Jezebel used a warm, wet flannel to dry me off and wipe that lousy little spit off the hollow of her shoulder. She put on her bra and took me by the hand, and sat me on the side of the bed. She used a different flannel to wipe the stupid tears falling from my eyes.
‘Give me another fifty and you can tell me, Sweetie, tell me what’s going on.’
I gave it to her. The kid put her slender, fragrant arms around my thick shoulders. She stared at the wall as tears dropped salty and forlorn down the exposed parts of her breasts, like the powerful sperm of all those younger and stronger men who paid for the privilege of spurting on her.
I said, ‘It was a dream. Just a dream.’
‘Then that’s good, isn’t it, Sweetie? That’s really good. Dreams are fantastic.’
After I stumbled out of there, I spent the rest of the night in a different hotel room to the one I’d been booked into. I didn’t want the boys to see me this way. All the way to dawn I huddled in on myself, wondering who or what could save me. The dream had been Debbie Canova and it hadn’t turned out to be real. Maybe I’d never loved her; maybe the only thing I’d really felt was the need that eats the insides of all lonely people.
The next morning I called Darren, the band’s notional leader. I told him I’d decided to stay in town and catch up with some old friends. He could drive my van back home while the others, all sour-breathed and sleepy-eyed, caught their return flight. Darren was only too happy to oblige; he loved my van and hated flying.
Three nights in a room devoid of character staring at beige curtains, eating hotel hamburgers and fries, watching execrable pay-per-view movies on the television. I felt I was in the aftermath of some cataclysm, but what had it been, really? Nothing but a lousy meeting with an old flame, followed by a drunkard’s visit to a brothel. Things, nevertheless, felt finished. I felt finished. Yet when I organised a flight back and dragged myself home, on the telephone answering machine were each of the boys with the great news: a fat, three-record contract, recording dates starting in six weeks, and tentative bookings for a support spot on the national tour of a big name US metal band.
The record execs hadn’t been impresarios of fakery. It was all true and the offer was as good as it gets. Soon my boys would have photo shoots, new girlfriends and a stylist. I had to laugh. What was finished? Just another chapter of my life. Dirtybeat wouldn’t need my sound equipment any more. I could either put it all up for sale or keep on keeping on, it didn’t matter either way.
Alone with the ghosts of my house I took out DC, the long-player recorded by Xodus (featuring Ms Deborah Canova). I didn’t play the record, but instead stared at the album cover. My face next to hers against a grainy image of the wretched and miserable of this world travelling a lousy road. What had Iron John meant to convey? Was it some inescapable nihilism or perhaps the hopefulness you feel whenever you look into such young and open faces? I didn’t know – but we were so young, captured like that forever. It was the only picture of her or us I had.
I didn’t play the record because instead I was playing the answer-tape over and over, just to listen to the way the voices of the Dirtybeat boys sounded. It was certainly the other side of the coin to how I felt. Well, good for them. Come on, I told myself, it’s good the world marches on. People like me and Debbie get old, but she has three children with her and I’ve got boys like these watching their dreams come true. Whatever joy you lose yourself, it means less than nothing to the ones who come next.
The telephone never stopped ringing. Congratulations came from everywhere, as if I’d had anything to do with their success. So I let Dirtybeat’s manager, who was still recovering from his pleurisy, talk me into doing the band’s sound at an impromptu mid-week gig, hastily organised as a celebration for the great things happening to them.
And there, late at night, I let the sound mixing desk look after itself for ten minutes while I took the time to dance with this witch-eyed Ash, who seemed more interested in me than any young woman ought to. Her firm breasts every now and then pressing against my chest; her dark hair flicking across her eyes as she swung her head to a solid, dirty beat. I’d taught the drummer that beat, had tapped out the rhythm on his shoulder till he got it straight. Ash swayed, lips parting, a hint of pink tongue, then for some reason her hand went over my forearm – a young woman’s impetuous promise to a man much too old for her.
Oh, Ash. You’re too lovely for me and you should know it. The good in someone like you should go to someone more deserving. Let me dream about you, but don’t waste your time, hey?
Ash caught her breath; the song’s middle-eight was a heart-breaker. The boys had become so good they could stop on a penny and kick like a mule. I looked at that face and her wild hair, and caught my own breath, then from nowhere came the limitless fall and everything was nearly done.
XX
Buddy, my spruiker, has finished his spiel. He’s said all he has to say except for one final thing: ‘Happy birthday, Max.’ Everyone repeats after him: ‘Happy birthday, Max.’
When he closes his eyes, leading everyone in a minute’s silent reflection, of what I don’t know, maybe the big fiftieth party I should have had, his mind goes back to worrying over what his daughter’s fate will be at her school later this afternoon. I tell him not to worry so much. If he’s strong he can protect the girl from just about anything. His face hardens as he decides: I’m gonna be a rock for my Kelley. I’m gonna tell that school what I really think: Fuck them.
The minute’s silence is interrupted by the last of the never-ending stream of late arrivals. I take a good look at her and whatever mouth I have twists into a slow grin. Happiness – it’s always a welcome flame. It would have been too much to ask for Debbie Canova to appear, she in some terrible realisation that the only man she’d ever, could ever, love was gone – but Laetecia Sparks turning up, now this is something.
Up the back, Jamie Lazaroff’s eyes widen. He has to look twice. Is that—?
She doesn’t see him. Everyone is solemn and silent but what does ‘Laetecia’ care about sixty seconds’ reflection? She pushes her way past the standing throng, sashays down the aisle and drapes herself over the lid of my coffin. She slides a card sealed in a mauve envelope underneath my flower arrangement. It’s my annual Halloween memento, finally hand-delivered. Also late. Oh well.
Jamie’s neck becomes rigid. I don’t believe it. That’s really her.
He watches the act, not quite comprehending how this can be, then vaguely recalls quiet moments so long ago in Laetecia’s arms, talking to her about music and his musicians, and the one he liked best: the drummer, guy named Max, Lee, you should meet him sometime.
Well, I never, he thinks. Laetecia. Did I make him sound that good? He gives a small smile. God above, you and Max?
Jamie can’t know that it was just one Halloween gone crazy followed by years of memorial cards. Instead, he feels a sort of jealousy growing in his still-lean chest, but he tightens his grip as he holds Dharka’s hand. Tightens it very hard, and Dharka smiles up at him, pleased with the way her man wants to squeeze her so, wants to love her so. And she will please him when they go home, she will love him, over and over.
Sometimes I think misdirection and misunderstanding are most of what makes this world go round, it’s just part of the human comedy, right?
Meanwhile, Laetecia’s face is in the wisteria. She says in a sort of friendly soto voce, You’re here, aren’t you?
Yes, I am, but for how much longer?
She can’t hear me. A useless strega, that’s what she called herself. She’ll just have to make whatever one-way conversation she can.
Max, do you want to know what I’ve been doing all these years? It’s pretty simple, pretty boring, but it’s called living, that’s what, really living. I hope you don’t blame me for that. The best years have been in a women’s commune on the coast. Men, forget it, I saw enough of them to last me a lifetime, but the love of women, Honey, well, that opens your eyes. So no
w I’m a forty-something gypsy crazy who reads the tarot and tea leaves for money, but what I really care about is my garden and planting trees. Isn’t that a scream? The opposite of a wild life, but hey, that’s good. Then there’s him, of course, I had to bring him up. The tall one there with your long arms and my hazel eyes.
So I take a look. A good, long look.
He’s at the back, a boy, my unmistakable boy, wondering why the hell his ma has dragged him to a stranger’s funeral. He’s got floppy hair over one eye and looks like he’ll need to be shaving in a year or two. His mother has given him a white suit to wear and he’s uncomfortable in it, but at least his big feet are bare. That makes him feel better.
That’s him, Max.
Did you know how infatuated I was with Jamie Lazaroff? But he joined those good doctors in the Ivory Coast. I missed the chance for what I wanted, which was to get him to plant a seed inside me. You think I’d take a baby out of any old gene pool? I was miserable when he took off so suddenly, but then there was you. I watched you playing and I liked what you were doing. You were serious and determined, but you knew how to relax into a groove too. And then in some numbers you were so playful. You were enjoying yourself. I thought to myself, I like a man like that. So I waited. I didn’t mind it took years. You were worth waiting for.
I wanted to tell her, But Laetecia, that was just the stage-me.
Sssh, she says, as if comforting me. You didn’t act and I liked your quiet way. I liked your big arms and that strong profile. We were going to be right. So I settled back and made sure I was good and fertile before I took the chance to meet you. But now, Max, if you don’t mind, there’s something I want to do for you in exchange. It’ll never repay you, but that night we were together, you did say this would be cool. Okay? So cover your ears.
Laetecia straightens and swallows a great gulp of air that lifts her hearty chest high, then she lets out a cry, a shriek, an ulu-lation so extraordinary that it makes everyone’s hair stand on end – those who have hair, that is. Those who don’t feel their eyes widen, the skin at the back of their necks tighten, and a shiver spread right across their chests, nipple to nipple. That cry even seems to make me go all quivery. It’s the wail of the stregas of old, all right, but it doesn’t lift me out of my body and it doesn’t make me rise into Laetecia’s vision. What it does do, though, is make me feel good. Really good. Laetecia Sparks is some kind of powerhouse, no doubt about it.
At the back of the chapel, my boy rolls his eyes and gives a sheepish smile; his mother has told him to expect this, but not to be too upset by it, because it will all be play-acting, just a little game that grown-ups sometimes indulge in to make one another feel better.
Now she pounds weakly with her fist on the coffin lid and mutters loud enough for all to hear, ‘Oh my love, my love. Why did you go?’
Laetecia knows not to pour it on too much thicker than this. The ancient superstitions of another country don’t always translate. Her mascara has run; she’s even made herself cry. She wipes her eyes with a tissue, snuffles a bit and longingly kisses the glossy wood under her nose. Her great breasts polish my coffin’s lid. Up at the podium, Buddy is thinking he’s never seen anything like this. Wow, he tells himself, these musicians are crazy.
One more thing, Max, she says. I never told you my name.
I wish I could let her know that she shouldn’t worry; she’ll always be Laetecia Sparks to me. What does it matter what name I use to remember her by? She’s already in my soul and will be there forever – both her and my boy. It’s okay like this.
Of course she doesn’t hear me. She’s not half as fey as she wishes she was. Laetecia says, Well, it’s San Filippo. I think that for some reason she’s calling Conny – who, to be fair, is paying a great deal of attention to these goings-on. In fact, he’s smiling like a loon.
Muxx, you better listen, eh?
It’s nice that Conny’s taken this opportunity to speak, his warm smile of old drifting right inside my satin-lined box.
He says, Be quiet, let this woman speak. Then you do learn something, ok?
Ok.
Then I get it. Laetecia. Laetecia San Filippo.
She slides away from the coffin lid and forces her now-matronly frame into an adjacent pew, making Iron John have to practically sit in the lap of Tony Lester beside him. Conny steps out of his seat and goes to kneel before her. He bends his face down and kisses his lovely niece’s hand. When he’d come to Australia his travel had been assisted by family already here; later, that same family also helped his younger brother Stefano’s emigration. Stefano San Filippo, escaping the witch’s streak in his wife’s bloodline, him with a daughter six years of age and a bitter crust of resentment and anger at his elder brother, the dirty finocchio, that omosessuale. A man he would never let his daughter even go near.
And, up the back, while the adults of this world go about their mysterious business, my boy is worrying about a grumbling stomach. If there’s a wake for this dead dude, he thinks, there’ll be food, right?
Right, I’d like to tell him. You’ll be looked after. You’ll be looked after as well as your mother and all her women have looked after you, and as well as I would have liked to have looked after you if she’d trusted me to do so. Unfortunately, years of selling herself to men showed her all she wanted or needed to know about the species; now, of course, she contends with you, but it’s a different thing. She thinks she can make you better than those who’ve gone before. Well, who knows, she may be right.
What can I say that would be useful? That I would have been a good father, though I dreamed all my life for a woman who wasn’t your ma; or that I’d have taught you how to use a drum kit; or maybe just that you could have counted on me to be your friend?
No. It’s time for what is, not what might have been.
The kid thinks, All these people, all these funny, dried-up musician people.
Yes, boy, all these funny dried-up musician people. And you, you’re full of the juice of life. One day you’ll understand how lucky you’ve been to have a mother who told you, I love your arms; I love how strong you’ve become; and your smile, you know, you’ll drive the girls wild. She’s already given you the confidence and bearing to face the world and shake the world, and you break the world if it suits you, boy, because that’s what you’re here for. Let the rotting rot and the old ways pass; make something new and do it soon. Don’t be half-hearted. You shoot good and straight, or you don’t shoot at all.
They’ve lifted me. Down the aisle and into the back of a glaringly white station wagon, and the drive to the waiting grave is short and sweet as a man’s life. Out in the hot sun, that gaping maw is ready to receive its payment.
My friends carry me. My friends.
They’re my boys doing well and then there’s my real boy watching from a short distance, now wishing for something like a bowl of nachos or a falafel roll. An important matter, I know that, for a young man to fill the yearning in his belly.
And one more yearning that’s starting to rise; he’s noticed Ash. Ash standing in her silk dress, with the cooling mid-morning breeze making it cling to her long legs. She’s leaning in to her father. My boy’s too young yet to really focus on what he’s feeling, but he understands there’s the hunger you get when you need to eat and there’s the yearning that grips both your belly and your heart when you see someone like her. I wish I could explain to him what this means, but he’ll make a better fist of it on his own. I expect, in some matters, a father is truly just a pain in the ass.
Well, I can’t help myself. It’s the only patriarchal duty I’ll get to fulfil.
I tell him, Go talk to her, boy, get her a drink at whatever sort of wake they’re going to throw for me, make yourself known. Just stand next to her and see what it feels like. Smell her skin; see the way her hair falls; notice the way your heart starts to thump. It’s life, kid, the best part of it.
Here it is. Lowering the dead weight on straps, shimmying it down in
to the earth. Laetecia sets up the tape player she’s brought with her.
Oh God, let it not be more psychedelia to haunt me into eternity – but someone like her, with the things we did after the End of the World party, and our beautiful outcome standing by her side, surely she would be the one to know better, wouldn’t she? So I wait for the music of Blue Train to rise into this lazy summer’s day.
It doesn’t and it won’t.
There’s another ghost present and its name is Debbie Canova. Her violin’s notes peel out and soar, resurrected by Laetecia San Filippo, who’s dug up a copy of that one LP of ours, committed it to tape, and pressed ‘play’ on the long, twisting song that features violin and drums only.
Tony Lester’s head drops. Shit, what did I do to deserve this? I should have known.
What the poor guy really doesn’t know is that when in a few days he puts up his hand for my collection of hundreds and hundreds of records, he’ll not only inherit my rock albums, but Concetto San Filippo’s comprehensive and thoroughly impressive jazz library as well. Worth a mint but he’ll never sell it. He’ll spin all that jazz for months, meanwhile discovering that between my rock records and his there is an almost exact duplication, though of course there’ll be one amongst those massive piles of vinyl that he never wanted to own and now does. In his pink mansion he’ll sit back in a black leather armchair and stare into young Debbie Canova’s face, into her blue eyes, and our broken down truck rolling into a dusty town called Thornberry won’t be yesterday but today, and none of it will seem so bad, in fact a major part of him will feel good to almost-but-not-quite have the girl back in his arms.
Dirty Beat Page 22
