Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  ‘Why didn’t ya tell me that in the first place? Why’d ya lie?’

  ‘Because I knew you wouldn’t like the idea.’

  ‘You bet!’ she suddenly barks. ‘He’s scum. Ya know what he done? I do. Dora tell me. Ya should ask ’a …’

  ‘I know all about him. He’s a good man, Mum. He is.’

  ‘Is there anythink else ya wanna tell me? ’Cause they’re talkin’ about ya in town again,’ she says. ‘Just like after camp, they’re talkin’ again.’

  ‘Mum, stop it. It’s just talk.’

  ‘Why, why would ya wanna play a game like that nasty Liberty High? Ya tell me, son.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘I seen it. So ya tell me …’

  ‘It’s just a computer game …’

  The springs of the mattress begin to sing as the old girl rocks back and forth.

  ‘Mum? I try to touch her shoulder but she slaps my arm away. ‘Mum? It’s just a game. Why on earth are you asking me that?’

  But she’s not listening. She’s in her own world, rocking back and forth, back and forth each time a little faster. ‘Ya father was a bastard. That’s why he left. But it was me that made Archie go. I knew he’d never get rid of his guns.’ Her eyes are closed like she’s having the conversation just with herself. ‘I musta seen it comin’. I never felt comfortable havin’ me son in a house fulla guns.’

  ‘Mum, stop it. Stop it.’

  Suddenly she springs to her feet. She’s looking at me like Miranda did, her eyes popping as though she’s seen something that’s terrified her.

  ‘I don’t know nothink about ya.’ She’s backing away from me. ‘Ya me son and I don’t know nothink about ya.’

  Mum is in her room and I am in mine. I feel the silence floating between our doorways like cold air on a sunless afternoon in winter. So that’s why she let Archie go. Why she didn’t follow him, convince him to unpack the car and come back inside.

  I remember the arguments they used to have. The hissed and muffled words coming from inside their locked room. The outcome was always the same. Archie’d cancel his hunting weekend and stay home. When the old girl whined, ‘Sell ya gun collection, Arch. Think of the holiday we could go on. Or one of them spa baths we could buy’, I’d assumed she was being childish, a demanding girlfriend. And when Archie put a stop to me hunting with him, I’d been sure it was because he thought I was a sissy.

  ‘You always told me to choose.’ That’s what Archie’d said when he left. ‘But now you’ve gone and done it for me.’

  I roll over onto my side and hug the pillow hard against my chest.

  STRATHVEN FAMILY PIZZA IS SHUT. ‘Closed Monday’ the sign tells me. I give the bottom of the door a kick and the glass rattles. I’m reminding myself of my Monday pledge when I see the reflection of Andrew Parker’s black Mazda stopping in the middle of the road.

  I start to walk back to where I’m parked. Parker trails me along the street, the engine purring as if voicing his pleasure at cornering me. He drives in time with my stride but I don’t look at him; I can see him mirrored in the shop windows. He has one hand on the wheel and he faces the footpath where I walk.

  Parker reaches my car before me. He stops just in front, blocking it so a quick getaway would be impossible. I’m quite happy to sit in a parked car for the rest of the night.

  I think Parker got his taste for power after the Year 10 camp. These days he can’t handle being ignored. It incenses him. But he’s not going to get a rise out of me tonight.

  He winds down the window. I don’t know why, but I turn to face him. The first thing I notice is that the hair on his chin is shaped like a teardrop.

  He stabs his finger at me. His eyes are mean. They sit far back in his head like a fighting dog’s. ‘We’re watching you,’ he spits. ‘Me and the boys. Don’t think we don’t know your every move.’

  ‘I’ve been told that you’re following me,’ I reply. ‘But I can assure you, contrary to popular belief, I’m really not Strathven’s most interesting citizen.’

  ‘Let Strathven be the judge of that.’

  Then he hits the accelerator and screeches away, leaving a cloud of fumes for me to choke on.

  When I arrive home the old girl’s still in her bedroom with the door shut. A splinter of light peeks from under the door and Rod Stewart’s singing her love songs.

  ‘Mum?’ I knock gently. ‘Mum, I went to get pizza but it was closed. I should’ve remembered. It’s Monday. But I got a McCain’s one out of the freezer so I’ll whack it in the microwave. Okay? It’s a meatlover’s.’

  I wait for an answer.

  ‘Mum?’ I knock again. ‘Mum, are you all right?’

  ‘Leave me alone, Damon.’

  ‘Come on. At least have some pizza.’

  ‘Do ya really think I can eat?’

  ‘Of course you can eat. When have you not been able to?’

  ‘Ya don’t get it, do ya?’

  ‘Working for the Pigman isn’t the worst thing in the world. Don’t tell me you’re turning into Mrs La-di-da and thinking it’s a national disaster?’

  ‘Go away, Damon. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Why are you putting on such a big sulk? I told you the truth.’

  ‘Did ya?’ she says. ‘Did ya really tell me the truth about what ya doin’?’

  Whatever I say tonight won’t matter. I’ll have to wait till tomorrow when she’s lying on the couch, eating leftover pizza and watching the soapies. By then it’ll be forgotten and it won’t matter to her what I’m doing. ‘Mum, look I’ll …’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ She spits it with such force that I almost expect her door to fly open.

  Maybe it’s a reflex to that. Maybe it’s not. But I slam the front door hard and from inside I catch the smallest tinkle of glass breaking.

  By the time I turn into Miro’s road I’m almost regretting that I just left and didn’t bother trying harder with the old girl. Perhaps I should’ve talked to her. Perhaps I should’ve just walked into her room and sat on the bed like she did with me.

  But I know for a fact that Mum – or anyone in town – would find it hard to understand why I wanted to work with Miro and why I still do. Mum says he’s scum. Like the rest of the town Mum probably views him as the strange foreigner, the outsider with no ties who doesn’t belong here. But they don’t know him. Not like I do.

  If I was close to Mum, if there wasn’t this ocean of distance between us, I’d tell her how much I like Miro. I’d tell her that she should like him too because he’s good to her son. With Miro, I count.

  Miro and Slatko walk towards us like an official welcoming party.

  ‘Boy and dog?’ Miro says. ‘I not know you two come so soon for visit. You no like your mother’s cooking. Am I right?’

  ‘I didn’t come for dinner,’ I tell him, knowing that won’t make a difference. Food and Miro go together. You can’t have one without the other. ‘Mum wasn’t feeling well so she went to bed. But now you mention it, I haven’t eaten.’

  A plastic bottle of degreaser lotion is tucked under his arm. He wipes his hands on a candy-striped piece of rag. ‘As they say, good timing.’ Miro jokes. ‘I just now finish taking gutses from salami pig.’ He rubs his hands together and grins. ‘He in special chiller waiting for tomorrow.’

  Making the salami will be a gala. We’ll probably share a bottle of brandy while one by one, Miro reveals his prized cooking secrets. The moment of dread is when I have to actually put a piece in my mouth, chew then swallow it.

  But I will because the idea of making salami makes Miro so happy. When he talks about it, he gets a lightness about him almost like he’s lovesick.

  ‘Come, I have beef stew for dinner,’ Miro says, linking his arm through mine. ‘I think it rain tonight, what you think, Demon?’

  ‘No. It’s just teasing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Miro says.

  I follow him into the kitchen. Standing upright against the wall are my and Miro’s rifles. When I g
ive Miro the AK-47, will it be lined up too or will he lock it safely away? Miro says I must be patient and wait. I will because I trust him. But the day I unlock the wardrobe and get rid of that black gym bag will be a cleansing one. It’ll feel like the best scrub of my life.

  Lying on the kitchen’s dirt floor is a mattress covered with the same candy-striped sheeting that Miro used for his hands.

  ‘Are you sleeping in here now?’ I ask.

  ‘This yours,’ Miro says. He pulls out a chair. ‘Sit.’

  ‘What? The bed?’

  ‘Of course. And chair.’

  ‘I didn’t know this stuff was for me.’

  ‘Pfff.’ He shakes his head. ‘Remember I buy this.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I think tonight …’ Miro says as he clears the table of a coffee pot, some jars and a newspaper. He drops it all onto the kitchen bench and returns with an orange cloth. ‘Tonight we eat here,’ he announces. ‘First time.’ He shakes the fabric out like a matador then lays it over the laminate. He pulls at each corner until the cloth hangs perfectly straight. ‘Yes! You like? I also buy. For table.’

  ‘For the table.’

  ‘I say this.’

  ‘But you need to insert what’s called the definite article,’ I tell him.

  ‘I no understand.’

  ‘You say some words – we call them nouns – on their own. For example, “we sit at table”,’ I explain. ‘When it’s really “we sit at the table”. “The”. That’s what’s called the definite article.’

  ‘You think my English no good.’

  ‘No, no your English is really good,’ I say.

  ‘When I get here to Australia, I have only one, two English lesson with teacher. I learn all myself. Very hard for me.’

  ‘Did you know anything about Australia? I can’t imagine we’d have a very big profile in Yugoslavia.’

  ‘We love TV show from your country. It, it in English …’ Miro says, tapping his knuckles on the orange tablecloth trying to recall its name. ‘In English you say Return to Eden. You know?’

  ‘No, but I bet my mother would. Was it a soapie? You know, like a drama?’

  ‘Oh yes, big drama,’ he replies. ‘When I meet your mother, Demon, we will remember together Return to Eden. I look forward to this.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ I say, digging around in my back pocket. It’s the truth, I had forgotten but I am grateful for the diversion. I will never tell Miro what my mother thinks of him. It would be hurtful. He doesn’t need to know. They will never come face to face. ‘Here we go. I bought you some more of the Ships tobacco this afternoon. But I forgot to give it to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Demon. And in return I will give you one bottle of rakija for your mother. I think this fair deal, yes?’

  ‘So did you come to Australia because you liked the look of it from the TV show?’

  ‘Demon, get bottle – get thee bottle of rakija,’ he corrects. ‘Inside caravan. You see under bed, thee bed.’

  It’s hard to imagine Miro and my mother sitting in a room together discussing a TV soap. Would it take place here or at our house? It’d be impossible to get the old girl here, so it’d be at our place in the living room. Perhaps Miro would bring freshly baked burek. Mum’d like the way the buttery pastry melts on your tongue. I imagine her closing her eyes and moaning with delight before helping herself to another.

  A chuckle escapes as I wonder which one of them would do the talking. That’s what Miro and my mother have in common, the never-ending battle for the last word.

  The door of the caravan needs a firm push to open. Then I almost trip on the stiff green carpet that’s peeling off the floor. There are two rooms, or rather one room plus what I’d describe as a toilet cubicle, like a rentaloo, shoved into the corner.

  This is my first time inside the caravan. It’s not made for a man the size of me or Miro. It’s hard to manoeuvre two arms and two legs without bending and squeezing and sucking in the gut.

  Miro’s clean washing is laid out on his bed. Jocks, flannies and t-shirts are divided into neat piles. I try to make myself small as I get down on my knees and feel under the bed for the brandy. My hand touches the glass neck of a bottle. So I reach in further, pull it out and rest it on the bed while I fold myself back up, being careful not to put an arm through the wall.

  ‘What a job,’ I puff.

  I pick up the bottle and am about to squeeze my way back to freedom when I notice one of the t-shirts on the bed. It’s a Rolling Stones shirt. The signature red lips sit against a washed-out background of grey.

  I take the bottle of brandy out to the kitchen. But part of me suddenly feels half-baked, like I’m meant to remember something but I have no idea what.

  Miro has set the table. One bowl is blue and the other is white. One glass is thick like a beer mug. The other is decorated with a picture of Donald Duck.

  ‘Now I have two of everything,’ Miro says. ‘Demon, you pour brandy, thee brandy, I mean.’

  ‘I gather the Disney one’s mine?’

  ‘You like duck? Donald?’

  ‘No. They all pissed me off. I didn’t like any of them.’

  ‘I like wolf. What wolf’s name?’

  ‘I think you mean Goofy.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Goofy. But I no think Goofy good name for wolf.’

  Miro sits the pot of stew in the middle of the table. He hands me the ladle to serve it up while he gets the bread and butter.

  ‘Maybe you take dinner home for mother?’ Miro suggests. ‘And remember bottle of rakija too. Rakija very good for sickness.’

  ‘So tell me about coming to Australia?’

  The mound of bread is almost swallowed up in Miro’s palms as he breaks it in two and passes me my half.

  I spread it thick with butter then dip it into the stew. The meat and broth soak into the bread while the butter melts into a ring of yellow. It’s a delicious mouthful.

  Miro hasn’t started. He’s busy shaking the brandy and watching for bubbles.

  ‘Good brew?’ I ask.

  ‘Not my best,’ he answers. ‘It insult I give to your mother. She must wait for next brew. But tonight, Demon, maybe good if not best brandy.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You and me friends, Demon?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I laugh.

  ‘It time to tell one story,’ he says. ‘You ask me about Australia. Why I come.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, relieved my tactics have worked and we are off the topic of my mother. ‘Tell me the story.’

  Miro picks up his glass, swirling the liquid like a science potion. Then he throws back his head and drains it in one gulp. He’s already reaching for the bottle before the glass is back on the table.

  ‘Demon?’ Miro says. ‘One day you ask me, “Who is Niko?”’

  I stop chewing. This is not the path I meant to lead him down. For the first time, we’re sitting at a table enjoying a meal together. We don’t need to talk about these things. None of it matters any more.

  ‘Demon?’ Miro’s voice is louder. ‘You remember you ask me this one day? “Who is Niko?”’

  All I can do is nod. The half-eaten meat is stuck to my tongue.

  ‘I am Niko,’ he tells me. ‘Niko Tanic.’

  I hear my fork drop into the bowl. But Miro keeps talking. ‘Niko Tanic,’ he says it again like it’s been a long times since he’s heard it out loud. ‘That my name. Not Miroslav Jovic. That name they give me. It is better for me when I come here to Australia to have Miro for name. People not find me.’

  Miro hasn’t looked at me, hasn’t turned his face at all. Instead he stares into his glass as though he can see the reflection of someone in there.

  ‘Who would be looking for you?’ I ask quietly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Demon,’ he answers. ‘Demon, your world very, veery different to my world. Because you live here, in Australia. You not know war. It hard for you to understand.’

  Now it’s c
lear to me. This matters to him. He has picked this time. He’s waited for us to be sitting at a table, sharing a meal, drinking his brandy. Miro wants the conversation to be civilised.

  My back straightens against the chair. Carefully I pick the fork out of the stew and put it on the table. ‘I’d like to understand,’ I say.

  ‘But maybe you no like me. Maybe you no want to be friends.’

  ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘It won’t be like that.’

  ‘You hear this thing before, “war criminal”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am war criminal.’ It’s only now that Miro lifts his face and looks at me. But in a second he’s let me go and has turned away again. ‘War come to my country and boom!’ He clicks his fingers. ‘Suddenly I not know, who can I trust? Who good man? Who bad? My neighbours for all my life, every morning my parents drink coffee with them. They Moslem, my neighbours. My family Orthodox. But it no matter in Bosnia. We all happy. We like family. Then war come and it all change. We all go crazy. Craaazy.’

  Moe’s warnings creep into my head, whispering things like, ‘my family knows what he’s done’, ‘you don’t want to piss the Pigman off’, ‘he’s an evil prick’. My hands hold the side of the chair and squeeze the metal until Moe’s words fade away.

  ‘We all forget who we are and do terrible things. Things –’ Miro sucks in the air. ‘Things I cannot speak of, Demon. Things I see in dream every night. I not know man who do this. It not me, Niko. It beast. We all become like beast.’

  Now my hands are folded on the orange tablecloth. But it makes me feel like Pascoe, like I’m sitting here at the table of judgement. So I tuck them under my thighs where they can’t be seen.

  ‘I don’t understand why you had to change your identity,’ I say. ‘Who’d come looking for you here? In Australia?’

  It takes Miro both hands to pick up the glass and guide it to his mouth.