Mary had eloped. Went to live with her new parents-in-law. And Salvatore’s father got the heart problems. Then couldn’t understand why his son wanted to become a poliziotto — what practical use was a policeman to the family? But Salvatore paid no heed, and became a police officer. The rules, enforcement; it was far more practical than his father could know. He respected his job — and received respect. And he’d figured out how to live in this country; something his father never really worked out. His father never properly learnt English, and was constantly in conflict with people and organisations over what were usually simple misunderstandings. Salvatore thought he’d been successful; successful in growing into someone who did not resemble his father.
His father was dead by the time Salvatore got married. Everything that upset the father caused damage to his heart and killed him a little — he made it family lore — but it was lung cancer complications that finally finished him. Two months from diagnosis to a small, grey dead thing on the bed. Salvatore took his new wife to visit the grave when it’d been there for nearly two years.
He’d met Maria at the Carciofo Club in the western suburb of Wetherill Park, which was then only metres away from orchards and chicken farms and, ironically, Anglo-Saxon heartland. She was with her brothers and cousins. They were all there for the barzalleta and the canzone, told and sung by people who know the ironies concerning Italians in Australia. Her parents liked Salvatore’s quiet, polite way, and he became a part of Maria’s family. He was surprised, and a little turned off by Maria’s keenness to become his lover. He was, of course, always aroused when they were intimate with each other, but he had intended not to sleep with her until they were married. Her desires shocked him, and he even considered that maybe they weren’t right for each other after she told him she’d done it before, with her ex-boyfriend — a guy Salvatore knew from church. The extent of Salvatore’s experience was limited to the kissing and touching he’d done with her. But after Maria eventually got him to follow his desire all the way, he, of course, forgot about his resolve to save it for the wedding night; and they soon got married at St Joseph’s in Leichhardt as intended.
He and Maria had a child, and their daughter absolved anything that was imperfect in his life. Artemesia, Mia, smelt like life; she was alive, lively but precious. Salvatore was devoted. And a few years after the birth of their son he found, like his father, that he was devoted to his daughter more than his son. But he loved his son because he was a son. And proved to be a good child. But not inspiring like his firstborn. Because everything Salvatore did — his work, his responsibilities at home — he did with Mia in mind. He could not remember what had driven him prior to Mia’s birth.
Salvatore could think of no greater hell than his daughter hating him eternally. He’d have to try and improve his relationship with her. She was becoming an adult, like his sister. Who hated her father, and would always hate him. Salvatore had never done, would never do, what his father had done. But knowing this had planted the thought in him — the thought that he would have to improve his relationship with Mia. But how? He was being a good father, wasn’t he? Not just providing for her, but ensuring she had a safe life, and instilling values that he knew were correct. Could he allow her some more freedom? Could he trust her to be honest with him if he did? It was intensely painful to Salvatore that he didn’t know how he could keep the love of his little girl. But he would have to. Whatever the answer may be, he would have to.
It was easy to preoccupy himself with other concerns though; he had solutions or at least policies for other people’s problems.
Salvatore took the files that had been cluttering up his desk out to the clerical officer and placed them on her workstation.
—These are the files I requested you take out of my office last week.
—Not a problem, she said, not looking at him.
He returned to his office, shaking his head as Sergeant Rosales came down the narrow corridor trying to attract his attention by waving a newspaper at him.
—One of the girls has talked to the paper, Sal, Sergeant Rosales said, catching the Senior Sergeant in the office doorway and handing him the tabloid paper.
—Shit, Salvatore said, folding the copy of the Telegraph Post to focus on the single column. All right, he continued, folding the paper the other way. One of the girls identified someone, didn’t she? Sold her drugs before the rape?
—Yeah. Should we talk to him? Tell the media liaison department we’ve got someone helping us with our inquiries?
—Yes. Get him down here. We’ll talk to him. You and I.
Senior Sergeant Testafiglia wanted to see Patrick White immediately, but it was crucial to make a suspect wait. No matter who they are, if you make them wait, they’re more likely to tell the truth. Some cops believe that giving a suspect too much time to think before questioning gives them an opportunity to cook up well-constructed lies. But Salvatore knew the opposite to be true. The longer they are made to wait, the more they feel the gravity; the more they want to escape the atmosphere they’re in. They’re relieved to see you finally walk through the door, pleased to help you in order to help themselves.
Finally, he opened the door and let Sergeant Rosales enter before himself. They both sat and opened files.
—So, he began. We like drugs and young women do we?
—Sorry? Patrick White replied.
—Done some time for possession, haven’t you?
—Yeah.
—And you have a thing for young women.
—My girlfriend is younger than me, yeah.
—Are they all your girlfriends?
—Are who? Patrick White replied.
—Do you know a Natalie Caxaro?
—Natalie. Yeah I know Nat. Why, what’s happened to Nat?
—Can you tell us what happened the last time you saw her?
—She came around to — she came around and we hung out for a bit. Not for long though. Five minutes, not even. Why?
—Smoke some weed? Senior Sergeant Testafiglia suggested, and took off his glasses.
—Nuh.
—Tell some of ya mates where they could catch up with her in an inebriated state?
—What? What mates?
—Some of the boys you sell to. Middle Eastern boys. Some of your Leb mates?
—Leb mates? I think ya talkin’ ta the wrong bloke.
—And what about this young girl you’re carrying on with? Senior Sergeant Testafiglia continued, and flicked through some handwritten notes. Sonja.
—She’s a friend.
—There’s been some trouble though. Police have talked to you already. The young constable who brought you in told me Sonja was there at your flat this morning.
—Yeah. It’s cool though.
—Oh. Oh, it’s cool is it? Was it cool with Natalie, was it? She doesn’t think it was very cool.
—What? What do you mean? Maybe she’s jealous, Patrick White offered, and looked over to Sergeant Rosales, because he was lost; both cops could tell.
—We’re going to talk to a couple of other people, and keep you here until we sort some things out, Senior Sergeant Testafiglia concluded.
Salvatore Testafiglia knew when people were lying. There had been only a few whose talent had exceeded his of detecting the truth. This Patrick White had done time. He could be a good liar. It’s a defence mechanism some men have to use to survive in jail. But beyond knowing one of the victims, and possibly dealing drugs again, there was little else. Senior Sergeant Testafiglia had told the media liaison department that they had someone. No name yet though. The young girls and their parents would have to be talked to. A charge could be laid yet if Patrick White was breaching any of his parole conditions. And the press would continue to draw long bows. The actual perpetrators were still to be identified, but proactive police work reported in the media kept the bosses happy.
Before heating up his lunch he went to tell Patrick White what his immediate future held for him.
—No. That’s okay. Thanks.
—Some advice, mate: young women quite often have parents who will do anything to keep them away from guys. If a girl’s parents don’t like you, steer clear.
—Yeah, okay.
—Take the advice. Once this is sorted.
Senior Sergeant Testafiglia dispensed this fatherly wisdom despite knowing that it was unlikely to be taken. Although he lacked some of the cockiness, this guy was typical, he thought, of the Anglo-Australians out here in the western suburbs. The lazy, nonchalant manner, the apparent lack of drive to change the negative things impinging on their lives. Sure, he’d accepted the advice, but it was just so he could escape this immediate situation. Senior Sergeant Testafiglia knew that no matter what he said to this guy, it would not go on to influence any aspect of his life once he got out of here. He doubted whether even his prison time had changed him. Because Salvatore knew the type. These Anglo-Aussies and their atheistic, existential way of life. Family scattered all over. No structure. Teenagers living out on their own. And just taking each day as it comes. A freedom that seemed regressive to Senior Sergeant Testafiglia. Sometimes he felt an overwhelming urge to literally hammer some sense into these people who came through his branch of the legal system.
EIGHTEEN
Sonja had been missing a lot of school. She wondered if they’d written a letter to her parents yet. The principal had been a bit sus when Sonja had been sent to her for not wearing a uniform. Sonja told her that she’d ripped it and that her parents couldn’t afford a new one. The principal had called Sonja’s mother but had obviously been hung up on. She’d given Sonja a second-hand uniform from lost property.
Sonja would be missing school altogether today. How could she go now? The police had just come and taken Patrick. No explanation other than that he was required to attend the station. And then they’d asked her what she was doing there, in his flat. Patrick had interrupted them though, and said he’d go with them — said he wanted to sort out whatever it was as soon as possible. So they’d taken him. She’d have to go and see her mother now. She was sure her mother wouldn’t have called the police, but why else would the cops take him? They didn’t search the place; Patrick hadn’t been dealing drugs for quite a while.
Sonja hadn’t been to see her mother since she’d moved in with Patrick. Maybe her mother really did want her to come back? She’d hoped, despite feeling like it was a bit of a betrayal to Patrick, that her mother would make an attempt to see her again. She hadn’t expected the police though. This would make things ugly. Patrick had told her what the police were like to deal with. Nothing like Water Rats or Blue Heelers; but liars. Violent liars. And her parents had never trusted them. So why would her mother call them?
She’d have to go and sort this out.
She could smell her mother the instant she opened the door. She’d worked up so much shaky courage in the stairwell, and now this smell was melting her resolve.
—Hi, Mum, she said, looking directly at Katerina.
Her mother chewed the inside of her cheek, something Sonja had never seen her do before, and began to cry a little. Maybe it was anger.
—Sonja. Where is he? Katerina asked, looking past her daughter and down the stairwell.
—Where do you think? Sonja snapped, her anger partly due to her nervousness about seeing her mother again.
—What do you mean? Sonja, please don’t come here to fight with me, not today.
—Did you call the police on Patri — me and Patrick?
—Don’t say his name, Sonja. Don’t say his name like that. Like he is your husband.
—Did you call the police?
—What do you mean, Sonja? No.
—Please. Don’t lie to me, Mu —
—Do you want to see your father?
—Have you told him yet, Mum?
—He’s home, Sonja.
—Oh.
She entered her parents’ bedroom, but couldn’t smell her father. His scent had changed, she suspected. He had changed too. He had put on weight, on his face at least. But his eyes were still full of sorrow.
—Sonja.
—Hi, Dad.
—Are you moving home? he asked.
—No. I don’t know.
—Who is this boy?
—His name is Patri —
—How does he treat you?
—He loves me.
Zakhar’s jaw tightened.
—These Australians, Sonja, he sighed. They respect things in a different way to us.
—Us? What do you mean, Dad? What do you respect? Do you respect me? She knew she was really hurting her father now, but found that although she told herself she forgave him his drinking and putting the family under financial strain, she nevertheless held deep anger for him. Patrick respects me, she continued. Too much.
—He’s older than you, and can only be taking advantage of you.
—Even if he is, Dad, you were too weak to stop me leaving. And now I’ve left.
Sonja only realised this as she heard herself say it.
—So you are not coming home?
—Can I still see Patrick?
—No.
—Then no. I don’t want to — I don’t want to come home right now.
But being back here, it suddenly struck her that maybe she did want to be back home. She had to leave her father, so he wouldn’t read her thoughts. She went back into the kitchenette where her mother was standing with Peter, her brother.
—Peter, she said, and grabbed him. He hugged her back, tightly, and she did the same so he would feel she still loved him.
—I want to see my brother and sister. And I want to take some of my stuff.
—Take your clothes, Katerina said.
—I want some stuff for school, too.
—He lets you go to school?
—Of course. Why wouldn’t he?
—Because he’s making a wife out of you, a girl.
—He wants me to go to school. It’s me. Sometimes I choose not to go. But I am still going to school, Mum.
It was best that she stay at school. For all concerned. She and Patrick had agreed. But it was hard, when he was at home all day. And the days at home with him were a whole world away from time and school. She should make more of an effort, though. She’d have to talk to Patrick tonight.
If he returned tonight.
She felt a bit weird about coming back to Patrick’s flat. It was her home now too, but there was no comfort here. The comfort left with Patrick. Without him, she felt homeless. There wasn’t enough of her here. It felt like Patrick had most of her with him, and his return would make her whole again. She needed to vomit, but hadn’t eaten anything to facilitate it. She didn’t know how she’d cope tonight if Patrick didn’t come home. She didn’t know if she could stop herself from going back to her parents’ place so she could sleep with her sister. She couldn’t sleep alone. Not tonight.
She looked out the window, into the courtyard of sun-killed grass husks, and to the ghost gum and the grey sky behind. It was a cold-looking day, but the humidity begged to differ. She turned on the television, but heard the concrete steps echo with footfalls outside the door and switched it off.
There were three firm knocks.
Sonja breathed as silently as she could and slowly moved to the door. Patrick had a piece of black cardboard over the peephole so visitor’s couldn’t see anything moving inside the flat. Patrick had told her there could be times when he had to avoid people. Sonja had assumed it was because of drugs. But maybe he could predict something like this happening. Because there was only one person Sonja would let in now. And as she lifted the cardboard and looked through the peephole, she saw that it wasn’t Patrick.
Th
e cops knocked again three times. Sonja nearly swore. She saw a cop’s head move toward the peephole so she slid the cardboard back over it. She stepped away from the door. Her bladder burned. Adrenaline was hot in her arms. She had to look again. Three more knocks. She looked through the peephole. The cops were checking a black folder. One of them disappeared from view and she heard the neighbour’s door pounded three times. Old Sid. She’d heard Patrick talk to him a couple of times. They’d met some of the same people in prison. She doubted if he’d answer the door to cops.
The cops left, slipping a worn NSW Police Force card under the door. Contact ASAP was written in red pen above a Constable Polkinghorn’s name and number. Sonja threw it on the bench as she poured greyish tap water into the biggest glass Whitey had.
NINETEEN
The tattoo gun’s buzz became more annoying than the pain caused by the needle. Abdullah was worried that the expression on his face when the needle first broke skin would betray him, but he could tell Fadi was jealous regardless. And he did truly get used to the pain about five minutes into the session. The Aussie biker had thrown him a look when Abdullah pulled out the Lebanese flag design. But he’d done the tatt anyway, without saying a word.
Luck in the Greater West Page 10
