight every night the place had come alive. By ten, trade was roaring. Carmel was beginning to learn little snatches of Spanish and this, coupled with her white skin and red hair, helped to make her very popular.
‘Hey, boss, why you got a gringo working here?’ some of the men would joke.
‘Because I love her,’ Juan would say, or something equally outrageous. And Carmel would blush profusely and move off to another table, pretending she hadn’t heard.
At the cafe I would sometimes meet up with the two or three others who were helping me organise the protest against the Chilean president. They were not students, but workers in their early twenties. The main ones were José, an Argentinian who worked as a cleaner in a public hospital, and Eduardo, a good-looking Chilean who worked as a storeman in a Chinese food-manufacturing plant. They were both very good musicians and much of their talk revolved around their next busking effort. They played down on the St Kilda pier together on the weekends, and were occasionally joined by various other com-pañeros who also loved playing and singing South American music. A very pretty girl named Rosa attached herself to the band, too. She played tambourine and sang a bit, but she wasn’t very good. I could tell she was only hanging around because she had designs on Eduardo.
It took me a while to admit that I had some vague designs in that direction myself!
Eduardo had curly black hair and a wry smile and always described himself as the ‘general dogsbody’ in the factory where he worked. He had to pack boxes, service equipment and keep the floors clean. It was hard for me to imagine him in such a humble role. Down at the cafe at night he was always so sharp and quick and funny. Every time we saw him he told us stories about his work: his chief boss the ditherer, the floor manager who was nervous of all the employees, the women on the production line who were always complaining about their husbands and varicose veins. He made that factory sound like the most interesting place; full of the craziest, most eccentric people that had ever lived.
In the middle of our meal he would regale us with terrible descriptions of what actually went into the dim-sims and Chiko rolls. Dead cats found on the side of the road, rotting cabbages that had fallen off the backs of market trucks. Of course he made it all up. But he was so good at providing all the little details that we couldn’t help half-believing him.
‘Next time you take a bite think of where that nice spicy flavour comes from!’
‘Stop it, Eduardo!’
‘Shut up you . . . liar!’
He’d have us all snorting with laughter, pretending to be sick, throwing things at him, telling him we’d hold him down and wire up his jaw to make him shut up.
Eduardo and José were opposites. Where Eduardo was sharp and witty, José was slow-talking and easygoing about everything, a great one for telling long-winded, droll stories about his family back in Argentina. But they were also the best of friends. Eduardo would get angry and passionate very quickly, but José always acted as though there was nothing to worry about and all the time in the world for everything. It was the music, I suppose, that held them together.
Everyone more or less got on. We’d eat there and talk. It was easy to convince the non-Chileans to meet and eat at Juan’s cafe because he always gave us a good deal. As many empana-das and completos as we could eat, for six dollars. I liked looking up from my table of friends to see Carmel bustling around with plates of food and drink, smiling and joking with the customers. She still got nervous sometimes, and blushed and bumbled a bit if she mixed up an order or dropped something. But her confidence was growing. I noticed it more every day. She was laughing more easily and didn’t get so flustered if someone called out a joke or tried to tease her. That self-conscious movement of her eyes down to her hands, followed by the deep blush, was becoming rarer by the week. Even simple things like the way she walked and sat down at a table had become somehow different after a few weeks of working. Juan and I often had secret little chats about her. We were like two proud parents, telling each other the latest thing she’d accomplished.
And of course there was Anton, too. Carmel was seeing him every few days I think, but apart from an occasional comment I tried not to pry. I knew something must be going right because of the changes I saw in her.
Nights in the cafe were usually great fun. There were jugs of sangría and mineral water on the table and always loud music. If a certain group of Juan’s old friends was still there by the end of the night, we’d usually push the tables together, and those nights would always end with us singing songs in Spanish and English. Annie was studying Spanish as part of her Arts course. She had an awful accent and a terrible flat singing voice but somehow that just added to the fun. She was always so bubbly; shouting out things in Spanish that no one could understand and beginning songs in completely the wrong key.
When Carmel had finished clearing the tables and stacking the dishwasher, she’d join us. Sometimes people would dance. Other times I’d help Carmel finish so she could join us earlier. Various men still came around in their fancy cars to collect Katerina, and occasionally she’d come in just as Carmel and I were heading off to bed. Sometimes she was with a stunning dark girl, Kara, and they’d make tea and toast and go to Katerina’s room to smoke dope. Whenever I passed her room on my way out the front door, that sweet distinctive smell would just about bowl me over. I didn’t care, I was just grateful that they didn’t stink up the rest of the house with it. I’d never been interested in drugs. People can stick whatever they like down their throats, into their lungs, up their noses, or into their veins. None of it interests me.
‘Well, hello, you two!’ Kara would purr at Carmel and me, tossing her thick black curls and making them bounce like waves about her thin shapely shoulders. ‘How’s things?’ They made a pretty formidable pair – Katerina and Kara – one fair, the other dark, both tall, fashionably slender and elegant. Neither of them looked or dressed like the ordinary grungy students I mixed with. Occasionally they would stop in the lounge room, lolling in front of the TV, giggling and gossiping. There was an unspoken assumption at such times that neither Carmel nor I would join them. I didn’t mind that either. After all, most of the time we had the place to ourselves.
The weeks went past. Winter arrived before any of us even noticed. I was so busy with my university work and political activities – we’d set up a computer, small desk and photocopier in the back shed – that the right moment to tell Katerina about what we were working on never quite presented itself. I knew that it wasn’t quite right. After all it was her house too. Perhaps I was gutless. I don’t know. Sometimes it would be on the tip of my tongue. ‘Oh, by the way, Katerina, I thought I’d better mention that this house is the centre for South American resistance activity in Australia. I know you won’t mind. There’s a group of us organising a demonstration in July against the Chilean p
resident. Our aim is to keep South American social justice issues alive in the daily press . . .’ Mail would arrive from similar groups in other capital cities and overseas, and sometimes she’d give me a queer look when she handed me a bundle of letters, but I never quite got around to explaining it all.
Eduardo and José would either let themselves in through the back gate or jump over the fence. I’d often come outside and find them already at work: making posters, answering mail, photocopying letters and stuffing them into envelopes. It was Juan, though, who coordinated everything. He hardly ever came around to the back shed, but he knew what we were doing. We’d fill him in on everything when we went to eat at his cafe.
It took a few months of living in that house for me to get a fix on Katerina. She was a hard one to pinpoint. Friendly and easy one day, very cool and distant the next. But she didn’t worry me in the way I know she worried Carmel. I wasn’t intimidated. More intrigued. I’d think I knew where she was coming from, then something would happen and my ideas about her would jumble up again.
‘You want some tea?’ I asked. It was Saturday morning and Carmel had wandered down to the kitchen dressed in black jeans and a sloppy jumper, yawning and bleary-eyed. She nodded and grinned lazily, plonking herself down in the nearest chair. I’d had the little bar heater on for over an hour already so the room was cosy and warm.
‘How come you’re up so early?’ she asked. I shrugged and remembered my dream. Another bad one. This time about being caught in a fire. My father was there as usual. For some reason I’d felt quite safe, but he was trapped at the top of the stairs and I’d been unable to help him. The stairs between us were alight with bright flames. I’d been calling out for him to jump. I’d wanted to catch him and break the fall. But I couldn’t make him hear me. The roar of the fire was so loud. I’d woken up sweating and dry-mouthed. I was about to tell Carmel, but she cut in, not really expecting me to answer.
‘Make me some toast while you’re at it,’ she ordered.
‘Oh sure!’ I said, picking up two bits of bread and chucking them into the toaster. ‘And what did your last slave die of?’
‘Oh, Jude,’ she said. ‘You’re a saint.’
‘I know.’
‘Saint Jude,’ she said again, laughing. ‘That suits, y’know. You are a bit of a saint.’
‘Get stuffed, Carmel!’ I said. The toast popped up and I threw the pieces onto the clean plate in front of her.
‘Mmm . . .’ she said, looking at the fridge, ‘now I wonder where the butter is.’ I went to the fridge and got it out.
‘My God! Look at this!’
I was over at the stove pouring boiling water into the teapot. Her tone made me turn sharply and spill some over my hand. ‘Ouch!’ I said, sucking my fingers. ‘Shit . . . what is it?’
Carmel was staring at a copy of Australian Vogue on the table. There was a pile of about half a dozen of them. All the same issue. She held up the front cover. A close-up of a sultry-looking blonde, pouting at the camera.
‘So?’ I said stupidly. I still didn’t twig.
‘Recognise her?’ I stared harder, shook my head then moved closer.
‘God,’ I whispered. ‘It’s . . . Katerina!’
‘Took you long enough, dumbo,’ Carmel teased, flipping the magazine open to the inside cover.
‘We spied Katerina Armstrong at a city nightclub,’ Carmel read, ‘and asked if we might have a few pics. She was delighted to oblige. Catch some more of this stylish lady in our fashion centrespread!’
Sure enough, there she was striding out along St Kilda pier; the caption underneath read ‘I really love to dance.’ In the next picture she was playfully ogling a couple of grinning fishermen, as she sucked on a huge slice of watermelon, the juice dripping from her chin. ‘I relax simply,’ was the caption. ‘Give me fresh air and a friend to be with and I’m happy! ’ Then, curled up pretending to be asleep on a large cray basket, ‘I’ll curl up anywhere! Sleep renews me.’ In each picture she was dressed in a different set of stunning clothes, shorts and culottes, billowing see-through blouses, and tight skimpy tops that showed off her midriff.
‘What a wank!’ I muttered.
‘God!’ Carmel sighed deeply. ‘I’m sick with jealousy! Just imagine . . .’
‘Mmm, she does look pretty nice,’ I agreed grudgingly. She looked fabulous actually. Not many other models – beautiful as they might be – had that kind of vitality and strength about them.
We heard the front door creak open.
‘God, it’s her!’ Carmel said and, as if we were doing something shameful, hurriedly slapped the magazine back into the pile.
‘Carmel!’ I cried, picking it up again. ‘We’re allowed to look at it!’
‘Oh,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I suppose so . . .’ We both bent over the page as we heard the clipped footsteps coming down the hallway. The door opened and she stepped in.
‘Well, hi, you two,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ we said in unison. She noticed the magazine and had the grace to look a little embarrassed.
‘Oh, you’ve found those? Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave them lying around to . . .’
‘Show off?’ I smiled, making it obvious I was teasing. Katerina laughed weakly and shook her head.
‘I didn’t mean to show off . . .’
‘Pretty nice,’ Carmel said. ‘How did it happen? I mean how did they . . . see you . . . pick you?’ Katerina smiled coyly, then went over to the sink and began to fill the kettle.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said airily. ‘Friend of a friend. Met at a club. You both like a fresh cup?’
‘Are you going to do any more?’ Carmel asked.
‘What?’
‘Have any more pictures taken?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Katerina shrugged. ‘Modelling is actually incredibly boring . . .’
‘Really?’ Carmel asked sceptically.
Katerina flashed Carmel a condescending smile.
‘Yes, really!’ she said. ‘I find it amazing that anyone could think that it was remotely interesting!’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘There’s no need to be so bloody superior about it,’ Carmel said in a small voice. I looked up in surprise, thinking that I hadn’t heard right. I mean, she didn’t say it angrily, but there was no note of deference or apology either. Katerina’s eyes widened in surprise. I almost burst out laughing as I watched her open and shut her mouth a couple of times.
‘Well . . . I.. . . I certainly didn’t mean to sound superior,’ she said in a huffy voice. Carmel shrugged, not looking at her.
‘Well, you often do, Katerina,’ she said quietly. ‘You often manage to sound very superior, whether you mean to or not.’
My God! Carmel was such an odd mix! She was always surprising me. Self-effacing and humble to a fault one minute, and then something would snap and she’d manage to say exactly what was on her mind the next. Katerina was looking decidedly uncomfortable. She put down the cup she was drying and threw the tea-towel over the chair.
‘Perhaps I’ll skip the tea,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t want to spoil the nice atmosphere with my superiority!’
‘Why don’t you sit down,’ I said, ‘and cut the bullshit . . .’
‘And why don’t you mind your own business?’ she snapped back, both hands resting on the back of the chair. I sat back and we stared at each other across the table.
‘I live here. Whatever goes on here is my business,’ I said mildly. The shrill ring of the phone broke the impasse. Katerina flew over and answered it.
‘Yes, I’ll get her . . .’ Her face was tight as she turned around to Carmel. ‘It’s for you.’
I pulled a chair out for Katerina.
‘Come on, sit down,’ I said as breezily as I could. ‘Let’s have the tea.’ She didn’t smile back, but sat down stiffly.
‘You doing anything special today?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ She began to pour the tea. ‘Kara and
I are going to play tennis with a few other people . . .’ I watched as she poured three very even cups of tea. She handed me one and I took a sip.
‘That should be good,’ I said, with fake sincerity. I can’t stand sport of any kind. Carmel put down the receiver and turned around, excitement brimming in her eyes.
‘Guess what?’ she squealed. Katerina and I waited.
‘That was Alan!’
We stared at her blankly.
‘You know, Alan the musician!’ she said. ‘Remember I told you he’s getting a blues band together? Wants me to try out as a back-up singer. Oh God, Jude!’ She was just about jumping out of her skin with excitement. ‘He’s a good musician, you know. Says he’s got together three other guys who are good and interested. There’s another girl, too. Really wants me to come by. I said I would. What do you think?’
‘Of course,’ I said, wondering why Alan would waste her in a back-up position. She should be out front with that voice. ‘So when is it?’
‘This afternoon!’ she said. ‘God, in two hours! I’m terrified!’ ‘Don’t be,’ I said, making a face. ‘You’ll piss it in.’
‘I’ll have to ring Anton,’ Carmel bubbled on, thinking aloud. ‘He was going to come around this afternoon.’ Katerina’s head jerked up suddenly.
‘Anton!’ she said incredulously. ‘Anton Crossway? From Manella?’
Carmel and I turned, both suddenly aware of her sitting there primly sipping her tea. No one spoke for a few moments.
‘Yes,’ Carmel said. I saw the terrible flush rush to her cheeks and spread down her neck.
‘What? Are you . . . er, seeing him?’ Katerina asked disbelievingly. ‘Er . . . yes. Didn’t you know?’
Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life Page 19