—That’s all right. The end credits of the Letterman show.
Suck my cock. He could grab her hair, shove her face on his dick. Push down hard, blow deep into her mouth.
The news. A five minute grab. The little girl’s face. The hunt for the killer.
Soo-Ling crossed her arms. Tommy got up.
—Where are you going?
—To the toilet.
Pissing, hard, a stream of beer, his cock was still half tight. He could smell the decay beneath the foreskin, the sharp ugly bitterness of dry sperm. When he came back the news was football.
The happiness that is relief.
They did not talk of the girl.
The night descended into a marijuana lull. Soo-Ling slept on the couch and Tommy watched videos on ‘Rage’. He too fell asleep and only woke, startled, when he recognised a bass riff.
On screen: black men, loud funk, garish costumes, spacemen.
He knew this song.
The bass riff, he knew this riff.
Chocolate City. Dominic had this album, from the days of disco. Dominic had been a disco king, a dancer. Tommy rarely danced and never to disco. That was for the wogs in Clifton Hill. Dominic, the oldest, had chosen disco, dance. Tommy had to turn to rock, to punk. He switched off ‘Chocolate City’.
Tommy yawned. He shook Soo-Ling.
—Honey, let’s go to bed.
She yawned, smiled. They cleaned their teeth in silence, a quick furious scrubbing. In bed the sheets were cold and Tommy hugged Soo-Ling tight, grabbing at the warmth of her body. She in turn wrapped his arms tight around her and fell immediately asleep, protected by his solidity.
For Tommy it took a long time. His cock went stiff. The little girl. He thought of masturbating, listened to the deep rhythms of Soo-Ling’s sleep, but embarrassment stopped him. He thought of work, of Pathis, thought of rent. The little girl. He thought of work. He thought of work and Pathis and thought of rent. He felt the pleasant roughness of Soo-Ling’s nipple. She squirmed in her sleep. He heard bass in his head. Chocolate City. He hummed, he breathed, he let the smoke and the drink do its work. He heard music in his head, forgot the girl, and he eventually fell asleep.
5
Fitzroy vs Collingwood at Victoria Park
The Stefano family all supported the Collingwood Football Club, all except Tommy. He barracked for Fitzroy. This difference caused an isolation Tommy felt keenly even from the very borders of his memory. The choice was now impossible to decipher. He had always barracked for Fitzroy; whether from defiance or simply because he had liked the colours on the guernseys, he did not know. It had happened and it marked his difference.
—C’arn the Pies.
And he hated Collingwood with a murderous passion. He had been born not far from Victoria Park, Collingwood’s home ground. It seemed that his childhood years had always been punctured with the raucous ferocious screams of supporters. Collingwood, Collingwood forever. And it followed that between himself and Dominic a rivalry had grown, a violence over football that erupted in savage moments of bickering and hate.
—The fucking Fitzroy Lions are all poofters. They’re a fucking disgrace.
Tommy would leap at his brother, screaming, and batter him with his fists. Dominic would laugh, push back, and Tommy would fall crying to the floor.
—See. Told ya. You’re all a pack of poofters.
His father, laughing, would pick up the shaking hysterical child. It’s only footy, mate, it’s only footy. He would turn to his older son. Leave him alone, all right. Don’t upset him.
His mother would get angry at their obsession with the sport. Bloody football. But she too, when pressed, would admit her preference for the black and white of the Collingwood Football Club.
—We live here, she would argue, it’s a working class team, it’s our team.
—It’s not, it’s not my fucking team, yelled Tommy.
—This is Susan McIntyre, she’ll be with us for a few weeks. She’s a consultant.
Pathis had introduced her and from that moment Tommy became aware that the world was spinning in directions far from his control. She was young, possibly younger even than himself. She was blonde, smart and spoke good English and she spoke it tough. She was thin, no meat on her at all.
The anorexic bitch. That’s what everyone called her. Nadia was the most contemptuous.
—She’ll be the one, you’ll see, she’s come in to do the hatchet job.
The company was to shut down the print shop. That decision had already been made though it had not yet been communicated to staff. But the threat of closure had been a strong rumour for months and the unease and fear had begun to accentuate the petty differences among the staff. For a long time the print shop and the mail room had been divided. Among the printers, the five men reaching retirement age, there was one hundred per cent union membership. They were old school, tradespeople who had assumed the rightness and inevitability of unions. They had also seen the results. For the administrative staff and among the mail clerks—young, some straight out of school—the union did not exist.
Tommy had paid union dues from the day he started work. It had been a familial obligation.
Nadia, too, was union.
—Those fucking stupid bitches, she spat through her cigarette, referring to the women she typed with. They don’t know a thing.
Tommy looked at her long legs, shivering behind the nylon. She doesn’t shave them enough, he thought, and looked across the roof down to the city. He was falling; he knew it. He was going to lose this job and he had no idea and no inclination for future work.
—What are you going to do?
Tommy didn’t answer. He was watching skyscrapers.
—Hey, I’m talking to you.
He turned around, beckoned for a cigarette. He’d give up again tomorrow.
—Fuck, I hate botters. She handed him a fag. What you thinking about?
—Wondering if Fitzroy will beat Collingwood on Saturday.
Nadia laughed and stamped out her cigarette.
—Bullshit. They’re a pack of losers.
This was the first time in the five years Tommy had worked in the print shop that no-one had organised a footy tipping competition. Whatever factions and animosities, the weekly tipping had been a cement for the workplace. The rushed marking off of teams on a Friday night. Largely it had been organised by the brash Richmond-supporting Sue. She collected the money at the beginning of the year, organised the pre-finals evening bash. Chips and dips, salami and kabana. The wine and the beer. They’d all get drunk. Secretaries and printers, designers and clerks. Even the manager came along. But the football season had been hushed this year. Tommy and John would exchange opinions, team colours worn on a Monday after a successful weekend. But no-one else really bothered.
McIntyre was conducting interviews with staff. John had already gone up.
—What’s she asking?
—Stuff. John said little more. It was likely he would keep his job. He had done his best to impress the stiff Somers and the arrogant Pathis. With McIntyre he was attentive and a little flirtatious. He was also studying the new computer graphics in his own time and with his own money. That put him ahead.
—Yeah, but we don’t all live at home and have Mummy to wipe our arses for us, snarled Nadia.
—What she asking?
—Nothing, Tom, nothing. She’s just asking about our work.
—She say anything about me?
—Nothing, Tom, I told you. They’re just simple questions.
Tommy watched McIntyre talking to Pathis through the glass partition. He had no attention for the flyer he was working on. She was laughing at something Pathis had said. Her tits were quivering. Pathis was laughing, mild, standing above her, black suit.
Fuck her.
McIntyre had asked John Karthidis simple questions. She wanted to know his plans, his ambitions, the nature of his studies. And John gave quick and humorous answers but impressed on her the
strength of his aspirations, the tenacity of his will and the loyalty of his greed. She noticed that his pants were fine linen and fitted neatly around his arse.
She likes a good fast root, thought John. And he smiled at her again.
John Karthidis was going to keep his job. He was making sure of it. Studying computers, Pagemaker and Photoshop. Quark Express. He was getting into it, paving the future. This is what John Karthidis wanted.
Money.
John Karthidis was sniffing the change, it was all in the air. His mother would iron his shirts, press the trousers. Mama, Mama, there’s still a crease on this sleeve. I told you, Jesus, they notice everything. You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?
—Jesus, Mama, you want to ruin it for me?
So he flirted with McIntyre, he was a pal to Somers, he was respectful with the arrogant Pathis. He knew what he was doing. John sat across the desk from McIntyre.
You’ve hardly got tits at all, you ugly bitch.
He nodded his head in agreement.
—I agree, Susan. Can I call you Susan?
I’ll lick your clit, I’ll suck his cock, I’ll lick all your arses. I’ll keep my job, I’ll keep a future.
John stepped out into the mail room. Nadia was at her desk, her arms folded, her computer quiet. She was glaring at him.
—Weak bastard, she mouthed.
John ignored her. I’m going to keep my job, bitch. He walked over to his desk and sat down. Tommy walked over.
—What she asking?
—Nothing, Tom, nothing. She’s just asking about our work.
—She say anything about me?
—Nothing, Tom, I told you. They’re just simple questions.
Tommy nodded and walked back to the layout table, picked up the scalpel and began work again. John punched some buttons on the keyboard and looked over at his workmate.
John could not understand Tommy. The lack of ambition, the Asian girlfriend. And that old fashioned loyalty to the union! John’s parents too had been union, but they had to be, he would argue to himself. But his was a different kind of work. His was a career.
Tommy slid the scalpel down the length of the steel ruler. He cut the bromide and pasted it on the shining sheet.
See, thought John, pushing a button on the brand new keyboard. Control X. Cut. Then Control V. Paste. Tommy, my man Tommy, you’re behind the times.
—I want to see Field of Dreams.
—We’ll do it after the football.
—I don’t want to go to the football. Soo-Ling was sulking, the silence was heavy.
—Okay then, don’t come.
—I won’t.
The line went dead. Tommy put down the receiver.
—Who was that?
Tommy spun around. McIntyre, smiling.
—One of the buyers. Asking after the leaflet.
McIntyre continued her rounds.
Soo-Ling hated the football, not the game itself, but the way the rites excluded her. Tommy had managed to take her to a few matches but she sat still, bored, patiently waiting for the game to finish, and as soon as it did she would begin to walk away, in a hurry, determined. Her face stone.
At the football everyone looked at her face. There was white and there was black, there was Latin and there was European. There was everyone at the football. Except Asian.
She hated the football. Everyone looked at her. As if she was handicapped. As if she was crippled.
Tommy did not see any of this. He thought she was disinterested and it exasperated him. Football became one of those topics they refused to speak about, a language they did not share.
But though she had never liked the game, she had begun to barrack for Fitzroy.
Tommy quickly rang the number.
—Simpsons and Jakovitch. Please hold the line.
Tommy glanced around. Pathis was in deep conversation with Somers in the mail room front office. McIntyre was nowhere to be seen.
—Sorry to keep you waiting.
Tommy interrupted. Karen, it’s Tom Stefano. Is Soo-Ling there?
—Hi, Tommy. I’ll connect you.
McIntyre was walking along the ramp, up from the printing presses, walking towards the main offices.
—Sorry. I won’t go to the footy this weekend. I’ll call you later.
Tommy put down the phone. McIntyre walked past the desk. She said nothing.
That weekend Fitzroy lost to Collingwood by ten goals. Tommy and Soo-Ling went to see Field of Dreams and he hated it and she did not mind it. They smoked a joint walking back to the car in the Shoppingtown car park. Tommy turned on the radio in the car, searched for the footy results, listened, and banged his fist on the dashboard.
—See, isn’t it better we didn’t go?
—No! he screamed at her and she cowered in the passenger seat. They drove along home in silence, the rain falling on the car beating a cruel and erratic tattoo.
6
Hiroshima Day, 1989
This is a conversation that took place between Eva and Soo-Ling on 8 August 1989. It occurred after work in a coffee shop in the city, at the top end of Bourke Street. Eva, who finished work in the factory at three-thirty, had spent two hours walking the shops.
It had been Eva who had rung Soo-Ling. Though friendly, both were still uncertain of the rules that bound their relationship. Eva, a wedding ring on her finger, was embedded now in the Stefano family. Soo-Ling, de facto and an outsider, being Asian, did not fit neatly into the family structure. An assumption had been made that Soo-Ling and Tommy would marry. He’s nearly thirty, he has to marry soon, that was Maria’s verdict. Artie never said a thing about the relationship. It was Dominic who was most concerned. He doesn’t think about the fucking future. Tommy had begun not turning up to the Sunday lunches, making excuses, sleeping in, not answering the phone. Maria was ringing Eva, complaining, worrying.
And Eva, frustrated, having begun work again, still adjusting to motherhood, had rung Soo-Ling.
She is beautiful. That was Eva’s first thought as Soo-Ling walked through the door and into the bar. Eva had arrived first and had been nervous as she took a seat. The bar was full of office workers, men in suits and well-coiffured women. Young. She was conscious that something in her own style marked her out as alien from the rest of the room. Not that Eva was not attractive and not that she did not know how to look after herself. But her dress, her hair, the way she applied her make-up was not in kilter with the crowd. There is no restraint with Eva. Her lipstick was blood scarlet and her light blue dress was tight around her tits and arse. This is a crude description and she does have a crudity that could be described as vulgar. Possibly the men that glanced at her as she sat down had this very thought. Probably the women too. But vulgar is always too easy a dismissal. Eva, I’m sure, would have been by far the prettiest woman in the place.
Soo-Ling came in and took a look at Tommy’s sister-in-law. Her first thought, the first word, was correct. Alive, Eva was alive.
Soo-Ling ordered a glass of wine. Eva, a bourbon and Coke. Soo-Ling had had a hard day of answering phones, sending last-minute faxes waved in her face by harassed managers. Eva had done her three days at the factory, working the machines that worked the dough. She had stripped herself clean from the assembly line and looked fresh, except for her hands. The lines on her hands told a different story to the glow of her face.
—How’s work?
—It stinks. Eva lit a cigarette and took a drink. I can’t wait for Dom to start building up the business. Then I’m through with this factory shit.
—And how’s Lisa?
—She’s fine. Can’t complain at all. I can take her wherever and she sleeps through or just sits happily in the corner. Eva dragged hard on the cigarette. But she tires me out. The thought of going out makes me sick.
Soo-Ling laughed. Hard.
—Me too, me too. It’s been ages since I’ve been dancing. She calculated. Two years. Christ, I think it’s two years.
—
Dom misses it. I can tell.
—Tommy doesn’t talk about it at all.
—Dom says Tommy was never one for dancing.
Eva looked at Soo-Ling’s hands. Smooth hands.
—How is Tommy?
—He’s good. Soo-Ling sipped the wine. Can I have a cigarette?
—Sure. I didn’t think you smoked.
—I don’t.
Soo-Ling struck a match, waited, and lit the cigarette.
—How’s his work?
Soo-Ling noticed a man at the far end of the bar, tall, silver haired, in a leather jacket. He was a client with the firm. She turned back to Eva.
—His work is not good.
Soo-Ling’s hand, a murmur, began to shake.
—Well, it’s tough. I think they’re going to close down the shithole I’m working in. Eva finished her drink, waved at the man behind the counter, beckoned him. It’s all right, I’m not interested in staying on there, but for some of the others … Eva stopped. Well, for some of the others it’s going to be hard.
—Tommy should have left ages ago.
The silver haired man had looked up, begun a smile, then dropped it and returned to his newspaper, pretending he did not recognise her.
—They’re a fucked company, always have been. They’ve given him no training. He’s got to go back to school.
—And do what?
—Computers.
Eva had never used a computer in her life. And she doubted she ever would. She was already bored by them, by their familiarity.
—He’ll get a job. And you never know, they might keep him on.
—He’s not so sure. He reckons this new woman they’ve got, some kind of consultant, she’s out to roll heads.
—What kind of consultant?
—Don’t know. A consultant.
—I can imagine the fucking bitch. Eva snorted and handed a ten dollar bill to the barman. She lightly slapped Soo-Ling’s hand away. My shout. They clinked glasses. And laughed, suddenly girlish. I hate those power bitches. I can imagine what she’s like exactly. Cold, rude. And she hates women.
—Why do you say that?
—’Cause, that’s what they’re like. I know them, mate, I get on the train with them. They don’t look at me, I’m not good enough. Eva laughed again. She probably needs a good root.
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