The old man nodded, slowly. His eyes were tender, they searched Dominic’s face. Sad eyes. Dominic, shy, not wishing to talk, smoked silently. He felt the man’s gaze on him.
—You a Greek?
—Italian. Dominic was going to continue, to explain further, then decided against it. The question rattled him, it had no answer.
—Whitlam supporter?
There was longing, an appetite, in the old man’s eyes. The man held his hand out as if to touch Dominic’s arm, then the hand fluttered down to rest on the labrador’s back.
—I should get going. Dominic turned around and began running.
—Nice to meet you, the old man called after him.
The boy sped off, rushing across the oval, jumping the creek, running all the way home.
He did not attend school for a week, threatening Tommy with violence if he dobbed to the parents, avoiding Cheryl. She rang, he told his mother to say he wasn’t home if she called. Maria was glad to assist in this lie.
—You gonna flunk, mate.
—Who cares?
Dominic and Victor were drinking beer, cans, in the old sheds by Victoria Park Station. Saturday night.
—What you gonna do?
—Apprenticeship. Carpentry, maybe. Dad’s trying to find something for me.
—You want to do that?
The sun was setting as the boys drank.
—Yeah, should be all right.
Victor was smart, going to go to university. Maybe. His mother liked Victor, he was passionate about similar things. Whitlam. Free universities, his mother raged, the man made the universities free and still this bloody country complains. Yeah, his father would answer, but everything fucking costs a bloody lot more. Think of your children, Maria would scream, and the argument would be on.
—Tina says Cheryl’s pregnant.
Dominic didn’t answer.
—Well, is she?
—Yeah, she is.
—What you gonna do?
—Kill it. Kill her. Kill my fucking self.
Victor laughed and sucked on the can.
—She’ll have the abortion. Her mum’s a Christian psycho. She’s not going to put up with a pregnant fifteen year old. What would the neighbours say?
The platform was empty except for a young Greek man, drunk, in a shirt and tie, waiting for the city train.
—Hey, Vic, you know that old Aussie guy with the black labrador on Ramsden Street?
Victor sniffed.
—Yeah, the guy just down the road from us?
—Yeah. Whereabouts is the house?
—Two doors down from the station. Must cause a racket. Victor threw an empty can against a graffitied wall. Why do you ask?
—He said hello the other day.
—Zoron reckons he’s a pervert.
The sun had set and the breeze was now cold. Dominic folded his arms.
—Zoron is full of it.
—Yeah, I know, king of the bullshitters. Victor looked over at Dominic. But he reckons he got ten bucks once for showing the queer his dick.
No answer.
Guess it’s an easy ten bucks, Victor shrugged.
Dominic jumped up.
—What do you want to do?
—Where’s there to go?
—See you then?
—See you.
The boys scaled the wall, headed home.
He knocked twice on the door then almost ran off. There was no answer but for the barking of the dog. He tried again. Slow shuffled steps, the barking of the dog. A latch undone, the door slowly opened.
—What do you want?
Three hundred dollars.
—Hello, sir, we met the other day. At the park. I’m Dominic Stefano, from down the road.
—Yeah? And what do you want?
Three hundred dollars.
—Can I come in?
The dog sniffed through the crack of the door, Dominic let it lick at his fingers. The old man hesitated, then opened the door wide.
—Come in then.
Dominic at fifteen was never to be more handsome. His hair was tight brown curls and his olive eyes were outlined with long lashes. He was lean, tough. Hair had begun to sprout all over his body, and though it confused the boy himself, so much so that he refused to be seen without a singlet or T-shirt, shocked by the pace of becoming an adult, it was the sight of the rich curls beneath the boy’s collar that drew the old man. He wanted to reach for the boy’s neck, to touch the curls, to kiss goodbye to the boy.
The house was full of the clutter of history. Photographs and books, an old ship’s compass. The man shuffled slowly to the kitchen.
—Would you like a tea?
—No, answered the boy.
—A soft drink? A beer?
—I’ll have a beer.
A man in military uniform, standing up, handsome. Beside him, sitting, a pretty woman in white. The sallow old man’s face just discernible in the proud eyes of the young soldier.
—Is this you? asked Dominic when the man returned with a glass of beer.
—Yes. And me wife.
Dominic quickly looked around.
—Sorry, she asleep?
—She’s dead.
The dog was wagging its tail, pawing the boy. Dominic stroked its head.
The man continued.
—That was taken when I returned from Malaysia. I was in the war.
—She’s beautiful. And she was. The woman was lean and pretty, elegant.
The man cleared his throat and extended his hand across the couch.
—I’m Bill.
—I’m Dominic.
—So you said. What can I do for you, Dominic?
Give me three hundred dollars, you fucking poofter cunt. He was ashamed at the thought. The man was old, frail. He could kill him, injure him, it would be easy.
—Take your time.
Dominic laughed.
—I don’t have too much of that.
—Bullshit! The reply was almost fury. Bill gazed on the youth, blinked his eyes shut tight. The arrogance of his handsome body.
—You live in Roseneath Street?
The boy nodded. The man poured more beer.
—My girlfriend’s pregnant. He noticed the crucifix, hanging on the wall. I need money.
—Don’t we all.
—Three hundred bucks. Then breathlessly, I don’t want her to have the baby, we couldn’t afford it, we’re too young, now he was beginning to cry, ashamed but doing it, breathing heavily, and I can’t tell Mum and Dad, they’d kill me for being so fucking stupid. Abrupt stop.
—Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.
The old man laughed.
—S’all right, mate.
The boy wiped his eyes, sniffed, the tears stopped.
—What do you want from me?
Dominic stared ahead, hard; Bill was again defeated by the arrogance in the dark eyes.
—I want some money. And I’ve heard you’ll pay.
—Why should I give you money for nothing? The man signalled for the dog, did not take his eyes off Dominic.
And Dominic was thinking, while looking down at the rug, red floral swirls, that murder would be easier.
—I’ve heard that you will … How was he to say this? You can fuck me if you want to, sir. I need the money and I won’t tell anyone. Dominic had lifted his head, returned the man’s defiant stare. The old man said nothing, got up and left the room. The dog followed. Dominic took a large swig of beer.
The man returned with two glasses, an amber liquid. He handed one to the boy and Dominic sniffed it warily; he had no taste for whisky, but he drank, a large gulp down, and screwed up his face.
—Thanks, sir.
The man sat down.
—First, I don’t know what you heard and what little lying cunt it came from, but know this, I don’t fuck men. I’m not a poof, not that way. I don’t want to fuck you. Fucking, and it sounds like you already know this, fucking is what you do with a wo
man. That’s how it’s meant to be and that’s how it is best.
The man hesitated. He’s like a teacher, thought Dominic, wonder if he is a teacher?
—I’m sorry, sir.
—You’ve got to be careful of poofters, son, they’ll corrupt you. The man downed the whisky. Three hundred dollars?
Dominic hung his head.
—Can’t you work?
Dominic nodded.
—But I have to give any money to Dad.
—Can’t you tell him?
—He’d fucking kill me.
—I haven’t got three hundred dollars to give you.
Dominic got up. He left his whisky unfinished.
—Sorry to disturb you, sir.
—Wait. The man pointed to the glass. Drink up. He patted the dog, no longer looking at the boy, lost in the room and its memories.
—I can give you some of it.
Dominic excited, almost gleeful. Yeah?
—Yes. But not for nothing.
A train screeched, the house began to slowly rumble, then to shake, the noise drowned the heavy panting of the dog. Then, abruptly, a last whistle and the train had passed.
—What do I have to do?
The man coughed, then blushed. He did not look at the boy.
—You just have to comfort me. I’ll give you twenty dollars for every time you comfort me.
How? Dominic was humiliated to find that his cock was now erect under the soft cotton of his pants. The man poured another whisky. Softly he mumbled an order.
—What?
—Come here.
The boy rose, walked over to the sitting man. The man put down his glass and looked up to the shaking boy.
—Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you. That’s the last thing I want to do. Dominic was quiet. The man smiled nervously. With one hand he began to massage the boy’s crotch.
Throughout, Dominic watched the dog. The man, embarrassed, removed his dentures, lay them next to the empty glass. Sorry, sorry.
—That’s all right, replied the boy.
The man’s mouth was dry, not wet at all, and he licked at cock and balls, none of Cheryl’s mechanical sucks. The boy closed his eyes, the man’s bristles stung. He opened them once, looked down, the man was tugging a loose and long thin cock. He closed his eyes, dreamt nothing but space, black and lonely space, nothing but the wheezing of the dog, the stink of whisky, and when he came, he came inside the hole.
The man drank his fill of the boy. His hands clutched the boy’s buttocks, he pushed the boy towards him, ate from him. When he had finished, had cleaned the cock of semen, the man sat back, closed his eyes and mourned his age. He picked up his dentures, mumbled an apology and left the room, hanging onto his belt, his pants falling. The dog looked up expectantly, then fell again to rest.
Dominic looked down at his naked crotch, pulled back the foreskin. His cock was wet, pink. He rubbed it with a handkerchief, then quickly pulled up his pants, zipped his fly. The man had not yet returned. Dominic looked at the photo of the beautiful thin woman, her white lace. A watch, gold, lay beside a thick leather book. The man had still not returned. The boy pocketed the watch. The dog did not stir. There was flush of a toilet, then the man was back.
To corrupt the silence, the man poured another whisky. Dominic drank again, this time there was no scouring. He wondered if he was drunk.
—Thank you.
—That’s all right. Dominic wanted to laugh. The man’s face was white, wrinkled. The thin pink veins were ugly. The boy fixed his eyes, tried not to look away.
—Please don’t tell anyone.
—I won’t.
Of course I fucking won’t.
The man stared into his glass.
—You shouldn’t do this too often.
—I won’t. The boy cleared his throat, drank from the whisky, the spirit was making him loud. I’m not like you, I like women.
—So do I. The voice was a quiet rumble, like distant thunder.
Have you always been like this, the boy wished to ask.
—I was married for thirty-five years, the man answered his thought, and I was not unfaithful once. Not once.
Dominic was getting impatient. He wanted the night, to feel a breeze. He finished the whisky.
—I never betrayed Cynthia.
—You must have been in love.
Did she know you were a fucking queer?
—We were. Then she died and I was alone. The man was no longer looking at Dominic. He’s pissed, out of it, thought the boy, pay up, pay up, where’s the bloody money?
—Don’t do this too often.
—I won’t.
—I have two sons, I’d hate to think they were doing this.
The gold watch was sinking in Dominic’s pocket.
The man sighed. He took some notes from his pocket, threw them at the boy.
—Here it is. Dominic clutched at the cash, scooping it up. It was a hundred dollars. He pocketed the money, a large smile lit his face.
—Can I trust you?
The boy nodded.
—I’ll give you two hundred all up. That’s ten times you come here, right, ten nights you comfort me.
Dominic hesitated. Who you going to tell, arsehole, if I just pocket this? The old man was staring hard at the youth. Dominic extended his hand.
—I’ll shake on it.
So they did.
—Sorry, sir, got to go. The room was disappearing, the man was disappearing. The boy was eager, smiling, impatient to leave. Without a word the man rose and walked Dominic to the door. The black sky danced with stars. Dominic breathed in the infinite space, jumped into the night.
—Can you come this Sunday? Sunday afternoon.
—Yeah, said the boy. Thanks.
And he meant it, the cash in his hand, the watch in his pocket. And it had not hurt, and he had not had to do anything but stand there, and he had not had to be fucked, so he was still clean.
—Thanks, he repeated, and jumped into the street.
His mother was in the lounge room, talking with Yiota. In the kitchen his father was with the men, playing cards. The house was full of smoke.
—Where have you been?
—Out. He kissed his mother, kissed Yiota.
—Cheryl rang.
In the kitchen the men were drunk, a line of beer bottles on the bench. Dominic ate cold moussaka, watched the men play.
—Had a good night?
Dominic nodded to his father.
He brushed his teeth slowly, filling his mouth with the paste, washing away the evening. Tommy was still awake, reading. Dominic stripped to his underpants and jumped into bed.
—Were you with Victor?
—Yeah.
Dominic looked at the icon above Tommy’s bed. The Virgin’s face was clouded, black, soiled from age. The boy Jesus with the old man’s face. Once, Tommy had run screaming from the room, had dissolved in hysterical tears. The baby Jesus had turned his face, had beckoned him. Tommy was sometimes crazy.
—Turn off the light.
—I want to read some more.
—Turn off the fucking light!
The younger boy obeyed.
Dominic could hear his brother praying. Tommy prayed all the time, sometimes for hours into the night. A murmur, indecipherable, a steady stream.
—Mum and Dad had a fight.
—What about?
—Mum wants to go back to Greece, reckons we all should go.
Dominic laughed.
—Yeah, right. It’s okay for her, she can speak the language. What are we meant to do?
—That’s what Dad said.
—It’s not going to happen. She’s just upset about Whitlam.
Dominic looked up again, at the icon. Next to it the Prime Minister’s face was smiling.
Tommy followed his gaze.
—He shouldn’t be there. That’s blasphemy.
—Shut up with that Christian shit. That photo stays there.
Tomm
y fell silent.
Dominic lay awake, listening to the occasional shouts from the kitchen, the muffled music from the radio. At one point his mother played a Greek song. Tommy was still praying.
Dominic waited for his brother’s snores. They finally came, the whimper of sleep. Then Dominic pulled down his shorts, closed his eyes and filled his thoughts with dreams of women. He sunk into Yiota’s firm large breasts, licked from Cheryl’s cunt. He conjured up movie stars and pop stars. He pulled at his dick and Tommy disappeared, the house disappeared, the money and the old man disappeared. And when he came he was dreaming of Lynette’s large behind, kissing her neck, eating at the thick strands of her hair.
Next morning he rushed to Cheryl’s house. Her mum and dad were at church. She answered the door in a white bath robe, her eyes still full of sleep.
—I’ve got the money. Or I will have, I’ve got half of it.
The girl let him in, they sat on the couch and watched sports on television.
—Maybe I’ll keep it.
Dominic wanted to smash her pretty little face in. He took her hand.
—We can’t.
—Why not?
—We’re too young.
I don’t love you, I don’t want you. Dominic was tasting freedom, his youth was back.
Cheryl started to cry. They made love on the sofa, his cock inside her, once inside her he wanted to stay there forever. And then, spluttering to orgasm, the feeling went. He couldn’t wait to leave.
—Tell your mum to organise it, as soon as.
Monday he went back to school. Order had returned. The Queen was back in her place, a new frame. The snakeskin gone. After school he sold the watch. It was not gold at all, and he only received ten dollars for it. Dominic visited the old man twice every week for a month, cleared the debt. His visits to the old man occurred outside his world. In the old man’s world they would talk, a little; the man would get his comfort, they would share a drink and the old man would tell him some stories. As soon as the sex was finished, Dominic forgot it, a chore wiped from his memory.
Only once did the two worlds merge. In the bedroom, when he ordered Tommy to stop reading, to turn off the light.
—Dom.
—Go to sleep.
—Dom, Bruno says he saw you visiting that old guy in Ramsden Street.
Dominic held his breath. Tommy waited in the silence.
—Dom?
—Your mate Bruno is a fucking poofter cunt.
The Jesus Man Page 3
