The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —Fuck off, you bastard.

  She was shaking. I was stunned, still.

  —Don’t ever try that again.

  —I love you, Soo-Ling.

  Her voice was exhausted.

  —You’re a child, you don’t know what love is.

  I hate her. Her age, her experience, her refusal to believe my sincerity.

  —I love you, I repeat.

  She looks at me.

  —I don’t love you.

  The sky is black with crows.

  I left, ran into night, said nothing to anyone, not even glancing at Betty who cried after me. I got drunk in the pub.

  —It’s closing time. Melissa had her hand on my arm. You should go home.

  —One more, I pleaded.

  —You’re out of money, remember. She poured me a shot of whisky, mindful of the boss who was snoozing by the fire.

  —You should go home.

  —I can’t.

  —Do you want to stay at my place?

  I nodded. We walked clumsily the short distance to her flat.

  How did we make love? By beginning in the dark, laughing, depending on touch. I stripped her slowly, rubbing my crotch gently against her leg. I touched as much of her as I could, entranced by the body of a woman. I kissed her mouth and her neck, her nipples and her shoulders. Her cunt, her thighs. She forced my head down and rubbed my face hard on her body. I worked at her cunt, with my tongue, my lips, my hair, the force of my chin. My face wet with her I grew excited; I chewed her tits, my rhythm against her became faster and she pulled down on my jeans. I was inside her.

  That’s all I wanted, to be inside her. I smelt of her. I closed my eyes and her moans were also the sounds of the sea. I came, shuddering, slamming my body hard into her. She kept me inside her, I opened my eyes and she was smiling at me. She kept me inside her till there was only softness and then she closed her eyes and began to masturbate. I remained raised above her, watching her approach climax, lowering my face, whispering to her, kissing her. She came, sweating, the mildest of moans.

  After we fucked, I held her, we giggled together, her fingers played with mine.

  In the morning I go to piss and am overwhelmed at the need to masturbate. I think of the first thing that will arouse me, think of pornography, a white man going down on a black man, I think of footballers in the showers, and I come quickly. Melissa is still asleep and I make us bacon and eggs. As I bring the plates to the bedroom the phone rings. It is her boyfriend, and as they talk she fondles my balls, I am stroking her hair. We hardly talk over breakfast, sit close to each other, and she puts on a tape, George Michael Listen Without Prejudice. She sings softly to ‘Freedom’.

  —You probably think this is daggy, right?

  —Why should I?

  I too start singing along.

  —I used to have such a crush on George Michael. During primary school.

  So did I.

  —How old are you, Mel?

  —Guess?

  —Twenty.

  —Close. I was born in 1975.

  —What month?

  —I was born the eleventh of November. Mum’s contractions started when she heard Gough Whitlam got the sack. That’s my middle name, Whitlam. She laughs, loudly. Don’t tell many people that one.

  I’m glad that I am one of them.

  —Anyway, she continues, the important thing is I’m a Scorpio and that Scorpios are good in bed.

  We both giggle, we both agree. She traces my tattoos, stops at the one beneath my heart.

  —That Chinese?

  —Yeah.

  —What’s it say?

  —Love. I answer. Soo-Ling, Betty, Tommy, Sean. It says everything.

  I leave after breakfast, after coffee. I leave without washing, still smelling of her, of her cigarettes.

  The house is silent when I return. Sally and Nadia still asleep. I knock on Soo-Ling’s door.

  —Where the fuck have you been? She is smiling, she is not angry.

  —I was safe.

  She laughs.

  —Good. You’re lucky then, safe is hard.

  —I know.

  I sit on the bed, take her hand, trace my finger along her palm.

  —Sorry about last night.

  —Me too.

  —I’m going back today. Back to Melbourne. Give you some peace.

  She rubs her face into my chest.

  —Will you be all right?

  —Sure. I grin and get up.

  There is a sadness between us, a sadness that won’t go away.

  Betty’s watching television in the lounge. My bedding sits neatly folded on the couch, reproaching me. She refuses to look at me, turns away from me, as I curl up beside her.

  —I’m sorry, Bets.

  Nothing.

  —Aren’t you going to forgive me?

  —No.

  —I love you, Bets.

  —What?

  I look at the cartoons, the crackle of TV noise.

  —You pushed me away, as you were leaving.

  —I’m sorry. I was an idiot.

  —I was crying.

  I nervously brush hair away from her cheek. She lets me. I reach over and hug her and she is immediately in my arms, in my lap, her short arms around my neck. I take her in: smell her, touch her, kiss her, love her.

  We take a walk to the beach and we sit on the shore. It is cold and I envelop her in my jacket. She is watching the seagulls.

  —They’re noisy.

  I make fists in the sand, feel the coarseness, the wetness. A crow flies low, and above us the seagulls scatter. Betty watches the path of the black bird.

  —I like those birds, she offers.

  —I’m going to go home tonight, Bets.

  —Why? She is petulant.

  —I’ve got things to do in Melbourne. Work.

  —Is it because you had a fight with Mummy?

  —No. We made up.

  —I don’t like it when you two fight.

  She bangs her fists in the sand, spraying yellow dust. She laughs, stops and looks at me.

  —Mummy said you are sad, Uncle Louie, because your friend died.

  —Yes, I am.

  —Did you love him?

  —Yes.

  —Mummy says that when two men love each other then it’s exactly the same as a man and a woman.

  Oh, Betty, I want to say, if only it were that simple.

  —Yes, Bets. That’s right.

  She leans closer into my jacket.

  —How did he die?

  —He killed himself.

  We are silent, the seagulls are back, screeching.

  —Like Daddy?

  —Yeah, like Daddy.

  She is tight around me.

  —What was Daddy like?

  This is the first time the question has been asked. The crow is still flying. I look at it as I answer.

  —He was a real good man, handsome. I realise that Tommy is fading, that he is no longer clear before me. I am dependent on the clarity of photographs to describe him. He could be very sad.

  —Why?

  —I don’t know.

  She crawls out from the jacket, stands and points to the horizon.

  —Look, a ship! She is excited, patient, as she stares into the ocean.

  —I miss your dad, Bets.

  She does not turn around.

  —Mummy was crying about Daddy last night.

  —How do you know?

  She simply shrugs.

  —’Cause.

  —’Cause, eh? I grab her and we laugh and fall onto the sand. She squeals as I tickle her.

  We walk past a church. Betty stops and peers through the gate. I walk up beside her.

  —Do you want to light a candle for your daddy? For my friend Sean?

  She looks up at me.

  —Will they know?

  I don’t answer her. We walk in and the hall is empty and dark. I look for candles but I can’t find any. I realise that this Prot
estant church is unfamiliar.

  —Where are the candles?

  —Sorry, Bets, they don’t have any.

  —I want to light a candle. She is scowling, she is insistent.

  We buy two long red candles in town and we walk back towards the sea. I plant them in the ground, in the park, protected behind the solid girth of a fierce oak tree. Betty watches me.

  —But this isn’t a church.

  —That doesn’t matter.

  I give her the matches and allow her to light the candles.

  —This is for Tommy, I whisper, this is for Sean. And then I ask a God in whom I have no faith to look after, to protect, to make safe this little girl.

  —I’ve seen Daddy.

  We’re climbing the hill towards home.

  —Where?

  —In the garden, at Nan’s place in Ballarat. He was a little boy and he was playing with me. Then he just left. She is holding my hand.

  —How did he leave?

  —He just wasn’t there. She carefully explains it to me again, with an exasperated patience. We were playing, he was there, and then he wasn’t. She lets go of my hand and skips ahead of me. She turns, faces me.

  —Uncle Louie, do you believe in God?

  She is serious, intent on searching my face.

  —No, I answer, I don’t believe in God.

  She starts skipping again, grabs my hand.

  —I don’t believe in God too, she says.

  —Maybe you will one day.

  She is silent.

  —Do you believe in ghosts? She goes quiet.

  —Yes, I answer, above me, around me, the crow. I believe in ghosts.

  Again, she’s skipping.

  —Good, she says. So do I.

  There is no traffic, no-one on the road. I walk along the edge of the water. I am confident that I will find a lift. Above me the clouds are dunes of greys and white in the sky; behind them the pale silhouette of the sun. The sea growls, the light shivers green and silver and blue. The sky is free, there are no seagulls, no machinery, no shadows from the crow. I walk out from the town, alone, with the wind a feeble pummelling against me. The gentle spray of the sea. I wish to keep moving, not to return to Melbourne, I’m requiring no destination. I simply wish for motion, the struggle against wind and sea, to keep moving and to never stop.