The Jesus Man, Page 2

  —The cunts, the cunts, the cunts. Spiro Matheopolous was singing his disgust.

  Only Dominic sat quietly. He was thinking, Mum will be furious.

  He jumped up, took his thick history book and threw it against the back wall, towards the map. It crashed into the solemn face of the Queen. The snakeskin withered to dust and the glass fell as confetti to the floor. The room was immediately silent. He turned around, triumphant. Miss Ahrn smiled and Mr Clifford coughed nervously.

  —Stefano, clean that mess up. The rest of you, go outside. There will be an early break.

  Dominic did not move. His fellow classmates filed out into the yard. Mr Clifford glanced at him, then at the quiet Miss Ahrn, and he too left. The teacher and the student stood watching each other. She was the first to move.

  —I’ll help you clean up.

  The woman bent over and with an exercise book began scraping up the glass. Dominic crouched, watching the slow movement of her hands. Her long hair fell around her face, still wet from tears, and her tight sweater stretched across her thin breasts. The boy, clumsily, began to scoop up glass with his hand.

  —No, Dom, get a broom and a pan.

  The boy scrambled. He returned, handed them to the teacher and sat down next to her. He watched her collect the glass, sweep the dust. Her hands were long, thin, no polish on her nails. She finished her task and smiled at him, handing him back the pan.

  —Empty it.

  He touched her skin.

  —And this? He held up the portrait which had come loose from the frame. Without a word, Miss Ahrn took it then tore it into pieces. Dominic listened to the tearing then laughed. They laughed together.

  In the yard the school was dividing into factions. Dominic walked over to where three boys were sitting on a fence, their backs to the road. He sat with them.

  —What you reckon, Dom?

  —About what?

  —Jesus, what do you reckon, dickhead? Whitlam’s sacking.

  —I reckon it stinks.

  —Bound to happen. This from Zalate. He’s an idiot.

  —Why?

  Zalate didn’t answer that.

  —Funny it should happen today.

  —Why?

  —You know, Gallipoli.

  —What the fuck? Harry glanced around quickly, took a pack of Winfield from his shirt pocket. He handed them around. Dominic saw that Mr Zeidars was looking at them. The teacher turned his back and Dominic took the smoke.

  —Not fucking Gallipoli, you ignorant Croat cunt, it’s Armistice Day.

  Zalate shrugged.

  —You know what I mean, the minute silence for all the Aussies slaughtered by the Turks.

  Harry giggled.

  —Good on the Turks.

  The boys stopped talking. A thin pale girl slid up to them.

  —Can I speak to you, Dom?

  Dominic nodded. The other boys moved on, a few metres away, pretending ignorance. Cheryl climbed up next to him.

  —Have you been thinking about what I said?

  —Whitlam’s been sacked.

  Cheryl wasn’t looking at him.

  —I don’t know anything about that. She looked at him. I don’t give a shit about that. She grabbed his smoke, puffed and handed it back.

  —Well?

  —Well what?

  —What are we going to do?

  Cheryl was the first girl Dominic had fucked. Standing up, a bedroom at a party, ‘The Song Remains the Same’. Jeans still on, her fingers on his arse, a matter of minutes. The first thrust had hurt, a little, as if his foreskin was tearing, then once in, she was grimacing, breathing hard, not enjoying it, but for him it had felt terrific, it had felt warm. He came and cried at the same time. They had done it again and again. Stupidly, without thinking of the consequences, but it wasn’t consequences he had wanted to think about. He kept wanting to return to her warm cunt. His mother talked of heaven, said that God existed but heaven did not. But God and heaven were there, together, in Cheryl’s cunt.

  —What do you want to do?

  —Keep it?

  She didn’t know. She was asking him. She was frail, small tits, freckles and dirty blonde hair. Her stomach still flat. He no longer wanted the rush of her sex, not since the baby. The baby inside her made him stop wanting to fuck her. Made him stop wanting to be with her.

  —We can’t.

  We, which we? Me, you, the baby? God?

  —I told my mum.

  —Jesus Fucking Christ! He threw the cigarette at her, she ducked; the boys looked up, then quickly looked away.

  —Did you tell her it was me?

  Cheryl got furious.

  —She didn’t have to ask. You’re the only one I’ve been with.

  Dominic took her hand, she let him. The teachers were calling the students, an assembly was forming. Mr Zeidars came up.

  —Fall to assembly. He reached into Harry’s pocket and took the cigarettes. If I catch you again … The threat was left open. They moved on, Mr Zeidars behind them, and Dominic let go of Cheryl’s hand.

  She whispered in his ear, Mum says you have to pay for it, and then she rushed off.

  They were let off early. Dominic avoided Cheryl, searched for his brother. He found Tommy in the library, playing chess with Glenn, a cretin. Dominic knocked away the pieces with a wave of his hand.

  —Let’s go.

  Sulking, Tommy stood up. Glenn whimpered but did not attempt to argue with the older boy. A quick goodbye, then Tommy followed after his brother.

  The sacking was everywhere, in the air, on radios, in the milk bar where Dominic stopped for fags. The street that headed home was full of factories. Outside, workers in their blue overalls and aqua uniforms were arguing. Curses, obscenities everywhere. Dominic walked ahead, thinking of Cheryl. Tommy kicked stones up the street.

  —Why did they sack him?

  Dominic turned round, his brother had stopped, was looking up to him.

  —’Cause he was a good man. That’s what they do to good people.

  When they arrived home, their mother was already there, still in her pale blue factory dress.

  —Go pick up the baby from Yiota’s, she ordered Tommy. The boy complained but headed off. Dominic sat down. His mother could not stand still, she was pacing the kitchen, her lungs devouring the cigarette. Dominic reached for one, and this time she did not stop him.

  —Where’s your fucking father?

  —At work? This was offered quietly.

  —He should be on fucking strike.

  —Maybe he’s at the pub.

  Maria stopped, looked sharply at her son.

  —That’s the problem with the Australians. They are probably all at the pub, drinking, talking. Her voice rose. Instead of doing. She broke into Greek curses and Dominic looked out of the window.

  In his bedroom his mother had placed a holy icon, the Virgin and the Child. An old broken piece of wood, the picture faded. Sometimes a small candle was lit, floating in oil, and placed next to the icon. A portrait of Whitlam stood beside it. His mother rarely talked of God, gave Him no definition. But she spoke of the Panagia, the Virgin, and she spoke of the Prime Minister. He could hear her, she was wild, swiping the air with her fists and cursing her fate. Listening to her brute fury, Dominic was scared.

  Tommy arrived with the baby and Yiota. She was frightened. The two women rushed to each other with long cries. All Greek, fast, furious, and Dominic could not understand them. He was holding the baby, Lou was struggling in his arms, and Tommy, scared, ran to the television.

  The emerging sound from the lounge room halted the women’s tears. They too rushed to the television. Dominic stayed in the kitchen, playing with Lou, lifting the baby up high on his knee, dropping him onto his lap, repeating the game. Lou gurgled, smiled. Dominic could hear the channels changing, the click of the dial, Tommy complaining.

  —Quick, quick, Dom, his mother called. Come here.

  Whitlam was on the television, camera in his face, a
crowd before him.

  —Look what a giant he is, his mother praised.

  —What’s he saying? Yiota asked.

  His mother translated. That only God can save that slut’s crawling slave, that bastard John Kerr, because the people are going to hang the animal.

  His mother never referred to Elizabeth Windsor as Queen. She was simply the Poutana.

  Yiota shook her head.

  —There will be war.

  —There has to be war, thundered his mother. A revolution. She was excited, beneath the tears there was an excitement. This is a coup, this is another junta.

  Yiota crossed herself.

  Dominic watched Whitlam. All strength.

  The phone rang. His mother rushed to it. She came back, frowning.

  —It’s Cheryl. Be quick.

  Cheryl was crying.

  —Dom, what are we going to do?

  He whispered, pulling tight on the phone cord, trying to shelter in the safety of his bedroom. He could see his mother and his brother intent on the television.

  —We have to get rid of it.

  His own words shocked him. He turned his back to the icon. Cheryl said nothing, only sobbed.

  —I’ll go with you.

  —Mum says we can’t go to a hospital. More sobbing. She doesn’t want any questions asked. She knows a doctor who’ll do it. A scream in the background. Jesus, Dom, she’s threatening to call the cops on you.

  Dominic cleared his throat. Stay calm. Whitlam had disappeared from the screen. A journalist’s head, bobbing rapidly.

  —How much will it cost?

  —Three hundred dollars.

  —Fucking hell. Dominic groaned.

  —Mum says you have to pay for it.

  Dominic did not reply. He understood the justice.

  —When?

  —Soon.

  An awkward silence.

  —I love you, Dom.

  He said nothing. He heard her sniffing.

  —What are you doing?

  —I’m watching Whitlam, on the TV.

  —Who fucking cares about Whitlam?

  He slammed the phone on her.

  —What did she want?

  —Nothing.

  —I don’t like her.

  Dominic stared hard at the television.

  —Don’t trust the Australian girls, Dom. His mother pointed to the black and white images on the television. See what they do to people who like dagos in this country, see what they do to Whitlam because he cared about us migrants. Don’t trust the Australians.

  —I am Australian. His shouting made the baby cry. His mother picked Lou up, stared down at the sullen Dominic.

  —You’re not, she said in Greek. Maybe when they stop calling you wog. Her voice was cruel, he was shocked that she was laughing at him. In English.

  —You’re a wog, aren’t you, wog boy, that’s what Cheryl calls you behind your back, no?

  —Shut the fuck up!

  His mother turned away from him.

  —Maybe you are Australian. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up. That’s what they’ve been telling me for years.

  Dominic was slapped by her sadness.

  The cat sprawled at his touch and he rubbed her fat belly. Across the street the factory was all banging and whirring of machines. The cat’s purring was the only softness.

  His mother did not allow the cat in the house, she had to shelter underneath. She trusted only Dominic, took food straight from his hands. He rubbed her belly, felt the sharp ridges of the scarring.

  —Hey cat, Dominic whispered, you pregnant too?

  Every few months Dominic was sent to drown the new litter in the river.

  —Hey, Dom, is it World War Three in there?

  The cat ran off, a sleek flash, at Artie’s voice. He kicked after her.

  —Mum’s pretty angry.

  —I thought she would be. Artie dropped his bag, sat down next to his son and offered him a cigarette. The man was sweating, his hands black from the grease of the machines.

  —Bad news, bad news.

  Dominic did not answer.

  —That’s the end of a Labor government for another twenty years. Artie nudged his son. Don’t listen to your mum, she thinks like a Red. She doesn’t know Australia, sometimes I think she never will. People like it slow here, like it easy. They don’t like change.

  —Where were you?

  Maria was behind the screen door, arms folded. Artie did not turn around.

  —At work, where else?

  —I thought maybe the pub.

  —Oh Jesus, Maria, give us a break.

  She opened up the door and stood above them.

  —I’m on strike.

  Artie swiftly turned around.

  —Have they called a general strike?

  —They will.

  Dominic watched a dog across the street squat and piss in the factory’s driveway.

  —Well, I’ve heard nothing about it.

  —This is a coup, Arto.

  Dominic stood up.

  —I’m going to the park.

  Maria shook her head.

  —You’re staying home tonight.

  —Let the boy go, what’s he going to do, stay home listening to your raving?

  —Aren’t you upset? the son quizzed the father.

  —Yes. Artie stood up, messed the boy’s hair. But it’s the end of Whitlam. He faced his wife. No amount of complaining is going to change that.

  By that night the house was crowded with visitors. His Uncle Peter and his Aunt Elisabet; the Kyriakous from down the road; the drunk, Colin McCabe, his father’s work friend. Yiota helped Maria with the food and the drink and the kitchen clouded with smoke. Tommy sat with the baby in the lounge room and Dominic sat with the adults. Tonight they let him smoke in front of the relatives. The conversation was all politics, all anger. A young woman from the biscuit factory, a Yugoslav, arrived and he was entranced by the beauty of her broad features. She said little, and when she did she spoke softly. Dominic watched the fine threads of hair on her arms.

  The phone rang and it was his Uncle Joe from Western Australia. His mother answered the call and she returned, stern.

  —It’s for you, she said to her husband. All contempt. He’s celebrating.

  The room went quiet. Unlike the others, Dom did not strain to hear the conversation from the hall. The Slav woman was wearing an orange dress patterned with white leaves. He imagined fucking her and the desire was too sweet; his crotch, his face, they felt as if they were burning.

  The next morning there was no school. Though initially protesting, Artie gave in and followed his wife and children to the demonstration. Dominic walked ahead of his family, not looking behind, keeping his distance. Outside Town Hall an immense crowd had gathered, through which Maria proudly weaved her pram. Tommy held tight to his brother’s shirt, fearful of the noise, overwhelmed by the mass of people. Men with megaphones walked through, calling for action. All placards and ribbons. The police were everywhere, a long line of blue, watching, waiting. The protesters chanted and screamed and, carried away, Dominic began chanting with them. They marched through the streets, and his blood released a venom that became a passion that became a hate. A very thin blond policeman passed by his side. Dominic spat. On the footpaths strangers stood and watched. He could not understand their reticence, for in the middle of this crowd Dominic had found a voice that made him strong. He screamed poison and his voice rose above Cheryl, rose above the child in her womb, the temptation of her cunt. Safe within the crowd, Dominic urged murder.

  He did not listen to the speeches. The men with the megaphones were too far away, their talk senseless. He looked up at the sweep of the Parliament steps, then down the stretch of boulevard. The vast crowd was behind him, around him. Beside him his mother was crying; his father, sullen, bored, smoked a cigarette.

  Strike. The word began slowly, then moved serpentine throughout the crowd. His mother was fire, alive with the word. Strike,
strike, strike. Banging, thumping, clapping. The crowd pushed forward, mocking the block of frightened police protecting the steps. Dominic slapped his hands together, took the word and threw it back; the world spoke in one voice. Strike.

  Then there was a silence, another man on the podium, urging patience and restraint; the crowd descended back to peace. The tight fence of policemen stood firm across the steps. A final applause, a retreat, and then it was over.

  And back at home, as his brother turned the television on, and his mother stirred the coffee, Dominic found that all the strength from the morning had left him. Cheryl came back and the thought of her was obscene. He yelled, I’m going out, and ran from the house.

  Tiger snakes lived in the park. Last summer a young girl had been bitten, had died. This is what was said. Dominic lumped hard on the grass, announcing his presence.

  The park, the great grounds of the river, was empty. He slashed through the grass, keeping to the water’s edge. The foliage was all dark greens and shades of yellow. He walked towards the prison. The construction sites were quiet, huge piles of stone and dirt ready for the freeway. That’s the future, his father had said, pointing towards morning, a house out east.

  The prison’s grey walls were impenetrable. He touched the granite. Behind the prison lay an empty stretch of grass; on one side a hospital protected by wire fencing, on the other a stretch of the city. A small city. Dominic sat on the grass, lit a cigarette, looked at the thin spires on the horizon.

  An old man was walking a black labrador. Both animal and human walked slowly, both elderly. Dominic recognised the man, one of the faces he had grown up with, saw in the milk bar or coming out of the pub, a familiar stranger. The man was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and faded blue jeans, baggy, folds of denim fluttering around his spindly legs. The dog barked, once, and Dominic gestured.

  It was a licky dog; his face got wet. He pushed the animal away.

  —Rex, come here!

  The old man’s voice was harsh.

  —It’s right, mate, he ain’t bothering me.

  Dominic got up and they stood together, looking out to the city.

  —No school today?

  —Nah. Nervously. Went to a demo.