Turn off the Lights

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘It’s a rambutan, you cretin,’ he’d scream, jumping up and down – well, his version of jumping up and down – in front of the plasma. ‘Why can’t she see that it’s a rambutan?’

  And when the contestants were cooking he’d say stuff like, ‘Ohmigod, I don’t believe it, she’s put her pipe of tempered chocolate in the fridge!’

  So he totally deserved to be selected for Junior Ready! Set! Cook! and have these people over to celebrate and have Dad come home early from work and have Mom all excited like she was, more excited than I’d seen her for ages.

  And it wasn’t as if Mom or Dad could brag about my achievements.

  ‘You should see the lovely brand Dom has on his thigh!’ That wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘If it wasn’t for our boy Dom, Tristan wouldn’t be in a coma.’ Neither was that.

  ‘Dom’s been taking driving lessons, you know. For a bulldozer.’ Ditto.

  I found Toby and gave him a big-brother slap on the back.

  ‘Way to go, Rambutan,’ I said.

  He smiled at me, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. But then he was engulfed by more admirers and whatever he was going to say remained unsaid.

  When I walked through the sliding glass doors and outside, Gus followed.

  ‘How’d training go?’ he asked. ‘Hope that idiot isn’t pushing you too hard before this race.’

  Having two coaches – one at school, the other at home – had always been tricky, and it seemed to be getting even trickier.

  Yesterday, however, somebody had got into Halcyon Grove, broken into Gus’s house and locked him in the toilet, and here he was talking about training!

  What in the hell was wrong with Gus?

  ‘Training was okay,’ I said, and as I did I realised that maybe Gus had it right, that in a world gone crazy it wasn’t such a bad idea to do normal stuff.

  We chatted a bit more about the race before Gus decided to go home.

  I walked back into the lounge.

  ‘So I guess movie night’s off, then?’ I said to Mom, trying to keep the peeve out of my voice.

  Friday night was always movie night and nothing was supposed to interfere with that, not even something as tremendously, incredibly amazing as Junior Ready! Set! Cook!

  ‘Of course not, darling!’ said Mom. ‘We’re going to the later session, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  In a world gone crazy it wasn’t such a bad idea to do normal stuff.

  FRIDAY

  THE JOHNNY DEPP MARKETING MACHINE

  True to her word, Mom was able to get rid of all our guests and we were all set for movie night.

  Just as we were about to get into the car Dad got this phone call.

  Saying Dad got this phone call is a bit like saying Dad exhaled, or Dad inhaled, because Dad is always getting phone calls.

  Getting phone calls is part of his autonomous nervous system.

  I heard him say something about Coast Home Loans, and then he told us that he’d have to make some more calls and maybe he wouldn’t make the movie, but he’d definitely see us afterwards.

  I didn’t really have a clue how my dad made a living except that he was some sort of business tycoon.

  I did know that he was somehow involved in Coast Home Loans, because it had come up a few times in the conversations I’d overheard, or half-overheard.

  And I guess I pretty much took it for granted that he made a lot of money, that we lived in an amazing house, that I went to an expensive school.

  And if this meant that he sometimes missed movie night, then we just had to live with it.

  Tonight it was Miranda’s turn to choose the movie.

  And when she said Alice in Wonderland I sort of wished I could get a phone call about Coast Home Loans, too.

  ‘Alice in Wonderland?’ Toby and I replied in unison, because Alice in Wonderland had been out for a million years already.

  Why go to the cinema and pay to watch a movie when you could download it for free?

  ‘There’s a Tim Burton retrospective on at Palace,’ said Miranda.

  What she was really saying was that there was a Johnny Depp perve-fest on at Palace.

  Like most sixteen-year-old girls, and all sixteen-year-old girl nerds, she’d been totally exploited by the Johnny Depp marketing machine. I don’t even know why they bothered with movies – they could’ve just projected a photo of Johnny Depp for an hour and a half and all those swooning girls would’ve still paid to go. Then they’d Facebook each other, say what an extraordinary performance it was, what a great actor he is, how much they ‘luv hm’.

  So I wasn’t keen to watch Johnny Depp Johnny-Depping all over the place yet again, but one of the rules of movie night was that you had to respect the choices of others, no matter how totally and absolutely crap they were.

  But as soon as Alice disappeared down that rabbit hole, I was captivated. Even more captivated than I was during Four Minute Mile or Born to Run:

  The Sebastian Coe Story or even Saïd Aouita: The Arabian Knight. So captivated I didn’t even notice Johnny Depp Johnny-Depping all over the place. So captivated I wasn’t even irritated by the continual munching from the next seat as Toby worked his way through two buckets of popcorn.

  Because Alice in Wonderland is basically about a kid who, through absolutely no fault of her own, is thrown into a topsy-turvy world where the normal rules do not apply any more.

  Sound familiar?

  When it was finished we walked outside into the blaze of blinking, flashing neon, of people thronging the footpath, and I was still in a bit of a daze. But when I saw Dad standing there waiting for us, tall and handsome in his suit, Patek Philippe watch glinting on his wrist, I snapped out of it.

  I had this rush of pride for my dad. Self-made man, business tycoon. Who still worked all those hours, went on all those overseas trips. I thought of Mom’s charity foundation, all the people it helped, all the stuff it gave away. How it wouldn’t exist without Dad. And I felt a bit guilty because I spent so much time with Gus now.

  ‘Dad!’ I said, running over to him.

  I wanted to give him a hug, and I was going to give him a hug, but I didn’t. Not there, on the footpath, under all those lights, with all those people. Instead, I shook his hand.

  ‘How’d those calls go?’ I said.

  He smiled his dazzling smile.

  ‘Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work,’ he said, quoting some old Roman dude.

  After he’d given Mom a kiss he said, ‘So, people, how do we rate the movie?’

  ‘It was really great,’ I said.

  ‘Somewhat disappointing second time around,’ said Miranda.

  And Toby answered with a burp, the buttery smell of regurgitated popcorn filling the air.

  ‘Where should we go for dinner?’ said Dad.

  Not Taverniti’s, I thought. Please not Taverniti’s.

  ‘What about Taverniti’s?’ said Mom, utilising her acting ability to suggest that this was a novel, possibly totally-out-there, idea.

  ‘Taverniti’s it is, then,’ said Dad.

  We walked there, along the street, past theatres, restaurants, entertainment arcades. Past a gaggle of Japanese tourists taking photos of the famous Manny Hans neon sign. The sign itself wasn’t anything spectacular, it was just an ad for a local firm of electricians, which said, in flashing blue and red, Manny Hans Makes Lights Work. But according to the Guinness Book of Records it was the oldest continually illuminated sign in the Southern Hemisphere. Nearby, a man in an Earth Hour T-shirt was handing out pamphlets.

  ‘You guys didn’t have much luck with this last year,’ said Dad, waving the pamphlet away, pointing to the sign.

  Last Earth Hour some activists, armed with wire-cutters, had tried to sabotage the Manny Hans sign. They hadn’t got very far, though. In fact, one of them had ended up in hospital.

  ‘Those idiots weren’t associated with our organisation,
’ said the man.

  ‘Didn’t one end up with third-degree burns to the dreadlocks?’ joked Dad.

  All us kids laughed at our father’s excellent joke, but the man didn’t find it quite as amusing.

  ‘Like I said, nothing to do with us.’

  As we kept walking Mom said, ‘We won’t be here anyway.’

  ‘We won’t?’ said Dad.

  ‘Bali, remember. The Plummers are getting married.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘It’s a renewal ceremony.’

  ‘Another one?’ said Dad, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Then who’s looking after us?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘Your grandfather,’ said Mom.

  Almost immediately, Miranda had her phone out and was texting away. I knew exactly what she’d be saying, too. bg prty my hse erth hr.

  As we approached Taverniti’s a couple of dishevelled-looking kids approached us, a boy and a girl.

  There were always kids like this on the Coast.

  They were probably living rough, sleeping on the beach, cadging food.

  It was only when they got closer that I realised that these were the kids I’d seen in the hospital yesterday when I was there with Zoe.

  I averted my eyes, went into I-can’t-see-you mode. So, I noticed, did Toby, Miranda, Dad, Mom.

  When the girl said, ‘Can you spare some change for a bus fare?’, none of us said anything.

  But then the boy said, ‘Mrs Silvagni?’

  Mom quickened her pace.

  ‘Mrs Silvagni, it’s me, Brandon? Remember?’

  Dad threw Mom a look, and Mom stopped.

  ‘Brandon?’ she said. ‘Imagine seeing you back on the streets.’

  She switched into full-on professional mode and we had to wait while she rang a few numbers, then put the kids into a taxi with instructions for the driver to take them to a nearby hostel.

  ‘Happy now?’ I thought I heard her mutter to Dad when she rejoined us.

  But it was such a weird thing to say that I figured I must’ve misheard her.

  There was nothing wrong with Taverniti’s itself. It was a really nice restaurant with really nice food and really nice staff. And because they knew us, and knew that Dad was a generous tipper, we always got special personalised service.

  ‘And will you be having three mains again tonight, Toby?

  ‘And are you excited by the new model iMac, Miranda?

  ‘And how is your running career progressing, Dom?’

  That sort of special personalised service. But whenever I was at Taverniti’s I couldn’t help thinking about Imogen’s dad, about how he disappeared, dematerialised, vaporised from here on the day he was re-elected to state parliament.

  After we’d ordered from the waiter, Rocco Taverniti, the owner, came out to make sure everything was okay. Everybody on the Gold Coast knew Rocco Taverniti. Mostly it was because he owned the Gold Coast Tritons, our local soccer team. But he was also involved in lots of other stuff. He was about Dad’s age, I guess. And he was handsome, too. Though in a more woggy way than Dad.

  ‘Buonanotte,’ he said. ‘Com’è la mia famiglia preferita?’

  ‘You know I don’t speakka the wog,’ said Dad, smiling, shaking Rocco’s hand.

  ‘You’re a disgrace, you are!’ said Rocco in a joking voice.

  He talked soccer with Dad for a while, both of them agreeing that the Tritons needed a new striker for next season.

  ‘There’s a couple of Brazilians we’re looking at,’ said Rocco.

  Their conversation, as all conversations in the Gold Coast seemed to do, moved on to real estate.

  ‘See Smithy paid seventeen mill for that place in Mermaid,’ said Rocco.

  As they talked on I recalled what Mr Jazy had said about what would happen when the housing bubble burst, how things would get ‘real ugly’.

  Then Rocco and Mom started talking about a new initiative of the Angel Foundation in which Taverniti’s was going to offer apprenticeships to disadvantaged kids.

  I tried to imagine Brandon in the kitchen wearing one of those chef’s hats, but I just couldn’t.

  ‘If he’s so rich,’ said Toby when he’d gone, ‘why does he still work in a restaurant?’

  ‘Because he’s a workaholic,’ said Mom, looking at Dad. ‘Just like your father.’

  A bottle of French champagne arrived at the table.

  ‘Compliments of Rocco,’ said the waiter.

  ‘Do you think Mr Havilland is still alive?’ I asked.

  Mom gave me a don’t-go-there look.

  ‘Not this again,’ complained Toby.

  Miranda rolled her eyes.

  ‘As I’ve told you many times, I think it’s possible,’ said Dad.

  I imagined Mr Havilland on a beach somewhere. But why would he leave Imogen like that? I re-imagined him on a beach somewhere, with total amnesia, so he didn’t know he had a wife and a daughter, a daughter so beautiful that total strangers in linen suits armed with glossy business cards were desperate to make her the world’s next supermodel.

  ‘Tell us how you met again,’ Miranda said to Mom and Dad.

  Mom squeezed Dad’s hand. Dad squeezed Mom’s hand. Mom made goo-goo eyes at Dad. Dad made goo-goo eyes at Mom. I could’ve killed Miranda.

  Mom launched into the story.

  ‘So as you know, I came out here to do a show in Sydney.’

  ‘Les Mis?’ said Miranda.

  ‘Yes, that’s right – Les Mis. We were doing two shows a day, seven days a week, so when the run finished we decided that a holiday would be in order. In those days, of course, the internet wasn’t what it is today. So some of the other girls and I went into a travel agent’s. And it was the first brochure I saw. Surfers Paradise. Beaches. Sand. Surf. Everything that a Californian gal like me needed.’

  ‘Come on, Mom,’ said Miranda. ‘Sing the song.’

  ‘Yeah, come on, Mom, sing the song,’ said Toby.

  Please not the song, I thought.

  Dad looked adoringly at Mom. Sing the song.

  So Mom sang the song, in her big Hollywood voice, with her big Hollywood hair – well, the chorus anyway, all about California girls.

  Everybody, of course, was now looking at us. A couple of people even clapped.

  ‘Encore,’ yelled some moron.

  ‘A week later I walked into this place,’ said Mom, indicating Taverniti’s with a wave of her manicured hand. ‘Though it was only a small joint in those days, a hole-in-the-wall really. And there were these two good-looking men sitting at a table.’

  Now it was Mom’s turn to look at Dad adoringly.

  ‘They were a bit scruffy, perhaps, but still very good-looking.’

  This was the one part of the story I always had trouble with, because I couldn’t, no matter how much I tried, imagine my dad as ‘scruffy’.

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I said.

  Dad looked annoyed, like he thought I just didn’t want to hear the rest of the story. And he was right, I didn’t. Because the other good-looking but scruffy man sitting with Dad when Mom walked in that night had been the now-vaporised Mr Havilland.

  I ignored Dad and headed to the toilets. Afterwards, instead of turning right to where my family was sitting, I turned left.

  Don’t ask me why, I just did. Or maybe I was thinking about Imogen’s dad again, wondering how he could have just disappeared like that. I came to a door, so I pushed it and it opened into a narrow back lane.

  ‘Chi è?’ somebody said.

  I closed the door behind me and now I could see that the voice belonged to an old man who was sitting on an upturned cooking-oil drum. At his feet were five or six tough-looking alley cats. He was feeding them cubes of salami, talking to them in Italian.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  He looked up at me. Now I recognised him: it was old Mr Taverniti.

  When I was a little kid he was the one who would greet you at the door, show you to your favourite table, tell you abou
t the day’s specials. I hadn’t really noticed when he’d stopped doing this, when the next generation of Tavernitis had taken over, but they obviously had.

  I remember thinking he’d been old back then. Now, I guess, he was ancient.

  ‘Issettiti,’ he said to me.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ I said.

  ‘Calabrian,’ he said, his voice creaky. ‘I am speaking the dialect from Calabria.’

  ‘Well, I definitely don’t speak that,’ I said.

  He patted the oil drum next to him and said, ‘I asked you to sit down.’

  I did as he asked. He tossed the rest of the salami onto the ground and the cats squabbled over it.

  After studying my face for a while he said, ‘And how is your grandfather?’

  ‘My dad, you mean?’ I thought that he couldn’t be talking about Gus, because Gus didn’t like eating out very much, especially not at Taverniti’s; Gus hated Taverniti’s.

  ‘Giuseppe?’ said old man Taverniti.

  Okay, he had meant my grandfather, though Gus also hated being called Giuseppe. ‘That stupid peasant’s name,’ he called it.

  ‘So how do you know my granddad?’ I said.

  ‘He was a good runner.’

  ‘He was,’ I said, and then I added just about the only Italian I knew, ‘Buon corridore.’

  ‘In Calabrian we say fui bono,’ said the old man.

  I gave that a go.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  Suddenly the photo I’d seen that day in Gus’s drawer flashed in my mind.

  ‘So did you know my grandfather’s brothers?’ I asked. ‘The twins?’

  ‘Gemelli?’ he said. ‘The twins?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  Old man Taverniti was looking right at me, with eyes that seemed much younger than the ancient head they resided in.

  He said something in Calabrian, softly.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said. ‘What did you say?’

  I heard the door behind me creaking open.

  ‘Dominic, there you are!’

  I looked around to see Rocco.

  ‘We’ve all been looking for you,’ he said. ‘Your entrée is on the table.’

  I’d rather have stayed here, found out what old man Taverniti had said, talked to him further, but Rocco just stood there, glaring at me, and I had no choice but to get up. As I walked back past the toilets I could hear old man Taverniti and his son talking in Calabrian. Of course I had no idea what they were saying, but it was the son who was doing most of the talking, and from the tone of his voice, he seemed to be telling his father off.