by Nino Culotta
A man in a tobacco kiosk alongside said, ‘Yer won’t get any change outer them, mate. They’re radio actors. No work, no money, no manners. Two bob an’ one suit, that’s them.’
‘One can never judge by appearances,’ I said. ‘They spoke very good English.’
‘Yeah. If yer like that sort of English. Speak a bit like ’em yerself. You in radio?’
‘Oh no. I hope to be a builder’s labourer.’
He seemed to think this was extremely funny. There were tears in his eyes when he stopped laughing. I said, ‘Why do you laugh?’
‘You. Standin’ there solemn an’ sayin’ that. That’s the best I’ve heard fer a long time.’
I did not understand, so I asked him, ‘Have you any Italian cigarettes?’
‘No Italian. Got English.’
I bought a packet, and he said, ‘Builder’s labourers always smoke English cigarettes.’ He was laughing again as I walked away.
I walked down a hill and came to a park. Across the park was the harbour. I walked to it. On the edge of a small landing two bare-footed urchins were arguing. A small dead fish lay between them. They had fishing lines in their hands, and their feet dangled over the water.
‘I tell yer ut’s a morwong.’
‘’Tisn’t. Ut’s a drummer.’
‘Ut’s a morwong.’
‘Ut’s a drummer.’
‘My old man’s caught ’undreds o’ morwongs. Ut’s a morwong.’
‘’Tisn’t.’
‘’Tis.’
‘Ay mister? Ain’t that a morwong?’
‘Any mister’d know ut’s a drummer ain’t thet right mister?’
I pointed to the fish and said, ‘Do you wish to know what that is?’
The chorus said, ‘Yeah.’
‘It is a fish. A dead fish.’
Their faces immediately became without expression, and their eyes unwinking, looked at me for a long time.
Then one said, ‘You ain’t funny.’
‘The man at the tobacco shop thought I was very funny.’
‘Yer look funny . . . but y’aint funny see.’
‘I am an Italian.’
‘Y’aint.’
‘I am an Italian.’
‘Y’ain’t. We seen a lot o’ Italians, ain’t we?’
‘Yeah. Italians are little blokes.’
‘Yeah. Tony Pozzi’s Italian. He’s a little bloke.’
‘Many Italians are big like me.’
‘Pigs.’
‘Yeah, pigs.’
‘Big Italians are not pigs.’
‘Big Italians are Greeks. Ain’t they?’
‘Yeah. Old man Sponos.’
‘Yeah. Old man Sponos.’
‘Please do not call me “old man Sponos”.’
‘Y’aint old man Sponos. Old man Sponos’ got the fruit shop.’
‘Yeah. We seen ’im ’undreds o’ times.’
‘I am an Italian.’
‘Y’ain’t. Yer can’t tell a drummer from a morwong.’
‘Italians are little blokes. An’ they know about fish.’
‘Yeah, Tony Pozzi knows about fish.’
‘Tony Pozzi’s got the fish shop. We seen ’im ’undreds o’ times, ain’t we?’
‘Yeah. ’Undreds o’ times.’
‘You do not believe that I am Italian?’
‘No . . . yer too big.’
‘Yeah. An’ yer don’t talk like one.’
‘Yeah, Tony Pozzi talks like one.’
‘Yeah. Old Tony Pozzi. Don-a-touch-a-da fish! Don-a-touch-a-da chip. Get-a buggery out-a-da shop. I give you good-a belt.’
They shouted with laughter, wriggling their toes together, their bent backs showing that I was dismissed. I was an impostor. A fake. I walked sadly away, and back up the hill. In the doorway of a large building, which appeared to be a place where trams were repaired, a man in a dark blue uniform with a leather bag hanging at his side, was smoking a cigarette.
I stopped and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
He looked at me for a while, and said, ‘Wodda yer want?’
‘Excuse me, sir . . . but could you tell me what the name of that vehicle which is now approaching may be?’
‘Wot vehicle?’
‘That one approaching down the hill.’
‘Wot, the tram?’
‘Do you call it a tram?’
‘Wot else would yer call ut?’
I was surprised. I said, ‘That is exactly what we call it in my country.’
‘Wot’s your country?’
‘Italy.’
‘Yeah.’ He looked disbelievingly. ‘Yer don’t look like an Itie ter me. More like a Jerry.’
‘What please, is a Jerry?’
‘A Hun. A German. Or somethin’ that goes under a bed. Something.’
‘I am not a German. I do not like Germans.’
‘Neither do I. Can’t stand ’em. Wot part of Italy yer come from?’
‘Piedmont.’
‘Wot part o’ Piedmont?’
I told him.
‘Wot’s yer name?’
I told him.
‘Yeah. Could be. Was yer old man the mayor?’
I began to get excited. ‘My father is mayor of our village, yes.’
‘Yeah. Yer look a bit like ’im.’
‘It is not possible that you know my father?’
‘Not personally. Knew ’im ter look at. Cranky old bastard.’
He seemed to be referring to me or to my father as a bastard, but I was too curious to be insulted. ‘You have been in my village?’
‘Sort of. I was a prisoner o’ war there. Just outside your dump.’
‘Ah. A prisoner of war. Yes, you were captured by our soldiers in North Africa?’
He appeared to become quite irritable. ‘Captured by your mob? Don’t gimme the tom tits. You Ities couldn’t capture a bloody grasshopper.’
I did not know what this meant, and was trying to puzzle it out, when he said, ‘No, the Jerries got me, mate. Comin’ outa Greece. Sunk the destroyer we was on. Is yer old man still kickin’?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yer old man. Yer padre. Is ’e morto yet?’
‘Non è morto, mio padre. Parla Italiano, Lei?’
‘No, don’t speak yer lingo mate. Picked up a few words, that’s all. Like “dove va” an’ “baccai mi”. Learnt ’em from a sheila.’
‘What please is a sheila?’
‘A sheila? A bint. A ragazza.’
‘Ah yes. Soldiers soon find the ragazze.’
‘Not bad sheilas in your country. I’ll say that fer ’em. Gotta go now, ’ere’s me tram. So long. Be seein’ yer.’
He swung onto a tram, coming out of the shed, and left me thinking of the smallness of the world, and of the ways of soldiers with girls. We thought all our girls were locked up when the Australians were working outside their compound, but apparently some got out. I reminded myself to tell my father. As mayor of the village at the time, he would be most interested. Then I decided, perhaps no. I have sisters.
I walked on up the hill. I was thinking, ‘Supposing I get this job, I will have to tell my boss. He is paying me. It would not be honest to be paid by two people. I will tell him and he will decide what is right to be done. I will tell him how much I earn as a builder’s labourer, and he will decide.’
I stopped outside a hotel called ‘The Mansions’. The bar doors were partly open, and there were a lot of men drinking beer. I was a little thirsty from my walk, so I went in. A woman approached me, and said, ‘Wot’ll ut be?’
‘If you please, I would like to drink some beer
.’
She said, ‘Schooner or middy?’
After a while, I said, ‘If you please, I would like to drink some beer.’
She said much louder, ‘Schooner or middy?’
There was a man alongside me who had no coat on. He said to me, ‘How long have you been in Australia, mate?’
‘I have arrived in Australia today.’
‘That explains ut. Those big glasses are called schooners and those small ones are called middies.’
‘Now I understand,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
The woman said, ‘Schooner or middy?’
‘If you please, I will have a middy.’
The man with no coat said, ‘Have one with me.’
I said, ‘Thank you sir, I would be delighted.’
He said, ‘Two middies, Jean.’ Then to me, ‘Where do you come from?’
‘I am an Italian.’
‘Are you? You don’t look ut.’
‘In Italy,’ I said, ‘there are two kinds of people. Those who live in the north, and those who live in the south. I am of the north.’
‘Are they all big blokes like you?’
‘What, please, is a bloke?’
‘Eh? Oh, everybody’s a bloke. You’re a bloke. I’m a bloke. We’re all blokes.’
‘Oh, I see. Like what the Americans call guys?’
‘Yeah, something.’ He handed me the beer, and raised his own to his lips. ‘Cheers.’
I replied, ‘Cheers,’ and drank some of my beer. It was very good.
He said, ‘Tasted Australian beer before?’
‘No. This is the first time.’
‘Best beer in the world. Puts a gut on yer, though. Wodda yer do for a crust?’
‘I am sorry. I do not understand the Australian patois. Could you please use English words?’
‘Sure, you’ll get used to our slang if yer live long enough. How do you earn your living?’
‘I am a writer.’
‘In Italian?’
‘Yes. In Italian.’
‘They tell me it’s an easy language to learn?’
‘It is not as difficult as English.’
‘Yeah, English is a bastard of a language.’
‘I think Australian is a bastard of a language.’
He laughed, ‘You’re learning already. Your turn.’
‘What is my turn?’
‘Your turn to shout.’
‘Why should I shout?’
‘Because I shouted you.’
‘I did not hear you shout at me.’
He thought for a while and said, ‘I get ut. When you buy a bloke a beer, it’s called a shout, see?’
‘Why is that?’
‘Haven’t a clue, but that’s what it’s called. I shouted for you, now it’s your turn to shout for me.’
‘I was only a little thirsty. I do not think I wish another drink.’
He looked quite stern. ‘In this country, if you want to keep out of trouble, you always return a shout, see?’
‘It is the custom?’
‘Bloody oath it’s the custom. Your turn.’
‘Would it be all right if I bought a drink for you, and did not have one myself?’
‘No it wouldn’t be all right. That’s the worst insult you can offer a man.’
‘Why?’
‘Means you don’t think he’s good enough to drink with.’
‘Oh. Then I will shout.’
‘You better.’ He called to the woman, ‘Jean . . . two more.’
She approached us, and said ‘Something similar?’
I said, ‘Yes. I wish to shout.’
She looked at me as though I had said something wrong, but got two more beers. I raised mine, and said, ‘Cheers.’
My friend said, ‘Cheers.’
I said, ‘Wodda yer do fer a crust?’
‘Me? I do shift work fer the—hey! Did you hear wot you said?’
‘Yes, I said wodda yer do fer a crust.’
‘You got a good memory.’
‘Yes. I am a bloke.’
‘Yer not a bad sorta bloke, either, fer an Itie.’
‘What is an Itie?’
‘An Italian. You.’
‘You do not like Italians?’
‘Aw, they’re all right, I suppose.’
‘Probably you have met only Meridionali.’
‘Wot are they?’
‘Italians of the south.’
‘Could be. Well, gotta be going. Might see yer here again sometime.’
‘Could be.’
He laughed, ‘So long.’
‘So long.’
He laughed again, ‘Won’t take you long ter catch on mate.’ Then he was gone.
The bar was beginning to get very crowded and noisy. I saw it was almost five o’clock. So I crossed the street, and went up to my room. I thought I would telephone this CY 3301 about half-past five. It would not do to appear too anxious. So I sat on the bed, and drafted a story for my boss. About landing in Sydney, about customs people, and policemen, and taxi drivers. Then I went down to the reception desk. I had the number written down on a piece of paper, and I gave it to the young lady there, and said, ‘Would it be possible, please, for you to obtain for me this telephone number?’
She said, ‘There’s a phone in your room, Mr. Culotta.’
‘There is? I did not observe it.’
‘You go back to your room, and just lift the receiver. Then I will get your number for you.’
I said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and went up again. There was indeed a telephone there. I lifted the receiver and the girl answered immediately. I said, ‘This is Mr. Culotta. Would you please . . .’
She interrupted me, ‘Yes, Mr. Culotta. I’ll get your number now. Hold the line, please.’
I waited feeling somewhat nervous. Then she said, ‘There you are.’
Another female said, ‘Hullo.’ I said, ‘Hullo.’ She said, ‘Hullo.’ I said, ‘Hullo.’ The desk girl’s voice said, ‘You’re through go ahead please.’ The other female voice said, ‘Hullo.’ I thought these greetings had gone on long enough. I would change them. I said, ‘Good evening.’ She said, ‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘Mr. Culotta.’
Then there was a pause, and she said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to speak to Joe?’
‘Is it Joe who advertises for a builder’s labourer?’
‘Oh. Yes. Just a minute, I’ll get him.’
I heard her footsteps, and then her voice calling, ‘Joe! It’s fer you.’
Heavier footsteps approached, and a man’s voice said, ‘Who is ut?’
‘Some ding bat after that job.’
‘Ding bat.’
‘He sounds a bit crackers ter me.’
‘Oh.’ Then a loud voice said, ‘’Ullo.’
I had decided that this ‘Hullo’ was the same as our ‘Pronto’. So I said immediately. ‘Am I speaking with Mr. Joe?’
‘Joe Kennedy here. Who’s that?’
‘This is Mr. Culotta.’
‘Who?’
‘Culotta.’
‘You ringin’ about that job?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘New Australian, are yer?’
‘I am Italian, Mr. Joe.’
‘Don’ make no difference ter me, mate. Long as yer can do the job.’
‘I have not the experience, sir. But I am big and strong.’
‘Yer’ll wanter be, mate. Ut’s hard yacker. Diggin’ foundations. Where yer livin’?’
‘I am at the Mayfair Hotel, Kings Bloody Cross.’
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br /> ‘Gawd, yer wanter get outa there, mate. Yer’ll go broke stayin’ there. ’Ow long yer been there?’
‘I arrived from Italy to-day.’
‘Only ter-day? Don’t waste any time do yer? ’Ow y’orf fer togs?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Workin’ togs, clothes.’
‘Oh, I am clothed. Yes, thank you.’
‘Okay. I’ll give y’a go. If yer no good yer don’ get paid. Fair enough?’
‘Do I understand I have the job?’
‘I’ll give yer a start, mate. Be ’ere about seven in the mornin’.’
‘Where, please?’
‘Eh? Oh. Punchbowl.’
‘Punchbowl. That is the name of the place where you are?’
‘Yeah. Punchbowl. Get a train from Town ’All’d be yer best bet. An’ when yer gets ter the station, turn right. No. Yer wouldn’t know how ter nut ut out. I’ll meet yer. Be at the station about seven, an’ I’ll meet yer with the truck.’
‘I am to be at this Punchbowl station at seven o’clock to-morrow morning?’
‘That’s right matey. Seven o’clock.’
‘Very well. How will I recognise you?’
‘Don’ worry about that, mate. I’ll find yer.’
‘Thank you sir. I will try to be on time.’
‘Okay. An’ listen mate. None o’ this sir an’ mister stuff, my name’s Joe. Wot’s yours?’
‘My first name?’
‘Yeah. Yer first name.’
‘Nino.’
‘Orright, Nino. See yer in the mornin’, mate.’
‘See you in the morning, Joe.’
There was a click on the line, and I replaced my receiver. This was good. I had a job. All I had to do now was to find out where this Punchbowl was, and how to get to it, and how long it would take to get to it, so that I would not be late. I would have my dinner, and then find out these things.
CHAPTER THREE
The girl at the desk found out for me. I would have to get a bus to Town Hall station, and then a train. I would have to leave about six o’clock. I would not be able to get breakfast so early, but she told me there was a place around the corner called the ‘Hasty Tasty’ which would be open. It never closed she said. After I had my dinner I went to look at it, so that I would know where to find it in the morning. It was not very elegant—it had a juke box. But it seemed to serve all kinds of meat, with eggs and onions and tomatoes, and some kind of coffee. Even at half-past five in the morning, which was the time I arrived, there were people there. There was a number of men who appeared to be going to work, and there were some horrible people of both sexes, who appeared to be closing a very long evening of enjoyment with much alcohol. They were playing the juke box. They were not sober.
