The Slap

by Christos Tsiolkas

  ‘For a fucking cap? It used to be sixty for a gram.’

  ‘And that was back in the fucking eighties, wasn’t it, malaka?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘It’s good. It’s real good.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘No,’ Ari’s tone was insistent and serious. ‘I promise. It’s good.’

  Hector tapped out half the speed onto the toilet lid. The amount suddenly seemed enormous as he cut two thick long lines. He rolled up a twenty-dollar note and snorted the lines quickly. It hit him almost immediately—he couldn’t tell whether it was the amphetamines or just the old unforgotten rush that came from indulging in something illicit—but he was suddenly flushed and he could feel his heart thumping. Rhys’s CD was still playing and he found the music was whiny and jarring. On his way back outside he switched off the CD mid-song and replaced it with Sly and the Family Stone. He turned up the volume. Anouk, in the backyard, turned around and shook her head, mocking him. Beside her, Rhys was nodding to the music.

  ‘The kids love it,’ he yelled out to her.

  The late afternoon sun was soft and low in the sky, sending sheets of incandescent red cloud across the horizon. Hector stood on the verandah and lit a cigarette.

  From behind him, inside the house, came the sounds of squabbling, then a child was howling. Rosie rushed past him.

  Hugo was in the kitchen, inconsolable. Rosie picked him up and hugged him tightly. The child couldn’t speak, couldn’t get his breaths out.

  Hector walked into the lounge where the four boys were sitting mute and fearful on the couch. Melissa had been crying but she was now wiping away her tears. Angeliki spoke first.

  ‘He didn’t want to watch the DVD.’

  Suddenly there was a rush of accusing voices.

  ‘We wanted to watch Spider-Man—’

  ‘He hit me—’

  ‘We didn’t do anything—’

  ‘He pinched me—’

  ‘We didn’t do anything—’

  Aisha came into the lounge room. The children immediately fell back to silence.

  ‘Spider-Man is rated PG. I don’t want you to watch it today.’

  ‘Mum!’ Adam was furious.

  ‘What did I say?’

  The boy crossed his arms but he knew better than to protest any further.

  ‘You let Hugo watch what he wants, that’s an order.’

  ‘He wants to watch Pinocchio.’ Sava’s disgust was clear.

  ‘Then you’ll all watch Pinocchio.’

  Hector followed Aisha into the kitchen. Hugo was now quiet and suckling contentedly at Rosie’s breast.

  ‘Why are you smoking in the house?’ asked Aisha.

  Hector looked down at his cigarette. ‘I came in to see what the fuck happened.’

  His mother marched up to him, took the cigarette from his mouth and proceeded to drown it under a torrent of water from the kitchen faucet. ‘It’s finish,’ she announced disdainfully, placing the soggy butt into the bin. ‘Children fight for nothing all the time. Nothing to worry about.’ His mother could not take her eyes off the suckling child. He knew she was disgusted that Rosie was still breast-feeding Hugo at his age. He agreed with her.

  Brendan arrived next. Connie wasn’t with him. Hector shook the man’s hand and welcomed him to the gathering. He wanted to ask, Where is she? Why hasn’t she come with you?

  Brendan kissed Aisha. ‘Connie’s coming later. She went home to change.’

  Connie was going to be there. A rush of pure pleasure ran through Hector. He wanted to shout and sing and grab the whole damn backyard, the whole house—yes, even Rosie and that brat Hugo—grab everyone and hold them tight.

  ‘It is good stuff,’ he whispered to Ari.

  ‘I’ve always got some if you need it.’

  Hector grinned widely and said nothing. He was thinking, not me, I don’t need it after tonight. Not me, mate, I’ve never needed it.

  Aisha’s brother arrived. Ravi was over from Perth for a few days on a working holiday, staying in a swish hotel in the city. He had lost weight and was wearing a tight-fitting, pale blue short-sleeve shirt that showed off his newly muscled chest and arms. His dark hair was shorn close to his scalp.

  ‘You look good, man.’

  Ravi hugged his brother-in-law and then went straight to Koula and Manolis, hugging them as well and kissing Koula on both cheeks.

  ‘Nice to see you, Ravi.’

  ‘Nice to see you as always, Mrs S. When are you going to visit me in Perth? Mum and Dad are always asking after you.’

  ‘How is your mama and father?’

  ‘Good, good.’

  Whatever issues his mother might have with her daughter-in-law, she adored Aisha’s younger brother. Hector knew that at some point during the evening his mother would sit down next to him and whisper in Greek, That brother-in-law of yours is so handsome. And his skin is so light, not dark at all. She wouldn’t elaborate, but her meaning would be clear. Not like your wife.

  Adam and Melissa ran out and fell onto their uncle. He raised his niece to the sky and kept a firm grip on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Come out to the car with me.’

  Ravi spoiled the kids. Hector heard them shouting and laughing as they followed their uncle to his car. They came back each hugging a large box. The other children came out onto the verandah while Adam and Melissa ripped into their presents.

  ‘What is it?’ Sava knelt down next to Adam. The packaging was thrown away to reveal a new computer game. Melissa, always more patient, was carefully stripping away the pieces of tape and folding the wrapping paper neatly beside her. Ravi had given her a pink and white doll’s house. She hugged her uncle, then grabbed Sonja by one hand and the box by the other. She turned to her cousin.

  ‘Come on, let’s go to my room and play.’ Angeliki promptly followed her.

  The boys whipped round and looked at Hector. He wanted to laugh; their shining faces, their bright expectant eyes. Adam was holding tight to his gift.

  ‘Can we play with this?’

  Hector nodded. With ferocious whoops, the boys rushed into the house.

  ‘You spoil them.’

  ‘Shut up, Sis, they’re just kids.’

  Aisha wasn’t offended. Hector knew she was overjoyed that her brother was in Melbourne, that he could be at the party. Ravi threw his arm around Hector and they strolled over to the barbecue.

  Gary had started another argument, this time with Rhys and Anouk.

  Manolis nudged Hector, speaking in Greek. ‘Go get the chops.’

  ‘Is it time yet?’

  ‘It’s time. That Australian hasn’t stopped drinking since he got here. He needs food.’

  Gary’s face was indeed flushed and he was slurring as he fired a volley of questions at Anouk, his finger accusingly jabbing at her chest. ‘It’s just crap. That’s not how real families are.’

  ‘It’s television, Gary, commercial television.’ Anouk managed to sound cutting and bored all at once. ‘No, it is not how real families are.’

  ‘But you’re perpetrating bullshit that has an influence on millions of people around the world! Everyone thinks that Australian families are exactly like those on the show. Don’t you want to do something better with your writing?’

  ‘I do. That’s why I work as a scriptwriter on the show. To make money to pay for the writing I do want to do.’

  ‘And how much of that are you doing?’

  ‘Forty thousand words so far.’

  Anouk turned to her boyfriend. ‘Shut up, Rhys.’

  ‘Why? It’s true.’ He turned to Hector. ‘She told me this morning. She’s got forty thousand words down on her novel.’

  Gary shook his head and looked mournfully down at his beer. ‘I just don’t know how you can write that shit.’

  ‘It’s easy, Gazza. You could write that shit.’

  ‘I don’t want to. I don’t want to be part of that cock-sucking toxic industry.’

  Harry winked a
t Anouk. ‘I like the show.’

  ‘What do you like about it?’

  Harry ignored Gary.

  ‘What do you like about it?’ Gary raised his voice.

  What a whinger. That’s where Hugo got it from. Hector caught his cousin’s wink. ‘It’s good to veg out on. Sometimes that’s all you want, something to entertain you for half an hour.’

  Sandi linked her arm through her husband’s. She was smiling at Rhys who smiled back at her. ‘And I think you’re very good in it,’ she added shyly.

  Hector stifled an urge to laugh. He looked across to where the others were sitting on the garden chairs, all keenly listening in to the argument. Dedjan caught his eye and Hector mock-winced. I think you’re very good in it, Dedj mouthed sarcastically. Hector, who genuinely liked his cousin’s wife, made no reply. He turned back to the circle and smiled warmly at Sandi. She was almost as tall as her husband, slim and long-limbed. The combination of a model’s body and a wog woman’s style—the teased, dyed hair, the long painted nails, the too-bright make-up—made people think that she was a bimbo. She wasn’t. Sandi might not be a uni graduate but she was smart, warm-hearted and loyal. Harry was damn lucky. She still worked a few days a week behind the counter of one of the garages that Harry owned. She didn’t have to do that; Harry was rolling in money, riding the seemingly endless wave of the economic boom. His cousin was one lucky motherfucker.

  A flush of excitement ran through Hector, like a jolt of electric current surging from his feet to the tips of his hair. His eyes darted over to the gate that separated the backyard from the driveway. Where was she? She should be here by now.

  ‘Why do you think he’s good in it?’ Gary was a dog with a bone—he would not let the argument go. He was looking directly at Sandi, who was flustered by the fierceness of the man’s stare, unsure if his question was a taunt. Hector thought it was possible that he was genuine. Gary’s world was not their universe and it was one reason Hector preferred detachment in his interactions with him, had always avoided conflict with him. There was no small-talk, no frivolity to be had in conversation with Gary; even when they were innocent or harmless, his questions and statements seemed underscored by threat. Gary didn’t trust their world, that was very clear.

  In her confusion, Sandi was reduced to silence. Hector placed a hand on her shoulder and she suddenly lifted her head. She ignored Gary, she was looking at Rhys.

  ‘I thought you were very good in those scenes last year when they wrongly arrested you for Sioban’s murder.’ There was a hint of flirtation in her smile now. ‘I wasn’t sure myself you hadn’t done it.’

  Jesus F Christ. She really watched that shit?

  Gary was nodding, seeming to take her words in. He then turned and faced the actor, looked him up and down, taking in the casual but expensive fine cotton cowboy shirt, the black jeans, the confederate flag buckle of his belt.

  ‘You shot a man in Vermont, eh? Just to watch him die.’

  Hector couldn’t stop himself, he laughed out loud. He was pretty sure that Anouk would be trying to suppress an outraged but treacherous grin. Gary was a prick, but he was an astute prick. Hector had only caught snatches of the soap opera, it was only ever background, but he had seen enough to know Rhys was never going to be the real thing. He was a second-rate Joaquin Phoenix playing Johnny Cash. He was destined for a lifestyle show flogging holidays or home renovations. Vermont was perfect, Vermont was frigging spot-on. The young actor screamed private schools, nutritious breakfasts as a child, the immense bland spread of the eastern suburbs.

  At least Rhys had the decency to blush.

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s a line from a Johnny Cash song,’ Hector explained to Sandi.

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  Gary tilted his beer bottle towards Rhys. ‘I’m just acknowledging the tortured artist in our midst.’

  Was it the amphetamines? Hector sensed Anouk’s body ready to spring, to pounce. Fast, dangerous, like a shark.

  ‘Gary’s a tortured artist as well. One of our most tortured.’

  ‘I’m just a labourer, Anouk.’ Gary’s voice was a snarl. ‘You know that.’

  ‘That’s his day job.’ Anouk’s expression was both innocent and lethal. ‘Gary’s not content with being salt of the earth. He’s really a painter, a visual artiste.’ She was like Cleopatra and the asp rolled into one, poised and calm, but her words stung. When Rosie first introduced Gary to them all those years ago, he had called himself a painter. Hector doubted Gary had worked on a canvas in years—which was a good thing; he was shit.

  Anouk’s words had indeed found their target. Gary was looking like he wanted to explode. Hector surveyed the scene as if from a distance. He waited for the tension to fracture, then to break, for Gary to lose it. It wouldn’t be a party without some kind of verbal stoush between Gary and Anouk. His father was turning the chops and sausages, ignoring everyone. I am my father’s son, Hector thought to himself, I don’t want to get involved. I just don’t want to get involved.

  He crashed to earth. Another burst of hysterical wails came from within the house. Anouk’s smile was arctic as she turned away from Gary. ‘I think that’s your child again.’

  Hugo had snatched the game remote and smashed it against the coffee table. The black plastic casing was cracked and there was a milky gash across the red gum surface of the table. Surprisingly, Adam was not crying or in a temper. He just looked genuinely astonished, finding it impossible to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Rosie was hugging Hugo who was pressed into her chest, as if clamouring to escape inside her. He was hiding his face from the world. Rocco was staring at Rosie and Hugo, also incredulous, but his vicious temper—exactly like Harry; they were all their fathers’ sons—was about to erupt. The other little boys, terrified of the tension, were looking down at their feet; the girls had come out of Melissa’s bedroom and were standing silently in the doorway, Sonja, afraid, uncomprehending, was weeping softly. Hector had come in and was standing behind Aisha and Elizabeth.

  His mother, holding a knife in one hand and a souvlaki skewer in the other came up behind him. ‘See? Stupid computer games, they cause too much trouble.’

  Anger flooded Adam’s face. ‘That’s not true, Giagia, we were just playing.’ He pointed a challenging finger towards Hugo, who was still hiding in Rosie’s arms. ‘He just lost it because he can’t play very well.’

  ‘Well, he’s young,’ blurted out Rosie. ‘He’s impatient to learn, to play with you boys. How about you teach him how to play?’

  ‘Is he going to be punished?’

  Hector shook his head in warning to Rocco. The boy ignored him.

  ‘He bloody broke it. He should be punished.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to.’

  Rocco’s face was flushed with rage. ‘That’s so fucking unfair.’

  Hector noticed that Sandi had slipped quietly into the room. She went to discipline Rocco and he fled to his cousin’s bedroom. Adam took one quick look at the adults—father and son locked eyes; Hector’s nod was imperceptible—and scurried after his cousin. Sonja started sobbing and her mother rushed to console her. Aisha and his mother were both trying to get the girls to go back into Melissa’s bedroom, as Sandi continued yelling at her son. Hector turned and walked away. He felt like shaking Rosie, he couldn’t look at her. He was fucking sick of children. Let the women sort it out.

  Gary hadn’t moved from his spot next to the barbecue. He’d started on another beer, his face set in a scowl.

  ‘What happened?’

  Hector shrugged his shoulders and didn’t answer Anouk’s question. She turned to Gary. ‘Shouldn’t you go in?’

  Hector realised that Gary was exhausted, working at a shit job, not his own boss, raising a family. Anouk had no idea.

  ‘Let Rosie deal with it. She’s the one who spoils him, so let her fucking deal with it.’ His voice softened; the sadness was unmistakable. ‘You were right, ‘Nouks, I shouldn’t
have had a child. I’m no good as a father.’

  ‘You are speaking rubbish. You are a very good father. Your son loves you.’ Manolis took a charred piece of sausage from the barbecue and offered it to Gary. Hector stood next to his father, their bodies touching. He was much taller than his old man. There was a time he had thought of his father as a giant. ‘Do you want some help, Dad?’ he offered in Greek.

  ‘It’s nearly ready. Tell your mother.’

  In the kitchen the women were busy preparing plates and glasses, tossing the salads. Rosie’s face was tear-stained, as was her son’s who was sucking hard on her nipple.

  ‘Dad says the meat is ready. We can eat.’

  In the lounge room the boys were sprawled across the couch and on the floor watching another DVD. It was Spider-Man. Hector didn’t know how their anger had been defused but he assumed Aisha had something to do with it.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he ordered. ‘Time to eat,’ and the boys complied. He was suddenly aware of a snatch of rhythm, a sensual roll of bass. A melody from the past, a song he had not heard for years—before children, before the streaks of grey in his hair and on his chest. Neneh Cherry was singing. Someone had changed the CD, probably Anouk. It was the right choice.

  It was a feast. Charred lamb chops and juicy fillet steak. There was a stew of eggplant and tomato, drizzled with lumps of creamy melted feta. There was black bean dahl and oven-baked spinach pilaf. There was coleslaw and a bowl of Greek salad with plump cherry tomatoes and thick slices of feta; a potato and coriander salad and a bowl of juicy king prawns. Hector had been completely unaware of the industry in the kitchen. His mother had brought pasticcio, Aisha had made a lamb in a thick cardamom-infused curry, and together they had prepared two roast chickens and lemon-scented roast potatoes. There was tzatziki and onion chutney; there was pink fragrant taramousalata and a platter of grilled red capsicum, the skins delicately removed, swimming in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The guests lined up for plates and cutlery and the children ate seated around the coffee table. There was hardly any conversation: everyone was too busy eating and drinking, occasionally stopping to praise his wife and his mother for the food.