The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —No, no thanks.

  Her smile fades.

  —Take one, Mum orders in Greek. I shake my head.

  She walks into line exasperated.

  —She’ll think you’re a Liberal, she whispers, then finishes loudly, and we know there is nothing more embarrassing than being a Liberal.

  The people in line, most don’t seem happy about her statement. Except for a grey haired older gentleman with sun roughened blond skin.

  —I’m with you, love.

  My mum votes straight down the ALP ticket for the House of Representatives and numbers her preferences in order for the Senate. We argue over her choices.

  —Put the Greens first in the Senate, you don’t have to vote ALP all the way.

  She refuses. She reminds me that I have forfeited my right to counsel by refusing to vote myself. She puts in her ballots and says loudly to the room, Paul Keating is the best politician since Whitlam.

  —He’s a fucking dog.

  There are cheers.

  Then a silence. There are neighbours here, real ones, not like on television; we don’t really talk to each other. But they know something about us. The cheer ended abruptly, as if at the same time they all remembered the child that killed an innocent man and then cut his own dick off with a knife.

  My mum swirls, marches out. I know she is cursing every single person who voted right wing to eternal hell. She will not countenance conciliation. She hates too much.

  The right wing wins. Dad is back from the pub, early, but even by then the results seem clear. By seven o’clock both my parents are drunk. Dad knew it was coming, but he too seems surprised. My mother simply becomes melodramatic.

  —We’re alone, she says.

  I drink with them. I watch a bit of television, the computers bringing in the numbers. Then I walk down to the creek to blow a joint. The creek is now zigzagged by poles and sand, the construction of new highway. In a year or so there won’t be a creek at all. The sun is dying.

  I feel sad. The roofs of the houses are all black tile. Everyone under those roofs believes nothing of what I do. The cosiness of suburbia is a real thing, people want the comforts. But it bruises the soul sometimes.

  I fucking hate it here. I throw the butt of the joint into the wind.

  I am very aware, as the smoke gets me stoned, that I have no clarity, no vision or even a version of the future.

  Only that I will have to live it through.

  The Macinis are over when I come back. Dad’s in the lounge, sinking piss with Tio Simon; Mum’s cursing the earth and the heavens with Tia Cara. Pinnie’s waiting for me. His real name is Pietro. But he’s always been called Pinnie.

  —What’s up?

  —The cunt has won the election.

  —Right. Pinnie’s not at all political. He voted on the basis of which candidate he’d most like to fuck. Which, on this occasion, meant he voted Labor.

  —What are you up to tonight?

  I look over at him. He’s stoned as well.

  —Party.

  —Where?

  —Thornbury.

  —What kind? Uni people?

  —Some.

  —I’m not going.

  —Suit yourself.

  We go into the kitchen and watch the television. I can’t stand it and I ring a taxi. It takes almost twenty minutes to get through. The woman who answers is breathless.

  —Sorry for the wait.

  —That’s all right. Busy night?

  —I guess a lot of people are celebrating the election. Her voice is stiff.

  —I won’t be doing that.

  She is so overjoyed, her voice turns sweet. I hear the lighting up of a cigarette and, amazingly, wonderfully, we talk for fifteen minutes. We talk of how stupid people are and we talk of how dirty the Liberals and the Nationals are. I realise she is drunk. Finally I give her an address. She promises the first available, tells me she’ll put me on top priority. I find myself blowing her a kiss on the phone. I don’t tell her I did not vote.

  —Where are you going? Mum asks. Pinnie has left, bored by the waiting.

  —To Soo-Ling’s, then a party.

  —You feel like partying, do you?

  She is looking steel at me. I shuffle, I look down.

  —Go. She softens, releases me. Get drunk tonight, curse tonight. She walks out of the room and returns with forty dollars, stuffs it in my jacket pocket.

  —Take taxis tonight. And be careful. Lots of drunk idiots tonight.

  I kiss them all goodbye. Getting into the taxi, I wave to Pinnie. He’s sitting on the Mancinis’ fence, smoking a cigarette.

  —Sure you don’t want to go to this party? I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  —Tomorrow, I promise.

  —Tomorrow.

  Soo-Ling is not pleased to see me. She’s hitting the wine.

  —What do you want?

  I come in, scowling.

  —Fuck you, I whinge, then immediately, Where’s Betty?

  —In bed. Did you vote?

  I’m alarmed by her expression. She waits.

  —No.

  She slaps me. It hurts and I’m shocked. She slaps me again, soft.

  —Want a wine?

  She pours, hands me the glass, kisses me on my wounded cheek.

  —You’ll take anything from me, won’t you?

  I nod, furiously.

  —I love you. I say it matter of fact and find a seat. We watch the television, saying nothing.

  —Theo Louie.

  Betty’s at the door, tiny square blanket in her grip, the smooth silk corner in her mouth. I scoop her into my arms.

  This child is so strikingly pretty, and I think she will grow to be a goddess. The beauty is Asian and Europe, every feature impossible to locate precisely. Even the eyes; yes, certainly Chinese yet also speaking a roundness. The beauty, then, is neither Asia nor Europe. Another country altogether. Betty gurgles and whispers in my ear.

  —The bad people won.

  —Yes. It’s sad.

  She comes and sits between us on the couch, Soo-Ling wraps her arm around her daughter; Betty’s still sucking on her blanket.

  I’m in love with Soo-Ling. I’ve got to be up front about that. In this silence, the meek disturbance of the television, I’m content. Betty keeps winking at me. I wink back.

  The vanquished leader comes on stage to cheers from the Labor Party true believers. To the last he is confident and arrogant. I tune off. Soo-Ling has tears in her eyes.

  He’s just a politician.

  —The best leader since Whitlam.

  I wink at Betty. But she’s only concerned for her mother.

  —Why are you crying, Mummy?

  —Because the bad people won, Soo-Ling sniffs. She hugs her daughter. Hugs her hard. You should go to bed.

  —Can Uncle Louie put me to bed?

  It’s late so I’m firm. No reading. But she snuggles up to me and I smell the tanginess of the child, all soap and jam. She tickles my cheek.

  —You’re prickly.

  —Sorry. I haven’t shaved for a few days.

  She looks up at the ceiling.

  —Who are the bad people? The Liberals?

  I nod.

  —Why are they bad?

  —They don’t like us.

  —Because we’re not Australian?

  —We’re Australian, I answer angrily.

  She laughs.

  —Are they the bad word?

  I smile.

  —Shh. Don’t let your mum hear.

  —Are they?

  —Yeah. What are they?

  She hesitates, large olive eyes stare at me.

  —They’re … Pause. They’re fucked, she whispers and collapses into giggles.

  I collapse with her.

  Soo-Ling looks up at me.

  —She all right?

  I nod and sit beside her. I take her hand.

  —Should I stay? I want her to say yes. But she doesn’t. If anyth
ing, I’ve exasperated her. She swigs the wine.

  —No. I’m going to bed soon.

  I fiddle with fluff on my jeans. There’s a shaft of hurt in my heart. She stares at the television.

  —You should go.

  I know that I will never stop reminding her of Tommy, and because of that I will never be whole to her. She wanted me to be a kid brother and now I’m a man who is trying to take the place of a father. I don’t force anything on her, I obey. That’s all I want to do. There is a tattoo under my heart. It’s her name in Chinese characters. I showed her and she was furious.

  —How dare you put me there.

  She doesn’t understand; anything she does to me, whatever hurt she thinks she can inflict, she will always be there, close to my heart. I promised her, I won’t go. I won’t disappear.

  —How dare you.

  I don’t want to blow Mum’s cash on fares so I hitch to the party, an easy ride down Whitehorse Road into town. The man who picks me up is a large quiet type. I ask about the election and he tells me he couldn’t give a fuck. The shops, the lights, the world speeds by. I relax back in the seat. Bad commercial radio, but I don’t care. The bittersweet songs fit my mood. I wonder how I can protect Betty and Soo-Ling from the world. Everyone else can disappear, they are really not important. That’s brutal but that’s the truth. Like this man driving me into the city. He’s not close at all. Now I can smell him, tobacco and dry sweat. Tomorrow I won’t be able to recall him at all. Maybe just the brand name of the cigarettes he smokes. I sit back, listen to pulp, relaxed. Soo-Ling spinning round my head.

  It is, of course, the strangest of parties. In a matter of hours something has changed. There are people I glimpse from uni, from around the scenes. Yesterday they didn’t care. Politics, we’re over that. Tonight, the world is in shock. You can read it on everyone’s faces. The queers and the hippies, the technoheads and the goth revivalists. Even the politicos, the spitting anarchists getting drunk, they too seem confused. Don’t vote. It only encourages them.

  I wish I’d voted.

  I jump right into the party, slap Carin’s hand, thrust into the dance. I close my eyes, wishing I was high. Dope is all around and I reach out for a roach. Electronic beats and African chants. I suck deeply on the joint.

  The party is a dislocation, even the music does nothing for me tonight. I go from kitchen to backyard. A guy with a beard is singing The International. His voice is a wisp of thinness. He doesn’t know all the words. I go from backyard to kitchen. A girl is splitting up with her boyfriend. She’s giving him heaps, How could you, how could you? Stupid fucking cunt, she screams. He voted conservative.

  —Just for a change.

  He leaves the party. Before it all turns ugly. The mood swings from sadness to something more dangerous. There could be violence. I don’t want to stay.

  Only music can soften us. A big boy, big black T-shirt, stops the tape. The techno abruptly edits. He flicks through CDs, finds what he wants. ‘Kids In America’, not the original, the Clueless version. And it’s a great idea. The crowd swirls into the lounge room and the music is jacked up high. No, we’re not adults, we feel the relief. We’re the kids in America, we’re the kids in America. There’s a new wave coming I tell you.

  —They’re all cunts they’re all cunts in America, sings the big guy. There’s loud cheers. The sweat is pouring off me. This is, finally, union.

  Hoodoo Gurus, mining the past. The cackle of vinyl. ‘What’s My Scene’. Everyone is dancing now. I’m slipping back into the past, a boy, jumping around my bedroom. Tommy is there too. The night is banished, the world is safe again.

  One line stops me. Tell me am I crazy to believe in ideals. I am still, jostled by the furious crowd. I escape, make my way outside.

  A boy, golden hair, beautiful, is rolling a joint, alone on the porch. He smiles at me. I’m confronted by an immense desire simply to kiss him, to taste the salt of his lips. He speaks and the moment goes. I walk out, the street, black night, the fading bass of the music.

  My family once lived around here, but before I was born. Dominic and Tommy spoke of it all the time. I think Dom, in particular, missed the city. This was the world he knew. I try to navigate myself down the dark streets, know the old house is just around the corner somewhere. But I get lost, find myself beneath the freeway that leads to the suburbs and to what I call, tentatively, home. A sweeping bridge offers a walk across the freeway. Above the city, watching the speeding cars below, I think that I can fly. I look down, wonder how long it would take to die from the fall. What would be the consciousness of pain before the extinction? A millisecond, hardly registrable to the mind? Quick and painless.

  I can’t off myself.

  Across the concrete the fascists have scrawled in thick black paint, Asians Out, National Action. I have nothing on me, all I can do is spit on the words. Even as I do it I am aware of how ineffectual my protest is. I shiver, wondering who is lurking in the shadows. I tell myself off: there’s nothing to be afraid of, the world cannot be as dangerous as the television says.

  I start walking back to the party.

  This is the New Age. This is the dawn of a New Millennium.

  This is the New World Order. This is a New Dawn in Australian politics.

  I’m very lonely. I just need one person, one person who I trust, just one person to hold me.

  2

  Girls + boys

  I know the crow is behind me, I’ve known it for a long time, but I’m not scared of it. This is not merely bravado. Tommy called it Satan once, when I was a kid, but I think that was just to scare me. I have no idea what Satan might mean. The crow was something we all heard of from very young, but being the youngest, and by such a loud passage of time, I was protected by my mother’s scepticism. I’d be playing at her feet, lost in the trance of shapes and colour, and above me she’d laugh.

  —The crow, the fucking crow. That’s their excuse.

  My mother believes firmly in God. She’s not going to give up on that, otherwise her life is a waste. The evidence of God is there in her withered hands, her ruined back and her aged face. But she doesn’t believe in heaven or in hell. That’s just make-believe she tells me, this is it. The world and nothing beyond it.

  Back from Greece I went to visit my great-grandmother’s grave in Ballarat, a cold city. From what my father has said it is not the place for her. She hated this earth. The headstone—simple, just her name, Marta Kyriakos, a phrase in Greek—is vanishing with time. Crumbling. I just stood there looking down at the earth. Nothing leapt out at me, not even a crow around. The silence said nothing.

  I’m in the toilet, masturbating. I’ve got the official Collingwood Football Club yearbook open to pictures of Saverio Rocca and Nathan Buckley. I can hear Mum talking to Thea Yiota in the kitchen. I close my eyes, fantasise, and come quickly. I’m sure I’m blushing when I come out of the toilet.

  Tonight I’m taking Soo-Ling out to dinner. I’m slightly ill at ease. Things are uptight between us, over Betty. And over God. Betty asked me about God, at Hungry Jack’s, slowly nipping at her chips. It wasn’t a question I was prepared for.

  —Who’s God, Louie?

  A young couple were kissing in a corner.

  —That’s a hard question, Bet.

  —Why?

  —There’s a lot of Gods.

  She swirled her chip on the plastic tray, then gulped it down and reached for another.

  —Mum says there is no God.

  I don’t answer.

  —Who’s Jesus?

  —Some people say he was the son of God. I reckon he was just a good man.

  —Mum says he’s not real either. Mum says it’s all bullshit.

  —I think he was real.

  The topic changes to The Lion King, the movie I’m taking her to. We finish the burgers and chips.

  Soo-Ling rings up later. I can tell immediately that she’s furious.

  —What have you been saying to Betty?

&n
bsp; —’Bout what?

  —Religion.

  —Nothing.

  Religion is a sore topic with Soo-Ling. There was a lot of Jesus freak stuff around Tommy and the guy he killed. The journos whispered about sects.

  —She keeps asking me about Jesus and God. I won’t let her be fucked up by that.

  —I didn’t say a thing.

  —Listen, she’s my child.

  That truth hurts because it cuts me right out.

  —She’s going to have to learn about it one day.

  Soo-Ling says nothing, just the harsh beat of her breathing.

  —I didn’t say anything, I just told her what I think.

  A cruel laugh.

  —What do you know, Lou, what the fuck do you know? Religion just screws everything up. A stifled cry, then a stark ugly sarcasm. Just ask Tommy.

  —This wasn’t about Tommy.

  —She’s my child, okay, and I’ll teach her my way. You can’t.

  —Agreed. It is not a question, no room for negotiation.

  —Agreed.

  She hangs up.

  Soo-Ling says that I have to learn how to make enemies, that without that skill I won’t be able to go forward. She thinks it is as important as making friends, the ability to sift through people, find those that will deliberately hurt you. She dislikes my inability to ride through conflict. I just clam up, refuse the engagement, at my weakest pretend to agree just to avoid argument. She can’t stand that.

  —Some people will hurt you, believe me, through envy, through cruelty. You trust too easily.

  My mother is totally in agreement. When I got my first tattoo she went hysterical, thought it was outrageous. But when I recently went for my third, she urged me to get an eye on my skin, to ward off evil.

  —You need the eye, she ordered me, everyone is a saint to you. They’ll do you great damage.

  I got the eye, across my left shoulder, but I think they’re both wrong. I want to be liked but what I give out is limited. It is easy for me to trust people because I don’t let them move in deep, they only know my surfaces. The reality is that only Soo-Ling and my family can hurt me. Maybe Betty, but she’s too young, I’m her favourite, she won’t hurt me yet.