The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  He looks really tired, really sad, and I ask him if he wants anything, maybe he should go back to bed. He shakes his head. We are still in the dark and there’s silence and then he says, What if she hadn’t been in the car accident, Sean, what if she didn’t get that money to help her poor parents? They’d still be in jail. And I guess he’s right. That’s when he asked me, Do you believe in evil, Sean?

  I don’t know. Don’t know what that would be. I guess I don’t because I don’t believe in God, don’t believe in anything. Then he stood up, touched me on the shoulder and he pointed to the television. What we just watched, all of it, especially the woman selling God, that’s evil, Sean, that’s what it looks like. All of it, all of it was evil. Then he tells me I’m a good boy and he tells me that he feels sorry for me and he tells me he’s glad his time is coming to an end. Then he shuffles off, back to bed.

  And I sat alone in the darkness for a long while. Then I turned on the television again.

  19.

  Trev, pissed, back from work, has found this journal and has been reading it. He’s cracking up, tells me he’s been laughing for hours. You’re a bad poofter, mate, he said to me, you’re so fucking hung up about sex. Sex is nothing, he said, laughing, means absolutely nothing at all. Just enjoy it. It means shit, don’t you get it, it’s just zero. He said I’m too uptight.

  I am too uptight.

  I hate the cunt. I hate the cunt. I hate the cunt. I hate the cunt. I hate that fucking prick. I’d like to kill the prick. I’d love to kill the prick.

  He’s right. Sex, being a fag, being straight, all of it, it’s nothing. It’s nothing, it don’t mean nothing.

  2

  Freedom ’97

  There’s a new version of ‘When Doves Cry’, it’s always on the radio, sung by a young boy, sung gospel. I’ll always prefer the original but whatever version, it’s a great song. I’ve loved the song since I was a kid in primary school. Such a long time ago.

  Spring is around the corner, it’s late August, but I can’t get excited. Collingwood aren’t in the finals, I haven’t touched the thesis for weeks. And Sean, he’s dead.

  Tommy dead, Sean dead. I’m becoming a veteran of suicide.

  Dad’s retiring. Finally. He’s still a strong man but the work is beginning to kill him. He and Mum, they’ve talked it over with Soo-Ling, they’re going on a holiday to Europe, they’ll take Betty with them. Some time next year. They want to go to Jerusalem as well. Since Tommy offed himself, Mum has got more and more religious. She wants to see the holy sites. Dad will go just to be with her. That’s Dad.

  I cried hard when I heard Sean was dead, that he cut his throat. I heard it from two queer students at uni, in the coffee lounge. They didn’t know him either, they just knew him as that good-looking drug-taking cool guy. The guy that everyone wanted to fuck.

  I didn’t cry then, I cried later. I found out when Tommy died that my tears make sense only in private. Maybe, just maybe, that’s where women are different from men: they know in their guts that boundaries are fluid. Mum, who is a cynic, who hates the Church, she can go back to God. Dad can’t. He’s put everything into work. I’m scared for him when he retires. He doesn’t know stillness.

  Dad drove me to the cemetery to find Sean’s grave. He didn’t ask questions, just asked if I wanted a lift. It’s a real simple grave, there are flowers. It was an emptiness, and I couldn’t feel. I didn’t even know the guy. It’s a little obscene that I’m crushed so much by someone who was only fantasy.

  Fuck that! He was flesh and blood, he had a smell. He had a laugh.

  On the way back, in the car, Dad asked me who he was.

  —A friend.

  —From uni?

  —Nah. He wasn’t at uni.

  —Were you lovers?

  The question stopped me. I shook my head. I can’t remember what else was said.

  Whatever he’s done, Artie Stefano, my father, he will die knowing he was a good man. He has maintained a love, he’s adored my mother for the length of a life. He’s raised three kids, he’s buried one; he never shut us out. There must have been temptations, there must have been a fiery urge to resist responsibility. I don’t know who made the rules for my old man, maybe he made them for himself. I want, one day, what he has. His astounding faith in the soundness of living.

  We also visited Tommy’s grave. It is already ageing, there are deep cracks along the stone. I think both Dad and I were shocked at how quickly a death can turn to history.

  Soo-Ling and Betty are at Apollo Bay, for a fortnight, staying with Nadia and her new girlfriend. Melbourne is silent. I watch film after film after film which I take from work, staying in my room, playing with the cat, not wishing to talk to anyone. All of clubland now simply makes me sick. I’m tired of young faces, especially beautiful faces.

  I nearly took some smack the other day, it seems that it’s everywhere. I haven’t touched it since high school. I didn’t take up the offer. The time has passed.

  I can still hate Tommy, and I may end up hating Sean for this as well, forcing me to live.

  The hitch to Apollo Bay was spectacular. I took the train to Geelong and set off from there. A young Italian guy in a white Porsche picked me up at Anglesea. As the road followed the jagged cliffs, as we sped along, I felt as if we were flying. He played Natasha Atlas, Faith No More.

  —You Italian too? he screamed over the music, across the ocean.

  —Long way back.

  —You still look it.

  He was visiting his girlfriend in Lorne.

  —You got a girlfriend?

  —No, I answered.

  —A boyfriend? He laughed at my surprise. I’m just asking. I like gay people.

  —I’m a poofter, I replied, but I can’t stand gay people.

  He laughed and turned down the radio.

  —It’s different for you. For me, it’s just fun. You should hear the stuff I hear in the shop. I’ve got one guy working for me and all he seems to do is fuck. I mean, every night a different guy. And sometimes two or three. Fucking amazing. I reckon my dick would fall off if I fucked that often.

  I looked at his hands, on the wheel. Smooth and dark, elegant, with rings. He began talking again.

  —This one guy, Greek, pretty good looking, I didn’t even realise he was a fag, I found him going down on one of the customers in the change room. And they weren’t worried about being discreet. You could hear them going for it through the whole fucking shop. I got rid of him. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have minded what he did on his lunch break, but not on my fucking time.

  He turned back to me.

  —It’s different for you, you might not want to end up like that. He smiled, widely, friendly. It’s like being a wog, I reckon. You can be a wog but you don’t have to act like a wog. You can be a poofter but you don’t have to act like one.

  I was smelling the new leather of the car. I took a chance.

  —You act like a wog.

  He turned up the music. He wasn’t offended, he was laughing.

  —Yeah, mate, he cried out, but you see, I don’t mind being a wog. I like it.

  We entered Lorne, the sun came through the clouds and it gilded the ocean. We entered Lorne singing ‘Falling To Pieces’.

  Soo-Ling and Betty picked me up from a cafe in the middle of town. Betty rushed to my arms and I lifted her, buried myself in her hair, hugged her so tight that she squirmed from under me. Soo-Ling gently kissed my cheek.

  A strong wind, a savage wind, was blowing along the bay. I dug my hands deep into my pockets and we climbed a hill, moving away from the sea. Betty danced in front of us.

  —It’s good to see you.

  —You too, replied Soo-Ling.

  And we fell to silence.

  I had come up for the weekend but decided, immediately, to stay the week. The house was new, roomy, it sat on the hill and from the verandah you could see the bay stretch to the gaping infinity of the south. The white noise of Melbourne ha
d disappeared. I was not forgetting Sean but the world around him no longer seemed to matter, was no longer making me angry. Nadia’s lover, Sally, was in her forties, red haired and red faced, plump and tough, and she welcomed me to the house. She chain smoked, drank wine all day, and she laughed at everything. She adored Betty. On our first night the conversation came around to children. Sally, drunk, was berating Nadia.

  —Get yourself pregnant, love. I’d like a kid.

  —Get pregnant yourself, retorted Nadia.

  —Too late for me.

  —Who’s going to be the father?

  Sally pointed to me.

  —He’ll do. He looks all right, got good genes.

  Nadia winked at me and I winked back.

  —He’s too young to be a father. This from Soo-Ling.

  —Oh fucking bullshit! roared Sally. My old man was eighteen when he got me mum pregnant.

  —I’d like to be a father, I said.

  Soo-Ling got up, excused herself, said it was time for bed.

  Sometimes it hits me—it did at that moment, watching her leave without looking at me—I realise that it is not that Soo-Ling is angry at me, or that she doesn’t care for me, but that I must remind her of Tommy. And no matter what her love for me is, he is dead and I’m alive and that is not what she wanted. I felt my youth profoundly at that moment. The sea was crashing below us, I regretted the journey I had taken.

  On the third night we went to a local pub. We had a huge meal, we drank heaps, and we all noticed the young woman who was working behind the bar. She was pretty, her face shone and she moved with the quick sexy glide of a cat. She liked us and by the end of the evening, her boss drunk, she was with us, sharing a drink and Sally’s smokes. Her name was Melissa, she was from Sydney and working the winter in Apollo Bay before heading back to a boyfriend in Melbourne. She entertained us with rapid-fire stories from her life. Next year she was going back to college.

  —What do you study? I asked her, and she screwed up her face, said, Marketing, and then laughed.

  —Boring, I know, but a girl needs a job, right? She raised her eyes and glanced around the pub. I don’t want to do this the rest of my life. Not unless I can own it. She lowered her voice. These old drunks, they’re all so boring. Most of them are unhappy and I think that’s sad. They talk more to me than they do to their wives or their friends. Don’t you reckon that’s sad?

  —That’s life, answered Sally. That’s why I never got married.

  Melissa cocked an eyebrow.

  —And because you’re a dyke. She slammed hard down on the last word. And she quickly followed with, My mum’s a dyke.

  She butted out her cigarette and got up.

  —Better get back to work. I like you all. Come again, please. I mean it. She touched my hand and she grinned. I can’t wait to get back to the city.

  On her way back to the bar she paused a moment to play with Betty’s hair.

  The week, as I remember it, was all the beach, the house and the pub. Every afternoon I’d take Betty for a long walk. She enjoyed the pier, watching the old men fish. On one of those days the wind came in so strong I held her hand tight, scared she would blow away. A soft rain began and we headed back, stopping to watch the fishermen lifting cages of fish from the hull of a boat. They were little sharks, petit rubbery carcasses, not at all threatening. It was cage after cage after cage, all the silver fish squirming. Betty covered her eyes. She stamped her feet.

  —No. I don’t want to see them die. Betty’s not a screamer, not unless she is genuinely frightened, so I knew her agitation was real. I hoisted her on my shoulders, walked to the pub, and Melissa whispered that she’d organise her a free drink and chips.

  —What’s she drink?, she asked me.

  —Coca-Cola, shot back Betty.

  —You want one?

  —Nah, I said, I don’t really like Coke.

  —You too, eh? She handed a glass to Betty. She turned back to me.

  —It’s funny, you know, whenever I drink a Coke I always think of the Antichrist. I think it’s the colour or something, sulphur burning and shit.

  —What’s an Antichrish?, Betty stumbled.

  —Antichrist, helped Melissa. Do you know who Jesus was?

  Betty looked towards me for assistance. I shrugged my shoulders.

  —Do you, Bets? I prodded.

  Betty nodded slowly.

  —People believe in him. He died, long ago.

  —That’s kind of it, laughed Melissa. Well, Jesus drank wine and the Antichrist drinks Coca-Cola.

  Betty smiled, satisfied, and started eating her chips.

  I chatted to Melissa. The pub was empty except for two drunk old men, sitting at the bar. They whispered to each other, occasionally glancing over at us. If by chance I caught their eye, they would dart their gaze away. Above us all a television played cable, Ricki Lake. She was interviewing welfare recipients, all single mothers, who were defending themselves from the vicious denunciations of the audience. One of the old men, coming back from the toilet, shook his head at the screen.

  —Fucking black bastards. He called back to the bar. The nig-nongs are the same all over.

  Most of the women interviewed for the show were black.

  —Shut up, Geoff. Melissa mouthed, Sorry, at us.

  —I’m right, aren’t, I, Joe? he pleaded with his friend, who turned around, looked at us, said, You’re right, and went back to his drink.

  For the first time the old man looked directly at me.

  —Just like our boongs, fucking useless cunts. His eyes dared me. He turned and walked clumsily back to the bar, muttering loudly.

  —We should have finished them off long ago. Useless bloody country, this one. Boongs controlling everything, fucking Vietnamese everywhere, and we’re selling all of it to the slanty eye. This isn’t Asia, he threatened.

  These are, for me, and I suspect for most people, moments of fear. Inevitably. I’m the foreigner here and for whatever reason this old man distrusts me. But he’s sick, a hopeless drunk, and I know he can’t really hurt me. And there’s Betty, who’s looking at him curiously. If I let this moment go, I’d be ashamed, remembering it, for the rest of my life.

  I got up. Melissa watched me carefully. I walked up to the old man.

  —Excuse me, sir, but I just want to say one thing. I mean you no disrespect but my niece is half Chinese as well as being an Australian. As I said, I mean you no disrespect but all I want is to sit back with my niece and have a drink, and I don’t want to hear talk of hate. Is that all right, sir, if I ask you not to do it in front of the both of us?

  I think it had to do with two things, the way his face softened: the use of the word sir and the hint of anger in my voice. I ignored the other man who was younger.

  —Son, replied the old man, I meant no harm.

  Melissa, washing glasses, was looking over to us.

  —They even say my nana was a black, the old man offered. Or half one.

  I looked at his face. His skin was wretched, the veins protruded.

  —See, I didn’t mean everything I said, mate. He pointed at the television. It was that bloody thing that set me off. The old man signalled Melissa. Two pots, love. For me and the young man. He drank at his beer hungrily and I watched the screen.

  —Why is this on? I ask Melissa. Why are we watching crap American television? Why can’t we watch crap Australian TV?

  —It’s cable shit, man. She sneered. You got a complaint, tell the boss. Personally I’d prefer a jukebox.

  I thanked the old man for the beer, he refused money, and I walked back to Betty. He continued talking to me, talking about a Chinaman friend, telling me he really liked the Greeks and the Italians.

  —Wonderful people. He chuckled. Got to watch those Greek sheilas, eh? They’re never satisfied. He smiled towards. Betty.

  —How are you, little girl?

  Betty stared at him.

  —I’m fine, she said curtly. Then added, Thank you.
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  I turned my back to the old man and winked at the child.

  —You don’t like him, do you? I whispered.

  —He was rude.

  —Yes, but he said he was sorry.

  She sucked on her straw.

  —I’m going to Greece, she announced.

  —I know. With your giagia and your nonno.

  —But first I’ll stay a little with Nana and Pop so they don’t get jealous.

  I smiled at her seriousness.

  —What’s the Chinese names for your nanna and nonno?

  —We don’t talk Chinese. They’re like you and Mum, they talk Australian.

  She slurped through the straw, scattering bubbles into her drink. When we left, the old man shouted his farewells.

  The water is freezing. I’m up to my knees and shivering and all around me the hills form a cradle for the bay. Seagulls are feeding. Even bitterly cold I could stay here, by the water, for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t be missing a thing.

  Soo-Ling finally asked me about Sean. We were cooking pasta in the kitchen.

  —How did he do it?

  —He cut his throat.

  She chopped furiously at the vegetables. I watched her hands.

  —I’m so very sorry, Lou. You know that. She stopped her work and came over and kissed me. I wished to stay in the kiss but she pulled away.

  —I wish you would let me kiss you. I had my face turned away from her as I spoke.

  —You don’t want to kiss me.

  —I do.

  She began to laugh.

  —Seriously, Lou, you’re ridiculous.

  I took her hand and pulled her to me. I kissed her hard on the mouth and we were both shocked. I was startled at the rush of a desire on experiencing the delicateness of her mouth. She pushed me away.