Looking for Alibrandi

by Melina Marchetta

  I curtsied and laughed. “My lord Jacob, I am indeed overwhelmed,” I said, fainting dramatically into his arms.

  Michael came rushing down the stairs like a madman. “What happened to her?” he asked, grabbing me from Jacob.

  “It’s a joke, Michael.”

  Both Jacob and I laughed hysterically.

  “Bloody kids. What’s so funny?” he said.

  “Jacob’s got a car, Michael. Isn’t it fantastic? He did it all himself.”

  “A Holden. I have a passion for Holdens,” he said, looking at me wickedly. “Conceived my one and only child in one.”

  He walked away, leaving me spluttering.

  “How grotesque,” I groaned. “How could he discuss that in the open?”

  “I think it’s wildly erotic, actually,” Jacob said, looking at Michael as he walked away. “Your mother and him in a Holden making the great Josephine Alibrandi. For all you know, it could be this Holden.”

  “It could’ve been a Mercedes. Do you think my life would have been different if I’d been conceived in a Mercedes?”

  He laughed and unlocked the door, letting me in.

  “You should have seen it, Jose,” he said like an excited boy. “It was a pile of crap and I put it together.”

  “Well, whoever said you couldn’t? I myself have always thought you to be a genius.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, blushing.

  “Yeah.”

  He kissed me gently on the mouth before he started the ignition.

  “I’m good with my hands, Josie,” he said, looking at them. “I might not be a great university scholar, but I’m good with my hands. You’re different. You’re good with your head.”

  “Well, with my head and your hands we could be famous,” I said, taking hold of his hands and kissing them. “We could go into partnership.”

  “What would a fancy barrister want with a mechanic in business?” he asked solemnly.

  “Tons of things,” I said, excited. “We could form a company. I’d be the theory part of the business and you’d be the practical.”

  “Yeah, we could be the first husband and wife . . .”

  He stopped suddenly, realizing what he had just said.

  “Forget I said that,” he muttered, taking out a cigarette.

  I folded my arms and sent him a quick look. “I think you’d be a lovely husband.”

  He sneaked a look over to me and shrugged. “Bet you’d be good with kids and all.”

  We laughed and hugged each other before he let go and began to drive.

  “Know what?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m glad it hasn’t got bucket seats.”

  “I would never have fixed it up for us if it did.”

  I moved across the bench seat and squeezed in closer to him and hugged his arm, and at that moment, that very second, I pictured myself with Jacob Coote for the rest of my life.

  Nineteen

  TOMATO DAY.

  Oh God, if anyone ever found out about it I’d die. There we sat last Saturday in my grandmother’s backyard cutting the bad bits off overripe tomatoes and squeezing them.

  After doing ten crates of those, we boiled them, squashed them, then boiled them again. That in turn made spaghetti sauce. We bottled it in beer bottles and stored it in Nonna’s cellar.

  I can’t understand why we can’t go to Franklin’s and buy Leggo’s or Paul Newman’s special sauce. Nonna had heart failure at this suggestion and looked at Mama.

  “Where is the culture?” she asked in dismay. “She’s going to grow up, marry an Australian and her children will eat fish-and-chips.”

  Robert and I call this annual event “Wog Day” or “National Wog Day.” We sat around wondering how many other poor unfortunates our age were doing the same, but we were sure we’d never find out because nobody would admit to it.

  His grandmother and mother and father and brothers and sisters came over as well and we all sat around like Sicilian peasants. My Zio Ricardo had a hanky on his head with each of the four sides tied in a knot. By the end of the day all the little kids had the same type of headpiece.

  “We have been doing this for over forty years, Guiseppina,” my Zia Patrizia told me, wiping her hands on a polka-dot apron (the same apron as every other woman in the yard because my second cousin Rita had once bought ten meters of material on sale).

  Nonna and Zia Patrizia were sitting side by side, beaming at me. They look very similar except Zia Patrizia isn’t as vain as Nonna and has done nothing about her graying hair. I looked over to where Mama was with Zio Ricardo, wishing she would look my way. I wanted her to save me from Zia Patrizia and Nonna Katia. From their reminiscing and gossip.

  “Remember the year Marcus Sandford helped us, Katia? An Australiano squeezing tomatoes wit us.”

  “Marcus Sandford?” I asked, looking at Nonna. “He came back on the scene?”

  “Who’s Marcus Sandford?” Robert asked, wiping his hands on my T-shirt.

  “He was an Australian policeman who helped Katia and me when Nonno Ricardo and your Zio Francesco were in camp.”

  “What camp?” Robert asked.

  “During the war Zio Ricardo was working with Nonno Francesco in the sugar fields, so I had to look after Patrizia because she was pregnant again,” Nonna explained to us.

  “One day,” Zia Patrizia interrupted, “they came wit the truck. They started from the north of Queensland and drove down. They took every Italian man. Even the boys. It was because of that bastardo Mussolini.”

  “Aliens, they called us,” Nonna Katia said. “They caught Francesco in the first truckload, but it took them days to find Zio Ricardo.”

  “Ah, Madonna mia,” Zia Patrizia said, waving the knife in her hand around. “We cried and cried. What were we going to do? we asked ourselves. Where is Ricardo? Is he dead?”

  She was fanning herself and Robert patted her hand.

  “It’s okay, Nonna, you know he’s not dead. Don’t get worked up.”

  We exchanged looks, grinning at their theatrics.

  “An Australian family down the road was hiding him.” Nonna tried to get in before Zia Patrizia. “Zio Ricardo was one of the very few Italians who went out and mingled wit the Australians. He learned the language and demanded that everyone spoke it. Nonno Francesco refused to and wouldn’t let me learn, but Zio Ricardo was strong and taught Patrizia, so she taught me during the day.”

  “Did they ever find him?” Robert asked.

  “Ah, Dio mio,” Zia Patrizia prayed.

  Robert and I rolled our eyes again.

  “He snuck around during the night to be wit us, but one day those people next door, Turner . . . Thompson, whatever their stupid name was, they told on him. If I saw them today I would spit on their faces.”

  They both swore in Italian, agreeing with each other.

  “There we were, Giuseppina, two defenseless women on our own. Me, wit one little boy and a baby on the way. Katia wit her garden ruined because nobody could look after it. We had no money. Snakes came into our house, Roberto, snakes!”

  “So one day I said enough is enough,” Nonna butted in, whipping her hands in the air dramatically. “I went to speak to the army.”

  “We all were hysterical,” Zia Patrizia said. “ ‘No, Katia,’ we pleaded. The other Italian women went crazy. We thought that the army was going to come around and take us or our children next, but Katia said ‘enough.’ ”

  “I thought that maybe if I spoke to someone they would feel sorry for us and send us back one man. Maybe all our husbands.”

  “But they didn’t,” Zia Patrizia hissed. “So she is walking out and this big tall Australiano stops her. ‘Katia?’ he says. We all look at her. How could Katia know this man?”

  “It was Marcus Sandford,” Nonna giggled to me. “He was in the army. It had been two years since I had seen him. He was pleased to see me. Pleased that my English was better, and when he heard about our problems, he did all he cou
ld to have one of the men released. But it was impossible. All he could do was reassure us that they were treated well. But we didn’t want reassurance. We needed an extra pair of hands.

  “So Marcus Sandford became our extra pair of hands. He squeezed the tomatoes wit us, he helped us grow our spinach, he fixed the garden, everyting.

  “But the other women,” Nonna Katia groaned. “Remember, Patrizia, Signora Grenaldo? Talk talk talk. ‘What is a man doing in Katia Alibrandi’s house?’ she would ask. Stickybeak.”

  “But we did not care. It was all innocent,” Zia Patrizia defended. “He helped us. He loved my little Roberto and he even helped deliver your Zio Salvatore, Roberto.”

  “Is little Roberto the one who died?” I asked.

  They both made the sign of the cross and kissed their fingers.

  “Oh, my gioia Robertino. I still cry for him, Katia. I still cry.”

  “One day when we couldn’t find him, everybody started looking. Italian, Australian, Spanish . . . everyone,” Nonna Katia said. “For one whole day we looked for little Robertino. Marcus? He never stopped.

  “Even the Australian women came around wit tea and sandwiches while we prayed and cried. Later that night while we sat on the veranda watching the searchlights through the trees, Marcus walked through holding someting in his arms. He was crying. I was crying. Patrizia was crying. We walked toward him looking at what he had in his arms.”

  “It was my little Robertino. He had drown in the creek,” Zia Patrizia said quietly.

  “He put Robertino in my arms, still crying.”

  “And I yelled and yelled,” Nonna Katia said, looking at Zia Patrizia. “Screamed wit such anger. I blamed Marcus Sandford. I blamed this country. If the men hadn’t been away we would have been able to see what Roberto was doing, but we were too busy being the men of the house because the Australians had our men in their camps.”

  “Everyone in the town came to the funeral. Remember, Katia? But we never saw Marcus Sandford again.”

  I looked at Nonna Katia, but she turned away. Somehow I doubted that she never saw him again.

  “Enough of old stories. How about you, Giuseppina? Do you have a boyfriend?” Zia Patrizia asked me.

  “I’ve got one hundred boyfriends, Zia,” I said, kissing her, picking up the tub full of tomatoes and taking them to where Mama and Zio Ricardo were.

  Like all tomato days we had spaghetti that night. Made by our own hands. A tradition that we’ll never let go. A tradition that I probably will never let go of either, simply because like religion, culture is nailed into you so deep you can’t escape it. No matter how far you run.

  Twenty

  ON THE 29TH of July, we celebrated St. Martha’s day by having our annual walkathon. It’s one of those events I hate with intensity.

  The excitement of seeing the nuns in Reeboks left me in Year Eight and the only thing we enjoy about it these days is being able to wear what we like.

  I did the usual rounds with my family on Sunday and managed to collect one hundred dollars for Amnesty International, then on Monday morning we sat in the auditorium listening to Sister Louise give out the same instructions, crack the same jokes and make the same threats as she did the year before.

  I think it was the effect of trying to organize five hundred students that allowed me to be hijacked by Sera with only a whimper.

  “Trey Hancock is in Sydney,” she said as the last students set off. “He’s staying at the Sebel Town House.”

  Trey Hancock is the lead singer of a band called The Hypnotists. He’s from the States and is the most gorgeous guy in the world.

  “Why is she telling us this?” I asked Lee.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Josie. Do you want to spend the rest of the day looking after those idiots?”

  “Where did you hear that Trey Hancock was in Sydney?” Anna asked.

  “Molly Meldrum hinted it in TV Week and my cousin works at the Sebel and said she saw him.”

  “And the word was made scripture,” I said sarcastically.

  “Well, I’m going,” Sera said, pulling up her black tights in the middle of the road.

  “Sister will chuck.”

  “Sister, Sister, Sister,” she mimicked. “God, Josie, live dangerously. You’d think she appointed you God or something.”

  Lee shrugged and looked down the road where the others were disappearing.

  “I suppose it’d be better than being the tail end of a walkathon,” she said.

  “I know it would be better, Lee, but I can’t. I have to supervise.”

  “Who’s going to be checking up on you, Jose?” Anna said. “Could you imagine if we saw Trey Hancock? Could you imagine if we spoke to him?”

  “I’ve got a camera,” Sera said, taking it out. “Could you imagine if we got a photo of him?”

  “Who’s going to guide those who get lost or are too slow?” I continued to argue. “I have to stay behind all the students.”

  “Oh, great job, Jose. You should be proud of it,” Sera said sarcastically. “That means this walkathon will take us about two hours more than everyone else.”

  “It is a bit of a shit job, Josie,” Anna said. “Ivy’s leading it.”

  A bus came toward us and before I knew what was happening, the four of us jumped on it, giggling all the way to the back.

  “If I see him, I’m going to jump all over him,” Sera said, taking out her makeup bag.

  “Duck,” Lee said, pulling me down. Still laughing hysterically we crouched on the floor of the bus, allowing Lee to peek out and tell us when the coast was clear.

  The bus came to a stop and we looked at each other with dread, but still laughing.

  “It’s a crossing and half the school is crossing it,” Lee whispered, bursting into laughter.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Anna said, closing her eyes and trying to squeeze under the seat.

  We sighed with relief when the bus took off again and sat back to enjoy the ride.

  I’m not quite sure where we supposed we’d see Trey Hancock. Maybe in the lobby, where he would introduce himself to us and take us to his room to discuss world peace.

  We arrived at the Sebel Town House and not wanting to be seen, we took advantage of an open elevator, rushing into it and hitting any button so the doors would close.

  The Sebel Town House accommodates a lot of movie and rock stars, so a group of teenagers walking around the place makes the hotel staff suspicious. We spent half an hour walking up and down corridors, and I figured that if Sera’s cousin worked there, she could at least have given us some hint as to where they were.

  “C’est la vie,” Sera said on our way down in the lift, dancing around. She was teaching Anna to vogue, a way of dancing with your hands that Madonna had made famous.

  I began to feel uneasy then. What if there was a roll call at one of the stops? What if the police were looking for four missing girls? What if my mother received a call from the school saying I was missing?

  “How about we hang out in the bar? There’s always supposed to be someone famous in this hotel bar,” Sera said, taking out her camera.

  “Sera, in our jeans and parkas we do not look over eighteen.”

  “It’s worth a try. Live dangerous, Jose.”

  Anna grinned and Lee punched me playfully on the arm.

  “It’s better than being at a stupid walkathon,” she said.

  I agreed. It was better than being the tail end of a walkathon. Did anyone appreciate that I had to lag behind because some people were slow? No. Then I didn’t care either. When the doors opened, we were blinded by lights and photographers. There were news cameras and people all over the place.

  “Maybe they’re here after all,” Anna said, excited.

  I looked across the lobby and shook my head, trying to hide from the cameras.

  “The Premier is here, dickheads. I suppose you think he’s here to give Trey Hancock the key to the city?”

  “Must be a press c
onference for something or other,” Lee said. “We might see someone famous after all.”

  Anna was smiling at the excitement around her and I wanted to slap her face.

  “Guys, let’s get out of here.”

  “Let’s get the Trey Hancock rock video and go back to my place. We’ll order pizza,” Lee said.

  The feeling of dread didn’t leave me. No matter how much I told myself that there was no problem with what I had done and that nobody would find out, I couldn’t enjoy the video. The others seemed to be relaxed and enjoying it all, but no matter how much pizza and how many Cheetos I consumed, I couldn’t begin to relax.

  I always wondered what I’d look like on television. My curiosity was sated that night. While the Premier shook hands with a delegate from China, the four of us became two-minute megastars. Sera was seen voguing around the lobby, and Anna—dumb, stupid Anna—even waved at the camera while the Premier gave his speech.

  I prayed that nobody else would see us. I dedicated a whole decade of the rosary that the divine intervention of the Virgin Mary would break the television at the convent and in the home of every teacher.

  But sure enough, while we were sitting in homeroom on Tuesday morning, four names were called out, and I don’t think I have to tell you whose names they were. Sister handed us back our sponsor sheets with such anger that I felt each sheet fan my face with the force of an air conditioner.

  She looked cold and mean and I wanted to remind her that she was a Christian, but I’ve learned from the past that you don’t try to teach Christianity to nuns and priests, as they seem to think they have the market cornered.

  “I want you to return any money you have collected and I want the signature of every person who sponsored you on this sheet after you explain to them what you did yesterday.”

  “But, Sister, it’s all for Amnesty International.”

  “How dare you!” she snapped. “Those students trusted you. I trusted you. Here I am thinking that all the girls are on a walkathon. We promise your parents that we’ll look after you and they trust us. Yet there you are on television, with Sera making vulgar thrusting movements and God knows what with her hands around her face.”