by Markus Zusak
THE CEMETERY
There’s a cemetery in my mind and I can see my own grave, on a blue-sky day with cotton clouds and angry sun.
People pass by that grave.
They speak and turn and wilt under the heat of the horizon and the scattered voice of death.
I can see fear churning in their hearts, as they build fences around what they say and believe, and what they
tell the people around them. Only things make it out, onto the heated grass.
I write and hope — to stand in this vision long enough to see a shadow emerge over my grave.
No flowers.
No spoken words.
Only a person.
Remembering.
CHAPTER 4
“This dog’s an absolute embarrassment,” said Rube, and I knew that some things would never change. They would only slip away and return.
After the whole bus stop issue, I got home, and after dinner, Rube and I were taking Miffy, our neighbor’s midget dog, for his usual walk. As always, we wore our hoods over our heads so no one could recognize us, because in the words of Rube, the sight of Miffy was an absolute shocker.
“When Keith gets another dog,” he suggested, “we’ll tell him to get a Rottweiler. Or a Doberman. Or at least something we can be seen in public with.”
We stopped at an intersection.
Rube bent down to Miffy.
In an over-friendly voice, he said, “Aren’t you an ugly little bastard, Miffy, ay? Aren’
t you? Yes you are. You are, you know,” and the dog licked its lips and panted quite happily really. If only he had some idea that Rube was giving him a good mouthful. We crossed the street.
My feet dragged.
Rube’s feet ambled.
Miffy pranced, and his chain jingled next to him, in time with his breathing.
Looking down at him, I realized he had the body of a rodent and the fur of something that can only be called stupendous. Like he’d gone a thousand rounds with a spin dryer. The problem was, we happened to love that dog, in spite of everything. Even that night, when we got home, I gave him the piece of steak Sarah couldn’t finish at dinner. Unfortunately, it was a bit too tough for Miffy’s pitiful little teeth and he nearly choked on it.
“Bloody hell, Cam,” Rube laughed. “What are y’ tryin’ to do to the poor little bastard? He’s gaggin’ on it.”
“I thought it’d be all right.”
“All right, my arse. Look at him.” He pointed. “Look at him!”
“What should I do, then?”
Rube had an idea. “Maybe you oughta get it out of his mouth, chew it up a bit, and then give it to him.”
“What?” I looked at him. “You want me to put that in my mouth”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe you should.”
“No way.”
So basically, we pretty much let Miffy choke a bit. In the end it didn’t sound all that serious anyway.
“It’ll build his character,” Rube suggested. “Nothin’ like a good choking to toughen a dog up.” We both watched intently as Miffy eventually finished off the steak.
When he was done and we were sure he hadn’t choked himself to death, we took him home.
“We should just throw him over the fence,” Rube said, but we both knew we never would. There’s a big difference between watching a dog half-choke and throwing him over the fence. Besides, our neighbor Keith would be pretty unthrilled with us. He could be a bit unpleasant, Keith, especially when it came to that dog of his. You wouldn’t think such a hard man would own such a fluffy kind of dog, but I’m sure he probably just blamed it on his wife.
“It’s the wife’s dog,” I can imagine him telling the boys at the pub. “I’m just lucky I’ve got those two shithead boys next door to walk him — their old lady makes ‘em do it.” He could be a hard man, Keith, but okay nonetheless.
Speaking of hard men, it turned out that Dad did want our help on the upcoming Saturday. He pays us quite generously now, and he’s always pretty happy. A while back, like I’ve said before, when he struggled to get work, he was pretty miserable, but these days it was good to work with him. Sometimes we went and got fish ‘n’ chips for lunch, and we played cards on top of Dad’s small, dirty red cooler, but only as long as we all worked our guts out. Cliff Wolfe was a fan of working your guts out, and to be fair, so were Rube and I. We were also fans of fish ‘n’ chips and cards, even if it was usually the old man who won. Either he won or the game was taking too long and he cut it short. Some things can’t be helped.
What I haven’t mentioned is that Rube also had another job. He left school last year and got an apprenticeship with a builder, despite getting an abysmal result on his final exams.
I remember when he got them delivered.
He opened the envelope next to the slanted, slurred front gate of our house.
“How’d y’ go?” I asked.
“Well Cam,” he smiled, as if he was thoroughly pleased with himself. “I can sum it up in two words. The first word is completely. The second word is shithouse.”
And yet, he got a job.
Straightaway.
Typical Rube.
He didn’t need to work with the old man on Saturdays, but for some re he did. Maybe it was an act of respect. Dad asked, so Rube said yes. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to think he was lazy. I don’t know.
Either way, we were working with ol’ Cliff that weekend, and he woke us nice and early. It was still dark.
We were waiting for Dad to get out of the bathroom (which he’s always likely to leave in a pretty horrendous state, smell-wise), when Rube and I decided we’d get the cards out early.
As Rube dealt the cards at the kitchen table, I recalled what happened a few weeks earlier, when we had a game during breakfast. It wasn’t a bad idea, but I managed to spill my cornflakes all over the deck because I was still half-asleep. Even this week there was still a dried cornflake glued to a card I threw onto the out pile.
Rube picked it up.
Examined it.
“Huh.”
Me: “I know.”
“You’re pitiful.”
“I know.” I could only agree.
The toilet flushed, the water ran, and Dad came out of the bathroom.
“We go?”
We nodded and gathered up the cards.
At the job, Rube and I dug hard and talked and laughed. I’ll admit that Rube’s always good for a bit of a laugh. He was telling me a story about an old girlfriend of his who always munched on his ears.
“In the end I had to buy her some bloody chewie. Otherwise I wouldn’t have my ears anymore.”
Octavia, I thought.
I wondered what story he would have about her in a few weeks’ time, when it was dead and gone and thrown out. Her searching eyes, ruffled hair, and human legs and nice feet. I wondered what quirks of hers he’d have to talk about. Maybe she insisted on him touching her leg in a movie, or liked turning her fingers in his hand. I didn’t know.
It was quick.
I spoke.
“Rube?”
“What?”
He stopped digging and looked at me. “How much longer for you and Octavia?” “A week. Maybe two.”
There was nothing for me to do but continue digging then, and the day wandered past.
At lunch, the fish was greasy and great.
The chips were sprayed with salt and drenched in vinegar.
When we ate, Dad looked at the paper, Rube took the TV guide, and I started writin words in my head. No more cards today.
That night, Mrs. Wolfe asked me how everything was going at school, and I returned to my earlier thoughts that week of whether or not she’d had cause lately to be disappointed in me. I told her everything was all right. For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I’d started writing down, but I couldn’t. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was the one thing that whispered okayness in my ear.
I didn’t speak about it, to anyone.
We cleaned up together, before dinner’s leftovers had a chance to get stagnant, and she told me about the book she was reading called My Brother Jack. She said it was about two brothers and how one of them rose up but still regretted the way he lived and the way he was.
“You’ll rise up one day,” were her second-to-last words. “But don’t be too hard on yourself,” were her last.
When she left and I was standing alone in the kitchen, I saw that Mrs. Wolfe was brilliant. Not smart-brilliant, or any particular kind of brilliant. Just brilliant, because she was herself and even the wrinkles around her aging eyes were the shaded color of kindness. That was what made her brilliant.
“Hey Cameron.” My sister Sarah came to me later on. “You feel like goin’ out to Steve’s game tomorrow?”
“Okay,” I replied. I had nothing better to do.
“Good.”
On Sunday, Steve would be playing his usual game of football, but at a different ground from the local, out more Maroubra way. It was only Sarah and me who went to watch. We went up to his apartment and he drove us out there.
Something big happened at that game.
THE COLOR OF KINDNESS
I’ve thought once in a while about the color of kindness, and I realize that its shades and contrasts are not painted onto a person. They’re worn in.
Have you ever stood in your kitchen and felt like falling to your knees?
I don’t know.
There are very few things that I know for sure.
I know that when I eat fish and chips, my fingers and throat get greasy. The gorgeous ugliness of it slithers to my stomach, but it’s all forgiven when my old man smiles at me, and I wouldn’t trade that grease for anything.
When I look in the mirror, I see the color of awkwardness and uncertainty and longing.
If there was an expert amongst these pages, they’d say that I just want to belong somewhere.
But the truth is, I’m not sure I want to belong.
Not like everyone else.
That’s what scares me.
CHAPTER 5
On the way up to Steve’s, I wondered what the hell my sister Sarah was going to do with her life. She walked next to me, and most men who walked past us watched her. Many of them turned around once they’d gone past and took a second look at her body. It seemed that to them, that’s all she was. The thought of it made me a little sick (not that I can talk), and I hoped she would never end up actually being that life.
“Friggin’ perverts,” she said.
Which gave me hope.
The thing is, I think we’re all perverts. All men. All women. All disgruntled little bastards like me. It’s funny to think of my father as a pervert, or my mother. But somewhere, in the crevices of their souls, I’m sure they’ve slipped sometimes, or even dived in. As for me, I feel like I live in there at times. Maybe we all do. Maybe if there’s any beauty in my life, it’s the climbing out.
Like always, Steve was pretty quick to come down once we arrived at his apartment. He was on the balcony, raised his head, and next thing, he was with us, keys in hand. Steve’s never been late for a single thing in his life.
He chucked his gear in the boot and we left.
We took Cleveland Street, which is always a bit choked, even on Sundays, and the radio was quiet as Steve drove. People cut him off and buses pulled out in front of him, but nothing moved him. He never blew the horn or yelled. To Steve, such things were irrelevant.
It was good for me to be at the ground at Maroubra that day. It was good to watch Steve and his ways. Just like the words I’d been writing made me feel and see things differently, it also gave me a greater curiosity. I wanted to see the way people moved and spoke and the reactions they were given. Steve was a good person to take notice of.
There was a rope fenced around the field and from where Sarah and I stood, I could see Steve approach the other members of his team. Every one of them looked his way and said something very briefly. Only one or two spoke with him longer. He stood at the edge of them and I could tell he wasn’t close with them. With any of them. Yet, they liked him. They respected him. If he wanted it, he could have laughed with them and been the one that everyone listened to.
But it meant nothing there.
Not to Steve.
In the game, though, when he said he wanted the ball, he would get it. When something big was needed, Steve would do it. In the easy games the others would shine, but when things were hard, Steve was there, even if it was on his own.
They got ready and there was a lot of shouting and carrying on from the dressing sheds and both teams ran out. Steve was the captain of his team, and like I thought he would, he spoke a lot more on the field. Never yelling. I could just always see him mentioning something toplayer or telling him what he had to do. Each one listened.
It was three o’clock when the game started.
The crowd was pretty big, with most of them drinking beer or eating meat pies or both. Many of them shouted things out, often losing food or spit from their mouths.
As was often the case, there was a brawl in the first few minutes, which Steve stayed right out of. There was a guy who leaped up and hit him around the throat, and everyone ran in. Punches collided with skin, and fists were cut up on teeth.
Steve only got up and walked away.
He crouched down.
He spat.
Then he got up, took the penalty, and ran twice as hard.
They called his name incessantly. “Wolfe. Watch Wolfe.”
They would send a few guys to take care of him every time, making sure to hurt him.
Each time Steve returned to his feet and kept going.
It made Sarah and me smile, as Steve sliced through them a few times and set up other people to score. By halftime, his team was well in front. It was late in the second half when the importance of the day occurred.
The sky was a heavy gray and it was about to rain.
People were huddling now, in the cold.
A slippery wind was sliding across the air.
Kids kicked a ball and chased it behind us, with tomato sauce glued to the corners of their mouths, and scabs on their knees.
Steve was lining up a shot at goal from as far out on the field as you could get, right where the opposition supporters stood.
They mocked him.
Swore at him.
Told him he was useless.
As he moved in to kick the goal, a can of beer was thrown at his head. Beer flew out of it and the can slapped my brother on the side of his face.
He stopped.
Mid-step.
He froze.
In no rush, he bent down, picked up the can, and studied it. He turned to the group where it came from, who were quiet almost immediately, and without looking at them again, he gently placed the can on the ground, out of the way, and lined the kick up again.
The crowd watched as Steve moved in and kicked the ball.
It rose up and soared through the posts, and Steve turned to face the people at his side. He stared at them for a few seconds, then returned to the game, leaving the beer can, half-full, half-empty, and halfarted as it lay abandoned next to the sideline.
As I watched the end of the incident, I couldn’t help but notice that Steve’s stare wasn’t angry in any way. If anything, it was amused. He could have done anything he wanted. He could have said anything. He could have spat at them or hurled the can right back at them.
But that was something they could have done just as easily.
There was no way they could have walked in again, taken the shot, put it straight through the middle, and then stared as if to say, “Well? Have you got anything else for me?”
That was how he beat them.
That was how he won.
He did the only thing they weren’t capable of themselves.
When I realized that, I couldn’t help but laugh, which made Sarah do the same, and we
were the only people laughing in the whole ground. For everyone else, the game went on.
The game went on, the rain held off, and Steve’s team won by a country mile.
When it was over, he said his good-byes and that maybe he’d go for a drink with the other players, though everyone knew he wouldn’t. We were going home.
There was more silence in the car than anything else, and I don’t know about Steve or Sarah, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the thrown beer can. I kept seeing the ball soar through the posts and the content stare on Steve’s face. Even when Sarah reached for the dashboard and sang with the radio, it was the memory of that stare that spoke loudest through my mind. His face was the same now as he drove, and in some strange way, I think Steve was also thinking about it. I was even expecting him to smile, but he never did.
Instead, we were all pretty quiet, until Steve dropped us home.
“Thanks,” Sarah said.
“No worries. Thanks for coming.”
As I was about to get out of the car myself, Steve stopped me.
He stopped me with, “Cam?”
“Yeah?”
He looked into the mirror and I could see his eyes as he talked to me.
“Just hang on a minute.”
This had never happened before, so I was unsure of what to expect. Would he tell me what the stare had meant, or how it felt to make those people look so stupid? Would he give me a guide on how to be a winner?
Of course not.
Or, at least, not like that.
His eyes were soft and honest as he spoke and it was strange for me to be feeling this way about Steven
He said, “When I was your age, there were these four other blokes who beat me up. They took me round the back of a building and beat me up for some reason I’ll never know.” He stopped a moment and he wasn’t emotional in any way. He wasn’t telling me some sob story about how other kids hated him and this was why he’d turned out the way he did. He was just telling me something. “When I was lyin’ there, all crumpled up, I vowed that each one of them was going to get his share of what they all did to me. I went over it in my mind and thought about what I wanted to do. Every morning, every night; and when I was ready, I went to them, one by one, and beat the absolute crap out of them. By the time I’d got to three of them, the last one tried to make peace.” The eyes sharpened a little, remembering. “I bashed him too, even better than the other three.” He stopped.
