Stray Dog Winter

by David Francis

  As Aurelio brushed the dust from the back of the jacket, Darcy felt an energy against his shoulders, then Aurelio kissed his neck. Muted tobacco on his breath, tinged with something sweet, aniseed, fennel; perhaps he smoked cigars. His lips in the fine hair behind Darcy’s ear, as if he knew his favourite places. Darcy arched his neck back. What time is the wedding? he asked.

  It is now, said Aurelio, drawing away to reach for his scarf and some black leather gloves that lay on a stool like the wings of a blackbird. He took off his hat to replace it with another and his hair was luxuriant. He undraped his coat from his shoulders to reveal a double-breasted navy suit. Over it, he pulled on a tailored Kensington floor-length overcoat.

  Darcy said he felt underdressed in his oilskin so Aurelio tossed him the greatcoat he’d just been wearing. A leather-scented cologne imbued the lining as Darcy slid it on.

  Aurelio escorted him past an old treadle machine to a front entrance, out into the frigid street where a rusty Lada waited with a corpulent driver sandwiched behind the wheel, waking from sleep as Aurelio knocked on the window. Darcy and Aurelio both got in the back, Aurelio speaking in a language that sounded neither Russian nor Spanish. Darcy asked him what it was. You have no languages? Aurelio asked him, surprised. You English, having it easy.

  But Aurelio was the one with the car and a driver.

  Is this yours? asked Darcy, looking about as they rattled along.

  Aurelio shrugged as if he couldn’t help good fortune.

  How did you end up in Moscow? Darcy asked.

  Aurelio looked out the window and Darcy was afraid the question had been gauche. My mother is a friend of Castro, he said. He put his hand on Darcy’s leg reassuringly and Darcy felt the hairs rise on his neck.

  They both looked out at the river, at big discoloured wedges of ice too deep to be sliced by any sharp-hulled barge. Darcy imagined the climates they’d both come from, worlds with heat and beaches. I’d love to go to Havana, he said.

  It is so far away, said Aurelio wistfully.

  The traffic was light and it was now raining, groups of cream taxis flying past like large wet birds. A building draped in scaffolding and workers perched up high in the cold. Aurelio leaned close to Darcy, the sweet faint tobacco on his breath. Darcy found himself leaning too, as if they were on their own. Aurelio pointed. St Anne’s in the ominous shadow of the Rossiya Hotel. The car slowed and Darcy looked up. A pale stone church, onion domes and limestone walls the colour of dirty washing, dwarfed by the towering building. He could paint the juxtaposition, baneful and clichéd.

  As he opened the car door he heard the organ moan from inside the church as if it hadn’t been played since the revolution. Aurelio offered him a square of fruity fennel gum. We go for the party, he said. A gust of cold air and the chill returned to Darcy’s feet—he wasn’t sure if Aurelio meant the Communist Party or the wedding reception.

  They walked briskly across the rain-slicked cement and up some steps into a stone-cold church lit only by lanterns and candles. Darcy smiled at the unlikeliness, attending a place of worship in a communist country when he never set foot inside one at home. The crowd was sparse, the men in the usual drab suits and the women in dark shapeless coats, and Darcy thought of Aurelio’s expression about when the ship went down.

  The ceremony was already underway. Darcy pulled off his beanie and slipped into a pew beside Aurelio. Above them, the central cupola was boarded over; if there’d once been frescoes they’d been painted over too. Aurelio made a slight sign of the cross as he sat—a gay Catholic communist, maybe even Castro’s misbegotten son. A secret of his own.

  As the organ played Darcy removed his gloves and rubbed his aching fingers. The pew was cold. Aurelio pressed his knee against Darcy’s and tipped his head to the bride near the pulpit; she wore white but no veil, a trail of silk and tulle floating down the steps behind her. My friend, said Aurelio. No bridesmaids or maids of honour. The groom stood a good head taller, slab-sided, square-shouldered, imperious in his military cap and uniform, a sword sheathed at his hip, curved like a narrow dragon’s tail.

  The general. His boss. But Darcy saw little evidence of high-ranking people, considering his stature, no minister either or priest, just an official celebrant, short and stout in a green uniform, speaking in muffled, dissonant Russian with the mike fading in and out. Candelabras framed a vase of red carnations on a table behind him. He lit the candles as the couple turned to face the guests; Sofia was beautiful, big-mouthed and Roman-nosed, her broad teeth showing, her smile full-lipped. She nonchalantly spat on her fingers and flattened her hair.

  Is she Cuban too? asked Darcy.

  Aurelio nodded, quietly chewing. Of course, he said, a smile like that.

  Darcy felt the general’s eyes rest on him with a kind of disdain—or was it Aurelio he was staring at? Darcy figured him in his sixties, Mussolini-faced and handsome in his military cap, snatching another glance at Darcy then glowering out beyond, as if on parade. Then the bride caught Aurelio’s eye and made a subtle face, both mocking and desperate. She says he’s like an animal, Aurelio whispered, making a claw with his fingers. He showed his unstained teeth. Darcy squinted to see the general’s well-set features, the gold stars on the pocket of his jacket.

  They took my passport, he whispered.

  I know, said Aurelio.

  What do you mean?

  He shrugged. I know many things, he said. It is my job.

  A man crouched in the aisle taking photos and Darcy craned his neck in case it was his Pentax but it wasn’t. Aurelio began to translate the proceedings with the pressure of his knee, his breath near Darcy’s face. Are you taking me to be your legal wedded husband? he said as the bride took the general’s hand.

  I hardly know you, said Darcy.

  Aurelio turned to face him. You don’t know anything, he said.

  Mount Eliza, Late 1973

  Darcy and Fin double-dinked, wobbled along the edge of Old Mornington Road, giggling, her young breasts against his back. She was ditching hockey practice, Darcy wagging his woodworking class. As they freewheeled down the hill, Darcy felt young in his school shorts and socks. She was already thirteen, her hair cut shorter, her hockey skirt way above her knees, wearing eyeliner to school, studs in her ears despite the regulations. Darcy’d sneak into her dorm even at lunchtimes now, calling elly elly etdoo from out in the trees as a warning. Her posh country roommates loved the conspiracy. If the matron or monitor came down the path, Darcy’d be out the cantilevered window before a knock on the door—or the flick of the switch if it were already dark; he’d be weaving through the trees to his bike hidden among the blackberries. But he had her with him now, taking her down to his secret clearing.

  What are we doing? she asked.

  I just want to show you, he said. He buried the bike in a thicket of gorse and they made their way down the wallaby trail.

  Uh-oh, she said, but she wasn’t afraid of scratching her legs. Show me what?

  I dunno, he said. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought her; it was as if he wanted to share it with her somehow, but the clearing was enshrouded by sword grass, it didn’t look as pretty; the sun beat down on the grass and the wattle trees had withered back into themselves. A culvert had been dug and there was a pile of dirt. Others had been here, roadworks people. Darcy turned and caught Fin as she ran down the gully slope to him. She buried her face in his neck and they held each other, innocent as lovers. Is that all? she asked. He felt her nipples firming like pebbles against his own.

  Darcy broke free and took off his school shirt, spread it on what was left of the soft paspalum. Fin lay down on it without being asked and she looked up at Darcy smiling, almost daring him. Darcy kneeled. He realised that wasn’t why he was here; he just wanted the missionary.

  Fin took his hand and rubbed a finger in his palm. You don’t like girls that much, do you?

  At first Darcy didn’t answer—it felt different being there with Fin. Darcy lay beside her. You�
��re my sister, he said.

  She raised her head up on her elbow and looked at him. Her fair hair with its tinge of red, her eyes their pale moss green. I’m still a girl, she said.

  Darcy closed his eyes and remembered the bittersweet need in the missionary’s eyes, how he whimpered and slumped and Darcy breathed into sweat that tasted salty like tears. The missionary wiping his butter from Darcy’s belly with a pale green hanky, then he didn’t look back as he climbed the slope through the trees towards the road. No Latter-day church was built on Two Bays Road.

  Darcy stared up at the blinding white sun.

  Mount Eliza, Summer 1974

  Darcy noticed a burgundy Monaro parked near the gate on Baden Powell Drive. He went down to investigate. It was Fin, in a bikini, her bare feet up on the seat, next to a guy in Wayfarer sunglasses and greasy hair, a six-pack of Victoria Bitter between them. He slouched against the ribbed bucket seat with a smoke in his hand, legs splayed, worn holes in the knees of his jeans. Darcy saw the bodyboards in the back seat. Fin hugged her legs. Wanna come down to Flinders? she asked.

  I don’t have my bathers, said Darcy.

  Don’t worry, she said, Jostler knows a secret beach.

  A hand reached through the open window, past Fin, and shook Darcy’s firmly. Darcy looked in and met the sunglasses, saw an ear pierced with a glinting silver star. This is Darcy, said Fin, but the boy just nodded.

  Darcy got in and the car smelled of cigarettes and marijuana even with the windows open. As they drove, Darcy felt like a dog, the hot air on his face, happy, as they wound down Two Bays Road where the church never was. The view of the Mornington Peninsula sat low and hazy in the sun. Darcy imagined what it would be like just to get away forever. Fin, lying with the back of her head in this older boy’s lap as he drove. He must have been at least eighteen, smoking a joint, one hand on the wheel. He passed it back for Darcy and Darcy took a drag and was spluttering, the smoke unpleasant in his throat. He waited for something to change, but all he felt was dizzy.

  He watched out the window, smiling, as they passed Foxes Hangout, the dead foxes on the tree, then on through the orchards up the back of Red Hill and onto the dirt roads. A track through a farm over a cattle grid had Fin sitting up as the ocean unfolded before them, out beyond tussocks that poked grey through a luminous green that ran to the cliffs. Down to the right, a deserted beach that barely looked real.

  Bushrangers Bay, said Fin. When they pulled up she and Jostler grabbed the boards as if they did this often and Darcy followed them over a grassy dune and down onto the stark white sand. A couple with a bucket down the far end looked for shells but otherwise no one. Fin, pale as the sand, lay down in the shade of a cave along the cliff and told Darcy to go out with a board. Jostler will teach you, she said. Darcy was nervous of water but he pulled off his cords and followed Jostler’s tanned body, ran out in his shorts with the board and into the icy turquoise sea.

  They paddled straight out even though it was rough and swimming out so far made Darcy more nervous, the swell higher than it had seemed from the beach. He tried to keep up, pushed out for what seemed like a long time, and then Jostler turned on the crest of a wave and boarded back out of sight, shouting things Darcy couldn’t hear in the wind. Darcy turned too and crouched with his belly to the board to be swept in on a wave but it dumped him right there and the board flipped up and away as he struggled to swim over to it, a sense of the undertow strong. Jostler already back on the beach, motioning and pointing, but Darcy was breathless, out in the rip, drifting to the headland. The fibreglass smacked the waves, water freezing his legs and belly, spitting salt in his eyes like pieces of gravel. The strength drained from his arms and a sudden sense of being too tired to paddle, then Jostler returning and Darcy felt himself relax. All he could do was hold onto the board as a wave washed him into the rocks near the point.

  Cold and aching Darcy scrabbled against the weathered edges, tossed by the waves, a cut on his leg. He saw Fin along the beach, running through the crab pools towards him, her face flushed with excitement. Jesus, she said when she got to him. I didn’t know you couldn’t swim.

  Darcy sat gasping, in shock, as she kneeled down and hugged him, examined his cut. She dabbed it with a small, porous shell until the blood had stained it. Keep this to remember, she said.

  Remember what?

  How it felt like drowning.

  Fuck you, said Darcy. He skimmed the shell out over the water and chased her, throwing shells, and they were laughing even though Darcy wasn’t sure why. She went back to lie with Jostler in the shelter of her little cave and Darcy went and got the scuffed-up board, made his way along the beach and lay down near them, exhausted. Almost asleep in the sun, he checked his scraped leg, a glimpse through the thin blades of grass at Jostler on top of her, doing her. Darcy stayed low and felt himself, and he could tell Fin really liked Jostler, the way she was with her legs, and then she glanced over. She knew he could see. It was as if she wanted him to, and Darcy wished he could have lain over there with them, Jostler coming down on top of him—Jostler, not the missionary.

  Then Jostler ran down to the water naked, patches of sand against his strong dark legs, and Darcy watched entranced, Jostler’s half-erection floating out in front of him, hanging effortlessly with the rise and fall of the waves.

  Ulitsa Kazakov, Tuesday afternoon

  Fin appeared from her room, sleepy, her hair flat on one side and her lipstick faded. Darcy hung Aurelio’s black greatcoat on a hook behind the apartment door. The dog’s lead wasn’t there. How did it go at the embassy? he asked. She didn’t seem to notice the coat wasn’t his.

  I didn’t get there in the end, she said. She was wearing her overalls with nothing underneath them and Darcy glanced at the curve of a small breast at the side of the bib and felt a sense of the ease with which she used her allure.

  I didn’t get to paint either, said Darcy.

  On the counter, a tomato soup can filled with flagging yellow flowers and a screw-top jar of water. Fin sat on the arm of the sofa, studying Darcy as he studied the jar. At first, there seemed to be small black fish sealed in it, but as he held it to the light he realised they were small floating microphones. We found them in the bowels of the couch, she said.

  Darcy could see where the cushions had been pulled free. Who is we? he asked. She turned her eyes to the window, didn’t say. Her friend with the car, perhaps he brought flowers, swept the apartment for listening devices.

  It’s normal, she said reassuringly, and Darcy remembered he too had a friend with a car, yet a bitter feeling ran through him, of being out of his depth, microphones nudging up from the cushion-cracks.

  It’s not normal for me, he said.

  Don’t worry, she said blithely, they’re not hydrophones, they don’t record underwater.

  And the flowers? he asked.

  They’re called yellow dogs, she said.

  Who gave them to you?

  A friend, she said, reaching down. Who gave you this? She held the dog’s lead coiled up into a roll.

  I found it in a park, he said.

  It’s winter. She said it cautiously. Why were you in the park?

  Exploring, he said. He picked up a copy of the Guardian Weekly from a counter stool. LOSS OF CRUCIFIXES STIRS POLISH YOUTH. He thought of the church he’d just come from, the grey-painted walls, no icons or carvings, the crucifixes long gone. This guy followed me, he said. The one from last night, at the Bolshoi. He’s Cuban.

  Fin let the dog leash unravel and looked up at him, ran her fingers through her short hair.

  He took me to a wedding, said Darcy—some general he works for.

  Fin scratched her neck the way she did when she was nervous.

  When I told him I was a painter, he said like your friend, and then he laughed.

  Fin blanched, her lips pressed tight.

  He’s invited me to the country, said Darcy with false merriment.

  You can’t just go to the country, s
he said, there are checkpoints, but Darcy knew it wasn’t just that—she didn’t want him finding friends of his own. Moscow was her city. You’ll need your passport, she said.

  He said he’d arrange it, said Darcy. He sat on the barstool and leafed through the paper as if there would be news from home but there was only a photo of Nancy Reagan. He hated Nancy Reagan. He followed Fin’s gaze out through the smudged window into the misty afternoon. Svetlana in the stark box of light wore a scarf. From beneath it, bleached strands of a fringe sprinkled her face. The scene reminded Darcy of an Edward Hopper, the Soviet version. Then her light went off and Darcy envisaged her waiting until they were gone, creeping over to install replacement devices. He turned the jar upside down and the microphones floated upwards like a pair of Hercules beetles. Hi-tech and wireless, they bobbed inches from his eyes. He was about to quiz Fin about the money belt when her bedroom door scraped open. A man with a nest of thick dishevelled black hair. Darcy put down the jar. The guy was gypsy-looking, familiar, but with black-rimmed Elvis Costello glasses.

  Hello, said Jostler darkly. He moved past Darcy and snatched the jar up from the bench. As he pulled on gloves he didn’t say more, just glared at Fin, a warning or a reprimand, and headed to the door. He seemed less swaggering but even more brooding. Darcy had imagined him up at Byron Bay, or Cairns, dealing weed to tourists, working in surf shops, not appearing here like some gypsy-intellectual.

  His name’s Jobik, said Fin.

  It wasn’t when he fucked you on the beach at Flinders. Darcy walked over and picked up the dog leash from the rug, rolled the leather around his narrow wrist. He felt Fin observing him, almost pityingly.

  Be careful here, Darcy, she said.

  And Darcy wished he hadn’t shared about the wedding. Was the money belt for him? he asked.

  No, she said. It was for you. She picked up the newspaper and headed to her room.