NO MORE BOATS
OTHER WORKS OF FICTION BY
FELICITY CASTAGNA
SMALL INDISCRETIONS
THE INCREDIBLE HERE AND NOW
FELICITY CASTAGNA
No More Boats
FIRST PUBLISHED IN 2017
FROM THE WRITING & SOCIETY RESEARCH CENTRE
AT WESTERN SYDNEY UNIVERSITY
BY THE GIRAMONDO PUBLISHING COMPANY
PO BOX 752
ARTARMON NSW 1570 AUSTRALIA
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© FELICITY CASTAGNA 2017
DESIGNED BY HARRY WILLIAMSON
TYPESET BY ANDREW DAVIES
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DISTRIBUTED IN AUSTRALIA BY NEWSOUTH BOOKS
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CASTAGNA, FELICITY, AUTHOR.
NO MORE BOATS / FELICITY CASTAGNA
978-1-925336-30-6 (PBK)
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FOR MY FATHER, WHO CAME HERE ON A BOAT
‘FOR THOSE WHO’VE COME ACROSS THE SEAS
WE’VE BOUNDLESS PLAINS TO SHARE;
WITH COURAGE LET US ALL COMBINE
TO ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR’
Before
It is 1967. The Australian Prime Minister, Mr Harold Holt, swims out into the ocean and gets eaten by a shark. Or he gets picked up by a Chinese submarine and becomes a spy. It’s possible that he just shouldn’t be swimming, despite his reputation as a sportsman, because he’s thrown his shoulder out of alignment and is taking morphine and also because he might be depressed and maybe he doesn’t want to live anymore. Others say he is murdered because he opposes building military bases at Pine Gap, or because he relaxed the White Australia Policy so that the Asians can invade.
It could also be because the oceans around Australia are rough places where boats are known to fall apart and people get caught in rips they can’t see and the people and the boats just disappear and no one knows why, or sometimes they do know, but no one wants to talk about what really happens out there. Not really, anyway.
It is the day after Harold Holt has disappeared and Antonio Martone is standing in his new home. He is not yet the Antonio Martone who becomes so famous for a brief moment in history when his own existential crisis coincides with that of a nation that can’t decide whether to let in a Norwegian container ship named the MV Tampa and its cargo of 438 human beings, who’d almost disappeared into the ocean, like Harold Holt. For that brief moment between the unwanted ship sitting out there off the coast and the planes colliding into twin towers in another country, Antonio is everywhere holding that gun that may or may not have been his. He’s staring blankly out of everyone’s television sets and out of the copies of the Daily Telegraph you always find discarded next to you on the train seat.
For now though, he is just Antonio and he’s standing here thinking about how the future has finally picked its way out of his head and materialised in front of him. He lays his body down in the middle of the living room and thinks about what he has built. He always knew that the future was waiting for him in this new land across the sea. White aluminium siding, aluminium eight-over-eights, yellow fibreboard shutters, high rectangular windows, crisp brown linoleum marking the path to the kitchen. Upstairs there are three bedrooms, two baths: total square footage, twelve hundred and sixty-five. He’s done the front door in an arch. People don’t always understand how much harder it is to bend wood and concrete into a half-moon shape than it is to leave it in straight angular lines, but he knows; it is a deep and private satisfaction to him every time he walks through his own front door.
His house is on a one-acre block, big enough for a market garden out the back. He will grow olives and bergamots like his father did. This is what he has dragged out of the raw earth that had been here, just a big dry tangle of a paddock on the only hill in town – a place of small brown nondescript birds. The house is east-facing. His wife’s body casts a long shadow over him as she walks through the door.
‘Antonio,’ Rose says, looking at him lying there on the floor, ‘I think you love this house more than me.’
She walks towards him, bringing her soapy smell; the soft clicking of herself. She rubs her belly, hoping she will be pregnant soon. If it is a girl they will name her Clare; if it is a boy, Francis. They walk together through the house and into the front yard where he has recently laid another slab of concrete.
‘Not much room to build a flower bed,’ Rose says.
‘Later. I make different.’ But he knows he won’t. It is cleaner this way. It makes the land look more solid. His wife wants so many impractical things. He locks the door and puts the key on its blue piece of yarn around his neck. They turn and face the horizon where the land is being cut up and divided and cut up and divided again into finite squares. Antonio has built on the hilly east side, the only place in Parramatta that isn’t flat. From this one hill it is possible to see everything: those tight brick rectangles of government housing, the fibro cottages, the old colonials, the wide stretches of nothing space in between everything. The corkscrews of smoke rise out of the factories in Silverwater and Granville to the east. There is the rumble of roads being poured, of concrete and bitumen stretching out towards his house to take it in. In the distance the sound of railway lines screeching and moving closer.
Antonio looks towards the river but he can’t see it behind the mangroves. He is thinking of the point where the salt water meets fresh. He will take his line and hook out there later, to see if he can catch a fish with the other men who sit by the pier. All he wants is this, his own patch of land, this moment in the afternoon; the future to keep coming and coming.
1.
On the TV talk of inundation and floods, rising tides, tsunamis of human beings coming across the ocean, all headed here. A watery invasion threatening to drag us under. Too many boats. Same thing they’ve been anxious about since yesterday, the day before that, two hundred years ago.
And at this moment, 31 August 2001, a day on which the Parramatta River was overflowing down near the Ferry Pier, where this story begins and ends, there was flooding too. The footpaths around the river’s edge were under water. Disgruntled teenagers drank on the top of the grassy slopes because their usual spot on the benches below had become submerged. The old Chinese women with their Mandarin-playing boom boxes must have been doing their nightly riverside aerobics somewhere else, the Lebanese men had stopped fishing near the housing commission flats and got their fish at the markets instead. The tradies at the Workers Club pressed cold beers to their mouths and smoked their ciggies on the balcony and made jokes about how the river could swallow their utes in the parking lot while the public servants from the newly relocated offices of Sydney Water and Electricity stared out towards the river behind the polished windows of their bloated office blocks.
Antonio’s son Francis stood on the riverbank and looked out to the mangroves at the ferry that was making its way to the slim top of the pier that hadn’t been swallowed by the water and said ‘fuck’ into the evening air. He had just shoved his hands into his saggy jeans and discovered that he was out of cigarettes. He backtracked slightly down the road behind the river and went to the corner store he had been avoiding on account of the man working there being an old friend of his father’s who was going to ask him, for sure, about what his fa
ther had done.
Do you know what his father did?
Of course you do.
Everyone wanted to know about it but what the fuck did Francis know?
When Francis entered the shop Ron said, ‘Yer fa-dah, hah!’
Francis shrugged his shoulders and put his money on the counter and pissed off out of there as soon as the cigarettes were in his hand. No explanation. He wasn’t trying to explain it to no one. He hardly understood it himself.
Back on his way. He walked down the street, just puffin’. The man with no left arm stood there by his letterbox like usual, watching the road. Francis kicked a rock as he passed him. He pretended to be interested in the rock and all, so he didn’t have to look the man in the face. It was the same street he’d walked down on the way to Charbel’s place since they were in primary school. There were the same old Eels banners hanging slack from the fibro cottages since their last win, same old convict graveyards, same people floating down the street like they were cruising even when they were not in their cars, the same women in hot pink Spandex running towards the river.
Dawn of a new century, 2001 and all that, but things were pretty much the same as they were in high school except now Francis was five years older and he spent his days laying bricks instead of waiting outside the principal’s office. His two best mates were still Jesús and Charbel. On weekends there was still nothing to do. Women weren’t really interested in Charbel and Francis but they were interested in Jesús. Jesús could put it on like he was one of those Latino playboys from the telenovelas his mother watched. He even did the slicked-back hair and the patent leather shoes and the walking up to a girl at The Albion like he was dancing a salsa or some shit like that. But that wasn’t really who he was. Francis would’ve acted like that too if he’d thought it might’ve helped him get laid. When Jesús wasn’t with a girl, Francis and Charbel hung out at his place. Charbel was still boring. Francis was still angry with his father for lots of things like being crazy and stubborn and unable to take him seriously, but mostly, at this moment, for giving him a pussy name like Francis.
He walked. The sun set through the spaces between the buildings and spread itself across the road like a kind of golden slime. There was a mania for sitting on plastic chairs on the lawn outside the apartment blocks. People just stewing. Cigarettes in hand. The local newspapers on the ground everywhere. Someone had drawn a red line underneath the headline in the Parramatta Sun: ‘ It’s Not Racist if They Come Without Their Visas!’
And then he was back down by the river again where people had gathered on the grass to point at the things being swallowed by the water. Summer was on its way and even this early, before things got really hot, the place was on heat. Walking past The Albion he could see the women were already out in their short shorts and high heels, standing in the courtyard. A blonde woman in tight white jeans leant against the brick wall outside and watched the men playing footy in the park across the road.
He headed straight across the highway. Stopped to have a fantasy or two in front of the BMW SUV and the Mercedes with the convertible roof in the second-hand car yard. Jesús was mowing the lawn in front of his mother’s pale blue fibro. Francis was sure that the mowing was just an excuse to take his shirt off. Jesús was the one with all the muscles, even though it was Francis and Charbel that worked with their bodies. No one would guess that of the three of them, it was Jesús who was training to be an accountant.
Jesús didn’t say anything. He waved. Francis walked himself straight into the living room where Jesús’ mother was dressed in her orderly’s scrubs. She was leaning against the kitchen cupboard eating toast, flicking through the newspaper. Something Spanish played on the radio, and on the TV it was the five o’clock news. The kettle went off and she looked up at Francis as if he was making all that noise.
‘Be good,’ she said like she’d been saying since they were in primary.
The boys from school had been spending their evenings here since forever, on account of Mrs Consalvo working nights. Even now that Charbel had his own place in one of the slicked-up new apartments just off Church Street, they still came here. Force of habit. Mrs Consalvo must have known what went on under her small roof, but she never said anything but you boys be good, or there’s leftover chicken in the fridge. She was cool like that. They called her Mami like Jesús did. All the boys called Jesús Jesus, like Jesus Christ, even though he was always telling them to say it the Spanish way, like Hey-Seuss.
At least Francis wasn’t the only one with a pussy name.
Even though it was the end of August, Jesús still had up the banner, ‘Welcome to the year 2001,’ nine months after the new year had come and gone, so that he could hide the hole Francis had accidentally punched into the wall when he was high. He liked Jesús’ house. It was a loud space but it felt quiet. Francis’ place was quiet but it felt loud. Francis lived in a much larger house but every inch of it was taken up by his father, even when his father was just sitting on the couch saying nothing, watching the telly.
‘Mami!’
Charbel was entering through the door; Mrs Consalvo was leaving for the night. Charbel walked in with a couple of six packs so they could drink cheaply before they got to the bars. He was wearing board shorts and a wife-beater. He would change into his favourite Tsubi jeans and poloneck shirt right before they went out. Francis would spray Lynx deodorant over the outside of his clothes.
They were all posers in their own way.
Charbel walked to the fridge, stuck the beers in and looked over the rest of its contents. He went over to the flower-covered couch where Francis was sitting, handed him a beer and sank down six inches as soon as he sat on the cushion.
‘Shit,’ he said as he fell backward.
‘Shit,’ Francis said.
Francis took long gulps of his beer. His hands trembled. He told himself it was because he masturbated too much, but he knew it was the pot: he needed to cut down (on both things really) but he just couldn’t stop. He liked the way the pot gave the world a softer edge. Even the air took on the feel of cushioned fabric, as though you could just reach out and touch it and everything else, all the things that were bothering you, just sat like a quiet old man in the background.
When Jesús came into the living room he sat on the recliner without his shirt on, sipped his beer slowly, rubbed his belly. Charbel opened another beer he’d had waiting by his feet. The nights always started out like this. Slowly. They saved all their energy for later.
Francis tried to concentrate on the TV. On the news there was a big ship and a big ocean. The only small things were the tiny dots of people sitting around shipping containers on the deck. Then there was John Howard and his eyebrows and he was saying, ‘ordinary, average Australians,’ over and over again, and it was all very serious and Francis couldn’t get at the words.
‘You coming back to work on Monday?’ Charbel asked.
‘Nah, maybe.’
Francis had definitely planned on going back but he was being a jerk.
‘You take as much time as you need.’
It was exactly that kind of tone, like you’re talking to someone’s grandmother, that meant Francis had to be a jerk. It was like this: when Charbel said ‘you take as much time as you need’, that wasn’t everything he was saying. There was a whole lot of backstory shoved into that sentence like helium stuck in one of those over-inflated balloons. The story played over in Francis’ head in time lapse: Charbel’s dad (who everyone called Fat Frank, on account of him being really skinny) was the contractor on a new set of McMansions near Macquarie Fields; Francis and Charbel were both working for Fat Frank on the site and that made Charbel act like he was also the boss of everything even though he was the boss of nothing. Francis should be grateful for the job because he was a very average bricklayer who may or may not turn up to work on time but he didn’t really know how to be grateful for much. There’s a whole lot more backstory here about how Fat Frank and his dad used to be busines
s partners until Francis’ dad had exploded about how shit their McMansions were and Fat Frank went on to make fuck-loads of money and Francis’ dad ended up without much.
Francis suspected that he got away with a lot because Fat Frank thought his family was pathetic, or because Fat Frank had some kind of guilt complex, or just wanted to get back at Francis’ dad by hiring his son. Maybe all of the above. ‘Your father Antonio, Antonio,’ he was always muttering whenever he saw Francis on the site. Whatever it was, when Charbel told him he could ‘take as much time as he needed’, he said it in a tone that made Francis think that maybe it was the pathetic thing. ‘I’ll be back by Tuesday.’
‘Everyone understands about your father.’
‘Wednesday then.’ No one understood about his father.
They drank more beers. Jesús took a shower and Charbel changed his clothes and Francis smothered himself in Lynx. Then the boys slipped out into the street and Jesús took what he had promised them out of his wallet. The three dots of pink paper sat there in his palm. They had the smallest set of wings on them. They said take us, take flight, and they did, the three of them standing there, staring at the granite statue of a pouncing lion on a neighbour’s lawn.
Even though this was Parramatta, and even though it was never really quiet, tonight felt calm. No one spoke. They walked. Each street they passed had the same dull, brick rectangles of apartment blocks, and in between there were lost strips of lawn and too much concrete. They cut through the park. This was the park where they used to play footy on Fridays: Italians and Yugoslavs versus Asians – the Asians always lost. On Sundays everyone teamed up against the Islanders, but the Islanders always won. At night the park looked dark and grim, not like it did in the daytime when everyone was screaming and running. There was the noise of the trains everywhere, always pulling up and leaving again. The sounds skipped across the concrete as they turned the corner.
No More Boats Page 1
