Barracuda

by Christos Tsiolkas

  �Nah, mate, thanks, but I should get home.�

  Morello�s easy grin was widening, becoming a smirk. Dan wished he could wipe it off his face. He wanted to get away from him, from all of them; he�d come to farewell Frank Torma, that was enough. He didn�t want anything to do with that life anymore.

  �Mate, I think you should come with me and see the house.� Morello�s eyes were still bright, but his mouth was set in a thoughtful serious line. �After all,� he added, �a third of it belongs to you.�

  Dan struggled to make sense of the words. �What are you talking about?�

  �Come with me, I�ll explain.� Morello was holding tight to the upturned collar of his jacket, protecting himself from the wind now beginning to howl down the sidestreet he was turning into. �Come on, my car�s here. I�ll tell you everything.�

  Morello�s car was a brand-new Audi that smelled of leather. The roads were heavy with evening traffic, outside was dark and cold, but Morello had put the heater on and the car was soon warm. Morello could not stop talking. Dan let the words flow over him, let them run around the cabin of the car.

  Morello was railing against the snobbishness of their old school, abusing Taylor and Wilco. He couldn�t stand them, he kept repeating, he couldn�t bear to be with them.

  �You were a man back there,� he said, glancing quickly at Dan, �going up to apologise to that prick�that was a brave thing to do. Those fucking people just live in their own world, they don�t have time for people like us�wogs like us,� he added with a laugh. �I tell you, Kelly, it�s been years since we were at school but they still fall into using surnames, because that�s what you did, the surnames mattered. I was so glad when I heard you�d punched out that prick, and I wasn�t the only one. There were a few of us who high-fived when we heard what you did to Taylor.�

  For the first time since he�d got in the car Dan opened his mouth, found the words. �What I did to Martin was one of the biggest mistakes of my life�no, the biggest. I regret it every day.� Dan wanted to escape from the clammy claustrophobic heat; he just wanted to be out in the clean night air. �You were a prick too, Morello, let�s not forget.�

  �We were all pricks,� said Morello, merging the car into the long queue of traffic waiting to turn right onto Barkers Road. �You too, Kelly, bloody Barracuda�you wouldn�t even look at me at school. You�d just look right past me like I didn�t exist.�

  The throbbing at his temple, the incessant sound of the heater, the sweat under his collar; Dan needed to be out of the car, to be in open space.

  He was about to say that to Morello, but before he could speak, Morello said, �You and I were kids, Danny�we can�t blame ourselves for all that. We were just trying to survive it, weren�t we? You wanted to be the best swimmer in the world and I walked up that fucking drive for six years promising myself that today, today, I wasn�t going to look like a poor wog, I wasn�t going to smell like the poor wog whose mother worked in a fish-and-chip shop, whose father never had an education. I did that for six years, Danny: I lied about my father and I lied about my mum, I never let anyone come over to my place so they wouldn�t have to meet my parents, so they wouldn�t know who I really was. I�ll never forgive myself for that.�

  The boyish charm had gone. The man was glaring out into the night, his teeth gritted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  �We were kids, mate, we were just kids.� It was only when John breathed out that Dan let himself exhale as well.

  And there it was, Frank Torma�s house, untouched, unchanged. There was the dark narrow passage, the small bedroom at the front, his bedroom, the one Danny had always slept in. The crammed tiny living room, the small kitchen out the back; the fridge was new but the benchtops were the same. One cupboard door was hanging off its hinges; the stovetop was black from the congealed ancient grease.

  Dan went back to the first bedroom, his room. It was exactly as he remembered it, except the dusty photographs which had once hung next to the door had been placed on the bedside table, as though Coach needed to be closer to them, had wanted them to be the first images he awoke to and the last things he saw at night.

  Dan was there, a young boy, fourteen, in brand-new Speedos with a towel around his shoulders and a smile a mile wide. The boy seemed about to leap out of the frame, having tasted victory. There he was, framed in the Coach�s bedroom, forever unchanged. There was another photograph, of another young swimmer, fair-haired and smaller than Danny; and another, more recent photograph showed a boy wearing their school uniform, his dark, wet hair slicked back, holding up a small blue ribbon, a look almost of gratitude on his face as he stared proudly at the camera. Next to the three photographs was the one of the unsmiling old couple.

  �That�s his mum and dad, in Hungary somewhere.� John had sat down on the bed.

  �I know.� Dan didn�t need Morello to tell him anything about that house.

  But John seemed oblivious to Dan�s gruffness. �I�ve got a photograph of my grandparents that looks exactly like that one.� He gave a quick self-deprecating laugh. �Paisans are paisans are paisans, eh, wherever they�re from?�

  Dan couldn�t bear Morello�s assumption of camaraderie. He looked around the room again. He�d used to think that room meant freedom�he once thought it offered him a possible future. There were the four photographs, the dresser, the bedside table, an old weathered cupboard, the bed, and the thick dusty curtains drawn across the window. There were no books, no papers; it could have been the room of a monk, thought Dan. It could have been a prison cell.

  John picked up the photograph of Danny and examined it. �He always talked about you. He said you were the best swimmer he ever coached.�

  Dan silently begged John to put down the photo. He couldn�t bear looking at that photograph. He knew it was of him but he couldn�t find himself in it. �Well, he was wrong, wasn�t he? I failed him.�

  John put the photograph back and said, �Funny�that�s what he always said about himself when it came to you. He�d always say to me, after a few drinks, that he�d failed Danny Kelly.�

  As John said this, a sudden gust of savage wind whipped at the window. For a moment the curtains separated and Dan saw a panel of battered and gnarled plywood fastened with masking tape to a broken pane. The wind died away and the curtains fell back into place.

  John Morello was a stranger; the distance from the shadowy boy to the man before him was equal to the distance between who Dan was now and the boy in the photograph. But in front of that stranger, Dan allowed his body to break and to finally breathe. Dan allowed himself to cry.

  He sat huddled on the bed, his hands shaking, the force of the grief bursting through in waves. His body seemed relieved of all solidity, as if he had become a swimmer again at the end of a marathon, the outpouring coming from deep within himself, as if all that was inside him had been expunged, as if the inside were the outside. All he was conscious of was that he couldn�t stop the tears, the bestial howling. He must have frightened John, or more likely disgusted him, as he�d fled the room. It was just Dan, alone, in a room that had reminded him of his boyhood glory but was now the prison cell of adult disgrace; and he knew that when he�d glimpsed the future all those years before, it was indeed such a room that fate was putting in store for him.

  The breathing, in and out, one of the first things he�d learned as a swimmer; it helped.

  Afterwards, spent, sitting on the Coach�s bed, it was as if there was nothing left inside him: no flesh and no muscle and no bone.

  John had not disappeared, he came back into the room carrying a tea towel, which he handed to Dan. �Sorry, mate, this is all I could find.� His voice was gentle.

  Dan scrubbed at his face, at his shirtfront. He screwed the tea towel into a knot. John sat down beside him. The two men were breathing in unison.

  �Do you own your own home, Danny?�

  The question was so unexpected that it made
Dan laugh. He shook his head.

  It was as if Dan had never broken down, as if that had happened in another time, in another space, away from the world.

  �You married, Danny, you got kids?�

  Dan opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He just shook his head.

  John proudly flashed the thin gold ring on his left hand. �I am. My wife�s name is Dora. We�ve got a beautiful little boy, Troy, and we�re trying for another. Best thing that can happen to you, mate, having kids. That gives you perspective, shows you what really matters in this world.�

  �I�m not going to have kids.� Dan straightened up, surprised how weight had returned to him, how he felt anchored to the ground once again. He turned to John. �Why me?�

  �What do you mean?�

  �Why did Coach leave me this house?�

  John waggled a finger. �Hey, mate, don�t get too greedy. He left part of his estate to you�a third. The estate is divided between three parties. Initially it was four, yourself, a man called Ronald Crane, another man, Joseph Hanna, and the fourth share to the descendants of his two sisters and brother back in Hungary. But Hanna is dead, and the will specifies that if one of the parties is deceased then their share is returned to the others.� John shrugged. �There�s some money, of course, some super, some stocks and bonds, but not much�the GFC took care of that�but whatever money there is goes to his family back in Europe. They probably deserve it, poor bastards.�

  He leaned over to tap the wooden bedhead three times. �We�re lucky here, Danny, this country just sails on, impervious to the shit that the rest of the world is drowning in. Jesus, no wonder any bastard who gets on a boat wants to come here.�

  Dan didn�t want to hear it. He wanted answers. �But why would he leave it to me?�

  �Mate, I don�t know, I can only guess. The only things you have in common with the other two are that you were all scholarship boys, and you were all trained by him. Crane was a student of his in the early eighties, Hanna was there after us.� John sounded tired. �Hanna offed himself, got in a bad way, I think, from talking to his family�drugs maybe, who the fuck knows? They�re a big Leb family, out in Westmeadows. I feel gutted for them, what they�ve been through. They didn�t have much, and I think Joseph was their great white hope.�

  John was shaking his head. �Can you imagine being a Lebo Mussie having to deal with the pricks at that place? You ever heard of him?�

  �No.�

  �Thought you might have, he was a bit of a wunderkind for a while there in the pool and then he got into the Commonwealth Games and fucked it up�just didn�t have what it takes.� His voice trailed off and he lowered his head.

  He thinks he�s offended me, thought Dan, he thinks he�s hurt me. But Dan was thinking about a Lebo kid, a Muslim at that school, what they would have thought of him, how he would have needed to be the strongest, the fastest, the best, just to survive, just to walk that corridor every morning, to hold his head high.

  �I used to call it Cunts College.�

  John�s head tilted up. �What?�

  �Our school. I used to call it Cunts College.�

  John collapsed into hysterical laughter, then pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. He sat up straight. �Crane�s got a family, he�s doing sports medicine, he�s alright. The money will be useful. He�s up in Brisbane, wanted to be here for the service but one of his boys got sick.�

  John tentatively raised his hand, then placed it gently on Dan�s shoulder. �Torma thinks he failed you all�for what it�s worth, that�s my theory. He wanted to train a world champion, but he never managed that.� John�s hand slipped off Dan�s shoulder, and the two men were once again sitting apart.

  �And you? Don�t you get anything? I mean, it sounds like you were the closest to him of any of us.�

  John�s smile was rueful. �Yeah, I ask myself that too. He always said that he hated lawyers, that we were scum�maybe that�s why, maybe he thinks I�ve got enough.� John�s voice lightened; he threw up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. Like a boy, thought Dan, you could see the boy in him still.

  �And he�s right, we�re doing OK, me and Dora, we don�t need the money. It�s because I wasn�t a good enough swimmer, simple as that. That�s what mattered to the old man, being good enough. I guess you and Crane and Hanna were golden boys.� John�s eyes were now teasing, his tone mocking. �You do know that, don�t you, Kelly? You and Taylor and Wilco, you were fucking golden boys.�

  He rose, looked down at Dan. �I should get going. Come on, I�ll drive you home.�

  �I think I want to stay.�

  But John was shaking his head. �I�m not sure if I can let you, mate. Officially I�m the executor of this estate and I don�t feel comfortable giving you the keys yet. Sorry, it sounds officious, I know, but that�s me with my legal hat on.�

  �That�s alright, I understand.�

  John took one last lingering look around the room. He seemed to be about to speak, but his mouth stayed closed.

  �What were you going to say?�

  �I was going to say I�ll miss the old bastard, but that�s not exactly true. In the last few years I�d come by, every six months or so, more out of duty than anything. I owed him. He protected me from some of those bullies we went to school with. But he was a lonely old bugger, by the end all he wanted to talk about was being a boy in Hungary, even started talking to me in Hungarian from time to time. He was a sad old man. I wish I could say I�m going to miss him but it wouldn�t be true. To be honest, mate, him being gone is a bit of a relief.� John was drumming his fingers on the old bureau. �Men like that, they�re not much use, are they?�

  Dan couldn�t remember anything about Morello�the boy�s smile, his adolescent body, one word they had exchanged�even though they had been in the same team, had showered naked together every day, had swum together; he couldn�t recall the boy�s form or face or body at all.

  �OK, mate,� said Dan, getting up and putting on his jacket.

  �Let�s get going.�

  John dropped him off. The last thing Dan said to him, just as he was getting out of the car, after they�d shaken hands in farewell, was, �John, you�re a good man.�

  John gave a short chuckle. �No, mate,� he answered. �No, I�m not. I�m just a fat suburban lawyer. I�m just a soft bastard doing all the right things. I�ve even enrolled Troy at Cunts College�that�s how much I go with the flow.�

  The night was so cold that Dan had to sit for ages in front of his small heater with his suit jacket on, with it buttoned to the collar. He sat in front of the heater, staring into the orange electric glow, the rain splattering and beating against the shingles of the roof. He sat and dreamed about what money could do. He imagined a house, two rooms, a short walk from the station and the shops. That was what money could do. He thought of going back to Japan, going to China, really reconnecting with Luke; he could travel anywhere, he could learn about different worlds. He imagined a brand-new car, and travel, and bricks and mortar. In the pit of his stomach was a glow, he could feel it, a tiny flame that began in the centre of himself and spread and flickered and warmed his blood. Dan took off his clothes and put on trackpants and a jumper, but even in that midwinter chill he didn�t think he needed them. The glow he felt inside himself would keep him warm. This was what money could do, this was how it could protect you.

  In the back pocket of his suit trousers he spied the folded pages. He took them out, unfolding them to stare at the face of the Coach, then turned the prayer card over and for the first time looked at the words printed on the back. They had been recited at the service but he hadn�t listened then, he hadn�t taken them in. All he was conscious of at the service were the looks that went through him, the eyes that did not see him at all. But now he read the words of a poem by Walt Whitman. I see a beautiful gigantic swimmer swimming naked through the eddies of the sea. At first
the letters, the words, the stanzas, remained shapes and line and curvature, they didn�t make sense�His brown hair lies close and even to his head, he strikes out with courageous arms, he urges himself with his legs, I see his white body�but he went back to the beginning and this time Dan�s mouth was forming the shapes and sculpting the words: I see his undaunted eyes, I hate the swift-running eddies that would dash him head-foremost on the rocks. What are you doing you ruffianly red-trickled waves? Will you kill the courageous giant? will you kill him in the prime of his middle-age? The glow inside him receded and he saw a man battling the sea, saw him as if from above, as if Dan were a creature of the sky, gliding over the sea, bearing witness to this swimmer�Steady and long he struggles, He is baffled, bang�d, bruis�d, he holds out while his strength holds out, The slapping eddies are spotted with his blood, they bear him away, they roll him, swing him, turn him�and then the creature he�d become

  dived deep into the sea, and the creature was the swimmer and the swimmer was at the mercy of the uncaring monstrous ocean, His beautiful body is borne in the circling eddies, and the ocean was as beautiful and sublime as the possibility of the world could be: it is continually bruis�d on rocks, Swiftly and out of sight is borne the brave corpse.

  Dan was in his room, looking at the photographs on his wall: of Theo, of his parents, of Regan with Layla, of Demet and Margarita at Uluru, Luke and Katie on the Great Wall, Dennis hugging Bettina, himself between his granddad Bill and his nan Irene. The last flickering light of the fire within him was extinguished.

  He was alone in the small bare room, the prayer card had fallen from his hand. He was the swimmer, the old man, he was the Coach and he was Danny Kelly. The electric purr of the heater, the sonic whisper of the light globe above his head, they returned him to the room and to himself. There was a gnawing tightness in his stomach, there was a heaviness in his bladder, a pain in his left wrist, which he�d knocked against a cabinet at work a few days before. It was breathing, in and out, it was a return.