The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —What questions?

  —Family questions.

  She looks at me, hard. Her face is suspicion.

  —I don’t think I have much to tell you that you don’t already know.

  —Why did my father leave, why are relations so strained?

  This was not a question I had even thought I wanted to ask.

  —Your father left because our grandmother wished to leave. She took him early.

  —Did you like her?

  Sophia laughed. It was an explosion of heat. The candlelight danced.

  —I couldn’t stand the bitch. She hated me, hated all of us, all of us except Arto. Louie, Louie, the slaps I copped from that bitch, the ordering around. The hatred. My aunt leans over, there are tears in her eyes. She hated me, Louie, hated me. You don’t know what that’s like, to grow up, all of us in that small house in Freo, knowing that the old witch was going to be there, above you, staring you down. My aunt shivered, reclined back into her chair, into her wine. I’m glad she left, but all of us wished she had not taken Arto.

  —Why him? Even in the night’s liquid heat, I felt a shiver.

  —She loved Arto.

  —Why?

  Sophia laughed again, but this time with softness.

  —You’re very young, my child, if you think that your question can have an answer. I don’t know why I love the people I love. My aunt touches my knee. Do you know why you love the people you love?

  I shake my head.

  —My dad said that Nonna Marta’s husband was a murderer.

  Sophia is silent.

  —Is that true?

  Silence.

  —Tia?

  She is angry.

  —Louie, your father had no right to say that. Our Nonno’s first wife died, that’s all I know. I didn’t know the man. He probably was a bastard, they were tough times and it wasn’t easy being a dago back then. She opens her hands to the world. Imagine it, a fucking wog married to a fucking boong. She died. I don’t know how.

  —But …?

  The word shudders.

  —But what?

  —If he killed her, maybe that’s why … I stop. I fall silent.

  —What, Louie? My aunt grabs my hands. What? She is concerned, anxious, she scouts my face and I turn away.

  —Maybe that’s why Tommy died, I whisper. I think there was a curse.

  The words are out. They are silly and they are frightening. Tia Sophia hugs me, close, kisses my face, my hands.

  —No, she whispers. No, there is no curse, Louie. Or if there is, it is simply the curse of life. That’s all. I push away. She won’t let go of my hand.

  —Luigi, listen. I don’t know what my grandfather did. I never knew the man. Maybe he destroyed someone. That is no reason for that bitch to treat me the way she did, no reason for her to take your father away from us. There is no reason for these memories to keep singing in our blood.

  —Look at me!

  I follow her order.

  —I’m not Italian. I’m an Australian woman. I have no time for these stories of curses and of revenge. I don’t listen when the wogs tell me, I don’t listen when the blacks go on about it. She finishes her wine. There are things that belong to the past, Louie. You don’t need to understand them.

  She is crying.

  —Lou, my father and my mother were good people, please believe me. They worked hard, they looked after us, loved us. And she took their son away from them. I’m prepared to believe that Nonna suffered, I can believe that. It was a different world, a cruel world. But she also caused suffering.

  I am crying.

  —I don’t know why Tommy died, I whispered.

  I am howling.

  I visit my grandparents’ graves. They lie side by side, over-grown grass. Twice a year Aunt Sophia and Aunt Theresa clean the graves, chop away at the grass, light the incense and deposit the flowers. I am between visits. The earth is unkempt.

  The headstones are scarred by weather, by rain and sun. The engravings are becoming illegible. The site is Catholic, but there are three Greek words on my grandmother’s stone. They have faded to scratches, I can’t make them out. I cross myself, twice, over both graves. Once I spiral my prayer to the east, and once to the west. The sun is oppressive and I cannot stay long in its weight. I light my two candles and place them across the graves. From nowhere a wind strikes up. My grandfather’s candle shivers, whirls, extinguishes. I light it again and look up at the trees. The crows are watching me.

  —Fuck you, I whisper. I am not on any side.

  The wind is no more. The two candles burn.

  When I get back to the house, Soo-Ling rings.

  —How’s it going?

  —Fine.

  —When are you coming back?

  —Next week. How’s Betty?

  —Good. She misses you.

  —Is she there?

  —No. She’s next-door.

  —Give her my love.

  —Sure. You all right?

  —Yeah. I hesitate. I love you, Soo-Ling.

  —I’ve got to go.

  The line goes dead.

  In the train a young Aboriginal girl is staring vacantly in my direction. She has a clear plastic bottle, a mineral water bottle, which she keeps bringing to her mouth and nose. She is not drinking from it, she’s sniffing from it. When we arrive in the centre of the city she joins four other young girls who laugh and dance on the platform. She notices that I am looking at her.

  —Fuck off.

  I scout record shops, searching for music. I grab a drink, from a bar, I make myself tipsy. I walk around and around and around a block, taunting myself, hating myself. The entry to the porn shop is a narrow case of stairs. I look ahead, pass it one more time, then next time I enter.

  I thumb magazines and video cases. Cunts and cocks. A man in a suit, a man in a tracksuit. The man at the counter, reading the newspaper, looks up and then, bored, looks down. I walk up to the counter.

  —Can I go upstairs?

  The man nods and takes my money. The man in the tracksuit follows me with his eyes. I walk to a white door and a buzzer rings. The man at the counter gives me a nod. I enter darkness.

  These spaces are full of images of men without blemishes: the smoothest of chests, the most defined of muscles. These images make masculinity antiseptic. There is a flight of stairs through a narrow corridor. At the top there is a room, two couches and a television set that is playing a video. I sit on a couch, upright, wondering what I am doing here. The buzzer rings. I catch my breath and I wait. The man in the tracksuit enters and without looking at me sits on the other couch. His stare is fixed on the television screen.

  —You want this big black cock up your arse?

  The first actor is African-American, he is naked save for a policeman’s cap on his head. A white man is sucking on his cock. The white man pulls away.

  —Yeah, yeah, give it to me. I want to suck your black piece of meat.

  The man in the tracksuit is about forty, he is tall and stocky. I want him to look at me. He doesn’t.

  —Fuck me with that black meat.

  The white actor’s face remains clear for me, pale, his eyes are large and blue. The black man’s face is a shadow, I cannot concentrate on him. This is a function of the editing. The white man is face, sucking; the black man is cock, thrusting.

  —I want to taste your white ass.

  The man across from me has his hand in his pants. The slight trembling motions of masturbation. I am aroused, by this stranger, by cock. I try to catch the stranger’s eyes. He is keenly avoiding me.

  —How are you?

  My words shock him. He gets up quickly, moves out of the room. I sit, embarrassed. On the screen the black cock is about to enter the shaved white arsehole.

  —Oh yeah, fuck! The white actor screams the last word as the cock enters his body. I get up and search for the stranger. A corridor of cubicles; a room with chains and graffiti. A corner leads to a shower and a toile
t. The stranger is waiting. I approach him.

  —Hi.

  He looks at me. His eyes are cold, dismissive. He doesn’t answer. I try to calm my voice.

  —Do you want to go into one of the rooms?

  He looks me up and down. I tighten my stomach.

  —What are you into?

  The voice is low, a growl.

  —Whatever.

  —You like getting fucked?

  I shake my head no. He turns his face away, bored.

  —I’ll suck you.

  I’m pleading, I’m angry. He looks me up and down again. Then he walks away.

  These moments are a humiliation that strengthens my resolve to hate. This life, this homosexuality, is an ugliness that I would give anything to erase from my body.

  I sit back on the couch. The stranger also returns. We do not look at each other. We watch the video.

  —Come on my face, man. Come on my face, the white actor pleads. The black actor is pulling violently at his cock, there is a groan on the soundtrack. The white actor closes his eyes shut tight, closes his mouth. Semen falls on his cheeks, on his chest. He grabs the black man’s cock, rubs it across his face, his eyes still shut, licks at the come. He pulls himself as he licks, his come falls on his stomach. The image fades. Another actor, white, a sailor cap and singlet, walks into a cubicle. Three glory holes. He sits on a stool and unzips his trousers, plays with his cock. He looks through the glory hole. Begs.

  —Come on, come on, I want to suck your big black cock.

  A long thin black cock comes through the hole. The white actor begins to suck it.

  The stranger gets up from the couch, walks over to a coffee machine. He has an erection, straining at the polyester. I try to resist his rejection of me but the pain defeats me. I am ugly. I am weak. I have been made zero. The sound of a buzzer. We both turn our heads in the direction of the door. Footsteps. A good-looking blond man, a white shirt and wide deep blue tie. He checks both of us out, takes a seat next to me. I am vindicated.

  On screen, three black cocks through three glory holes. The white actor sucks and pulls.

  —I want to taste black meat.

  The new man looks at me. I’m not sure if I even find him attractive. My aim is to conquer the other man, to make him feel rejection. I get up, walk down the corridor, enter a cubicle. I am in darkness.

  The man in the tie follows. He comes in, turns on the light, closes the door behind him.

  —Hello.

  —Hi. I’m squeaking and I turn the sound into a cough.

  —What do you like?

  I am silent. The man smiles at me. He walks over, he touches my shoulder. I lean forward and begin to kiss him. His mouth tastes of the sourness of the day. I drink from him and he pulls at my T-shirt, unbuttons my jeans. My cock is lamely limp. He smiles and gets on his knees. He sucks and I’m thinking of the black cocks through glory holes, thinking of the hard-on in the trackpants. I’m hard.

  He sucks me, unbuttons his shirt, flips his tie over his back. From his pants’ pocket he pulls out a small brown vial and sniffs. He offers it to me and I shake my head. He caps it and his sucking is now ferocious, taking my cock in, his fingers explore my hole. I close my eyes and think of nothing except the urge to escape from this room.

  I’m soft.

  —Sorry.

  I’m pulling up my jeans, put on my T-shirt.

  —Sorry, I can’t.

  He plays with my dick.

  —You sure?

  I move away from him.

  —Yeah, I’m sure.

  He rests on the floor and winks. I open the door. The other man is there, hand in his pants, waiting. He again refuses to look at me. I turn away and he enters the cubicle. The door closes again.

  The TV room is empty. A black cock comes on a white face.

  Waiting for the train I notice a sticker on the bench I’m sitting on. It says National Action. A caricature of a Chinese man bringing suitcases of heroin and cocaine into Australia. A PO Box address.

  A white businessman, reading the paper, looks over the top of it to where two Aboriginal kids are slouched on concrete steps.

  The businessman looks over at the kids, then to me, raises his eyebrows; there is disgust on his face.

  The train is on time.

  Dad picks me up from the airport. He hugs me, clumsily. I hold onto him. We don’t talk until we are out into the night air.

  —How was it?

  —Fine.

  I put the radio on in the car. He laughs and turns down the volume.

  —Hey, not so loud, right?

  —Sure. I grin and look over at him. He is still handsome. Very grey, his skin coarse, speckled, but he still looks fit, healthy.

  —Everyone says hello.

  He doesn’t answer. Jeff Buckley’s ‘Last Goodbye’. I turn it up.

  My father lets the song play loud.

  —How’s Mum?

  —Anxious. She wanted to ring you every day.

  I laugh.

  —Just like Mum.

  —She’s got a big dinner for you.

  —Good. I’m hungry.

  —Didn’t they feed you right?

  —Of course. But not like Mum.

  I relax back into the seat, enter the city of Melbourne, the flat snatches of dark, the low shimmering lights of the city.

  —I went to Nonna and Nonno’s graves.

  —What for?

  —Seemed right.

  My father brakes as we leave the freeway. He turns to me, strokes my hair.

  —You’re looking good, tanned.

  —I swam a lot.

  I want to ask him many questions. I want to ask him how he feels with all the death in his life. His grandmother, his son, his mother and his father. I want to ask him about love: is Mum the only person he has ever loved? I want to ask him if he feels as strange and confused and angry about my homosexuality as I do. But I also want to ask him something that is not dangerous, to begin an intimacy that is also a contentment. He does it for me.

  —That’s a good line.

  —What?

  —In that song. Dad whispers it. Kiss me out of desire not consolation.

  —Have you felt like that?

  —Sure. Haven’t you?

  I think of Sean, of Soo-Ling. Of some perfect stranger out there, waiting, burning down the cubicles, torching the porno cinemas.

  —Yeah.

  —I’ve felt it often with your mum.

  I listen.

  —I’ve been mad for her, mad for her for decades.

  —You’re lucky.

  He touches my hair, like I’m his little boy again.

  —Maybe you’ll find it too.

  —Maybe. Don’t know. I look out the window. The parties of summer, drunk people in Royal Park.

  —I love you, Dad.

  He doesn’t answer, he plays with my hair.

  After dinner I have my visits to make.

  —Where you going?

  —Just around the corner.

  Mum starts to curse in Greek.

  —You’ve just got back.

  —Give me a sec. I kiss her and leave, her insults fly after me. I walk the quiet streets, everyone is in front of the television, safe in their closets. I grab flowers from the gardens. Two roses, a tulip, some snapdragons. I tear a thread from the bottom of my shirt, wrap it around the stems. I make a bouquet.

  Clive laughs when I hand him the flowers.

  —What’s this for?

  —For you.

  He takes them and heads into the kitchen. The television is playing low and a half empty plate of vegetables lies on the table.

  —Sorry, I interrupted.

  —You interrupted nothing. He has put the flowers in a small purple vase. He places the vase next to a framed photo of himself and his wife. He sits down next to me.

  —How was Perth?

  —All right.

  He laughs.

  —You don’t like talking much.
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  I blush. I tap my knee.

  —What is it, mate?

  I don’t look at him as I speak.

  —Clive, I can’t do this any more. It’s not you. I look at him, try to convince him. I don’t want to do this casual sex thing any more.

  There is silence except for the vapid muttering of the television.

  —It’s not you. I take his hand. He lets me.

  —I understand.

  He gets up, finds some whisky and pours two glasses. He stands above me and we clink.

  On leaving, I grab him, bring him close and kiss him hard. At first he resists. Then he lets me touch him, hold him. Our mouths join, hold, there is no beginning and no end. We kiss for a long time. He pulls away.

  —So long, kid.

  —Can I come again? Please, just to visit.

  He shakes his head. Then stops.

  —Maybe.

  The door closes, and I’m alone and I don’t want to be alone, I want to be with someone I love.

  I hitch a ride on Whitehorse Road and head to Ringwood. At Dom’s I ring Mum.

  —Where are you?

  —Dominic’s.

  —You said around the corner.

  —I’m staying here tonight.

  She’s pissed off, really pissed off.

  —You just got back.

  I make a promise. I’ll take her to the cinema tomorrow.

  Eva is bathing Arthur and Lisa is watching the television. Dom and I go out on the verandah, we smoke a joint. After my time in the west, the Melbourne night seems bitterly cold.

  —How was it?

  —All right. They’re good people.

  —Don’t tell Mum that, she hates them.

  —She doesn’t know them.

  I look over at my brother. He is so very definitely a man; his face has lines and age, it is a very handsome face. I wish I could ask him to sleep with me, and I don’t mean sex, I mean a sleep in which he holds me with his strength. Instead, I just blow on the joint.

  —Why did you go over?

  —I wanted to ask stuff about our family?

  —What kind of stuff?

  I’m suddenly wary, everything’s risky.

  —About Tommy.

  He is silent for a moment, and when he speaks it is of Eva.

  —I’m worried about her.

  —How come?

  —She’s not happy.

  I know this.