Looking for Alibrandi

  “That’s rubbish. If your father’s a garbage collector, you’re going to be a garbage collector, and if your father’s filthy rich, you’re going to be filthy rich because he’ll introduce you to his rich friend’s son. People breed with their own kind. Rest assured that John Barton will marry one of the Poison Ivys of the world, just like his brothers have married daughters of the well-known. The rich marry the rich, Josie, and the poor marry the poor. The nerds marry the nerds and the wogs marry the wogs. The western suburbs marry the western suburbs and the north shore marry the north shore. Sometimes they crossbreed, though, and marry into the eastern suburbs.”

  She sighed sadly, shivering from the cold breeze that was coming from the water. “And we all end up where we started.”

  “That’s not true. My future has nothing to do with what my family did.”

  “Josie, whether you want to admit it or not, you are going to be a barrister because of your father. Without being there he’s still managed to be the greatest influence of your life.”

  The sun went completely and we cuddled up to each other for warmth.

  “This is depressing me.”

  “You? I’m the one who doesn’t know what she’s going to do with her life,” she wailed.

  We stood up and began walking toward the stairs that led to the main road.

  “How about being a cop?” I suggested.

  She gave me a sour look. “Your cousin is going to be one. He probably thinks I’d want to be close to him.”

  We both laughed, trying to keep the hair out of our faces and having to walk backward for a few seconds to achieve it.

  “You know what? I’d like to join the circus. I’ve wanted to do that ever since I read Mr. Galliano’s Circus by Enid Blyton,” she stated.

  “How about a journalist?”

  “They twist words and print rubbish.”

  “A flight attendant?”

  “They clean toilets on planes.”

  “A teacher?”

  “Hate kids.”

  “So what would you be doing in a circus?”

  “I’d be a fortune-teller,” she said, wrapping her tie around her head. “I would tell the yuppies that the stock market was going to fall and watch them go berserk.”

  “Tell me my fortune, Madame Lee,” I said theatrically.

  She grabbed my hand and looked at my palm.

  “You, my dear Josephine, will travel the world in pursuit of happiness and find it.”

  “Where? In Rome? Paris? New York?”

  “Redfern. He will make you happy and give you ten bambinos. You will breed with this man and the world will follow your example of crossbreeding. They will call it the ‘Alibrandi’ method and you will become famous.”

  “Jacob Coote? Get out of here.”

  “He was staring you out like crazy in there. For God’s sake, Jose, I’m envious. He is hot. He is without pretension. He’s the only person I know who will not put up with your melodrama.”

  “Melodrama? Thanks a lot.”

  “Jose, believe me,” she said when we stopped at the top of the stairs that led to the road. “Your problems are out there, I believe that. But they’re small. They only grow out of proportion when they climb inside your head. They grow because of insignificant people like Carly and Poison Ivy and Sera, who feed on them because they know how you feel.”

  I looked at her and nodded with a smile, and we gave each other a small, embarrassed hug.

  After we went our separate ways I sat at the bus stop talking to my cousin Robert’s best friend, who goes to St. Anthony’s. His bus came soon after, and before I knew what was happening, Jacob Coote was sitting next to me.

  “Who was that?” he whispered angrily.

  “Jacob, get lost. That really upset Anna. You don’t know how sensitive she is.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Listen, we’ll start over again, okay.”

  I looked at his clear green eyes, which always seemed so warm and sincere no matter how bad he looked at times. Eyes, my mother told me, never lie.

  “Did you end up watching the movie that night?” I asked sulkily.

  “No, I went and picked up a girl and screwed her brains out.”

  I looked at him, unamused, knowing he was lying.

  “That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “I went home,” he said gently. “Satisfied?”

  I looked around at anything but him and he leaned forward and kissed me slowly on the mouth.

  “Another chance,” he said. “We were both hotheaded and I said things I didn’t mean. I’ll never say them again. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “And never lie again?”

  He kissed me again and I looked around, embarrassed.

  “People will see,” I said, stepping away. “We’re at a bus stop.”

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, looking pleased with himself.

  “You’ll have to come over again and redeem yourself with my mother,” I told him honestly. “She was very unimpressed.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve lived through it once.”

  I hugged him quickly, noticing that the bus was approaching.

  “I’ll meet you at Harley’s at four-thirty tomorrow.”

  “I work.”

  “Hell,” he cursed. “How about after work?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Wanna cut?”

  I looked around, agitated. I didn’t want to do things behind my mother’s back, but there was no other time to see him.

  “Poison Ivy wouldn’t cut.”

  “You’re not Poison Ivy. You’re no saint, Josephine, so don’t try acting like one.”

  I covered my face and shook my head. “Okay,” I said. “Eight-thirty Friday morning at Circular Quay.”

  He looked excited and I was pleased. Captain of Cook High, leader among the boys of the school community and voted sexiest male in the rebel St. Martha’s poll, and he was excited because I was going out with him.

  He kissed me quickly this time and looked up when the bus stopped.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I stepped on the bus, waiting for the person in front of me to pay.

  “I’ll take you to go and see that prejudice movie,” he yelled.

  “Pride and Prejudice,” I called out. “It’s very romantic.”

  I sat on the bus grinning from ear to ear, and wondered if I’d have something interesting to confess at confession next quarter.

  Sixteen

  I SKIPPED SCHOOL on Friday and went to Manly with Jacob Coote.

  When I think of it now, cutting in a St. Martha’s school uniform was pretty stupid, but I was so caught up with seeing him that I didn’t care. He was waiting for me by the quay and I felt as if I was going to be sick when I saw him. I mean, he’s the first guy who’s ever passed the test, because usually when I like a guy I get instantly turned off when he likes me back.

  But when he winked at me, my heart melted.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” he said, lighting a cigarette and putting an arm around my shoulders.

  “I didn’t think you would either.”

  He paid for my ferry ticket and I allowed him to because I didn’t want to get into an argument about me paying for myself just yet.

  It was the most glorious day. Sometimes there are these beautiful days in the middle of winter, and Friday was one of them. The sun caressed our faces. People were walking around looking happy and street entertainers were singing and dancing along the pier.

  It was the most beautiful day of my life.

  To give you a rundown on Jacob is very hard. Sometimes he speaks really stupidly and doesn’t know what I’m talking about, and other times he speaks really well, and I don’t understand what he’s talking about.

  Sometimes he’s a tough guy and I can imagine him bashing someone’s head in, and other times he’s this real nice sensitive guy who s
miles at babies and helps old women across the street. He smokes dope, drinks and I think he sleeps with a lot of girls, but on the other hand he really loves his family and has respect for people.

  He looks like a grot sometimes because of his hair and earring and wild look, but when he smiles it’s warm and sincere. Never ever fake.

  For lunch we sat on the beach and ate fish-and-chips off butcher paper.

  “Mum used to bring me down to the beach when I was a kid,” he said, leaning back on the sand with his hands behind his head.

  “We used to go to the beach every Boxing Day with my grandmother’s relatives,” I told him, laughing at the memory. “Ever seen those big Italian families at a beach picnic? It’s not your typical sausage on the barbecue. It’s the spaghetti leftovers from the day before, schnitzel, eggplant and all these other fancy things. I used to envy the Aussie kids who had a piece of meat between their bread.”

  “And the Aussie kids with the piece of meat between their bread probably envied you.”

  “Of course. Grass on the other side, et cetera,” I agreed.

  I lay back on the sand next to him, silence reigning for a while.

  “Do you miss your mum a lot?”

  “Yep,” he said, closing his eyes. “I mean, it’s been a while, but sometimes I think of her. I think my sister Rebecca misses her the most because she’s a girl and they used to talk all the time.”

  “How old is Rebecca?”

  “Twenty-four, I think. She’s married to Darren, who’s just bought the garage he’s been working in for the last couple of years and they’ve just had a baby. She used to work at the university library and had a completely black wardrobe. My father hated it.”

  I laughed, thinking of my mother. “So it’s just your dad and you at home?”

  “Most of the time. Dad’s girlfriend Eileen stays over a lot and looks after us because we’re hopeless with the food and cleaning and all.”

  “Are they engaged?”

  “God, no. Why should they be?”

  I looked at him and shrugged.

  “I suppose it’s the different cultures. I mean, Italians don’t live with a guy unless they’re rebel Italians in the first place.”

  “Was your mother a rebel Italian?”

  “My mother was a naive Italian. She didn’t have me just to make a statement. She had me because . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t even know, but in those days you didn’t do things like she did.”

  “How about if she was married and her husband died, would she live with a guy or marry him?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

  “Want to know the truth?” I murmured. “Most Italians who’re older, just say in their forties or fifties, they don’t remarry, unless they’re men of course. Men can’t do without.”

  “Without what?”

  “Without everything. But women, God, no. People would talk. They’d say that she didn’t wait long enough, or she’s making a fool of herself. An Italian woman has to wear black for ages. It’s not a written law or anything, but if she doesn’t, people will talk. If she gets involved with a man within a year people say that she’s a sex maniac. It’s all rather political, mourning is. There are rules.”

  “Bloody hell, you’re all weird. What would you do?”

  “Me? I’d like to be a rebel Italian. I’d like to shock everyone and tell them to stick their rules and regulations. If anyone ever died, I’d wear bright colors to the funeral and laugh the loudest. But I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I looked at him and wondered if he understood.

  “Because I have no father. Because if I did all those things, hypocrites would shake their heads smugly and say, ‘See, I told you she couldn’t amount to anything.’ They’re waiting for me to make an error so they can compare me and my mother.”

  “But what’s the big deal? Everyone has babies without being married these days. Everyone lives together and gets remarried,” he said, turning on his side.

  I shook my head. “I can’t explain it to you. I can’t even explain it to myself. We live in the same country, but we’re different. What’s taboo for Italians isn’t taboo for Australians. People just talk, and if it doesn’t hurt you, it hurts your mother or your grandmother or someone you care about.”

  “I’d hate them all. I’d hate to be Italian.”

  “No.” I smiled, looking at him. “You can’t hate what you’re part of. What you are. I resent it most of the time, curse it always, but it’ll be part of me till the day I die. I used to wish when I was young that my mother had made a mistake and that my father wasn’t the son of an Italian, but an Australian. So I could be part of the ‘in crowd,’ you know. So if you said, ‘Let’s go away for the weekend,’ I could say, ‘Hey, sure thing.’ But there is this spot inside of me that will always be Italian. I can’t explain it in any other way.”

  “And your dad?”

  “I met him for the first time a couple of months ago. I’m working with him at the moment.”

  “No joke?” he asked incredulously.

  I shook my head.

  “He’s a barrister, and although I didn’t want to, I like him a lot. He’s honest and not a hypocrite and I sometimes want to hate him for what he did to my mother, but it’d be stupid to hate someone for something they did eighteen years ago. I mean, you could change heaps, couldn’t you?”

  He leaned over and kissed me quickly.

  “What was that for?” I asked, embarrassed, but laughing.

  “I like the way you talk. I like the way you think. So much passion behind those eyes. So much to say.”

  I shrugged.

  “A lot makes me angry. Maybe angrier than most because of the so-called sin surrounding my birth. So much pointing and talking.”

  “We used to make fun of you, you know?”

  “Oh, great. Confession time,” I groaned.

  “This was years back when we had community week and you had to get up there and say what your school was doing,” he said, pulling me down to lie with him. “I know now that beauty is skin deep and all that shit.”

  I looked at him incredulously.

  “Meaning I’m still ugly but you’re getting accustomed to my face?”

  “I’ve grown accustomed to you,” he said, looking down at my body. “You’re just not what I’m used to.”

  “Well, I’m so sorry, Jacob,” I said in a mock submissive tone. “I’ll try hard. I promise to be the type you go out with. Please give me another chance.”

  “And you’ve got the biggest mouth I’ve ever met.”

  “Lovely. Why am I lying on the beach with a boy who’s insulting me?”

  “Because you’re attracted to me sexually.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me.

  When I think of it, it was my first passionate kiss. Paul Sambero kissed me in Year Eight, with no tongue contact whatsoever, but Jacob’s tongue went straight in before I could think of anything else and I was so worried because I didn’t know what to do.

  Jacob, when kissing me, has a habit of putting his hands all over my face and he even pushed up my glasses so I was half blind, but who needs eyes when kissing? I loved it. No dramatics like in the romance novels, but different. Intimate, because part of him was inside part of me. Tasting someone’s breath is so spiritual.

  Fifteen minutes later I was an expert. That’s all you need. I think I was even getting the upper hand, which is very simple with a guy. Anything seems to turn them on.

  It was difficult to get any further than that because we were on a public beach and I was scared we’d be seen by someone I knew, so we took the ferry back and as I sat with my head against him and listened to his heart beat, I felt that I would never be closer to another human being again.

  I felt so in touch with him. I had never felt like that before. Jacob Coote knew who I was. I didn’t have to impress him with clever conversation or anything. Maybe I just had to educate him a
bit, just like he had to educate me.

  We kissed again on Circular Quay and he said he’d call me. I waved and walked to the chambers, wanting to tell Michael all about it, but I knew I couldn’t.

  I’m in love.

  I don’t want to be in love with Jacob Coote. I want to be in love with John Barton and have people look upon me with envy, but John doesn’t make me feel like this. I’m beginning to realize that things don’t turn out the way you want them to.

  And sometimes, when they don’t, they can turn out just a little bit better.

  Seventeen

  REALLY GETTING TO know Michael Andretti took place during the June holidays when I went to Adelaide with him.

  We had kind of established a relationship during my afternoon stints at work with him, but most of the time he made me photocopy and make him coffee. If they’re handing out degrees for photocopying, I’m sure I’ll get honors.

  I’m still shocked by how fast things are going between us. Six months ago I hadn’t met my father and I didn’t want to. These days I see him three times a week, and the days I don’t see him, he rings me. Somehow we’ve developed a great relationship. We’re still stilted and a bit embarrassed around each other but there is a great respect there. I never really thought I would respect my father.

  “If you’re so rich, why are we driving to Adelaide and not going first class on Ansett?” I asked him after we’d driven through our one hundredth small town that seemed to be populated by old men and middle-aged women.

  “Because I thought that driving would be nicer and I don’t fly first-class Ansett. I fly business-class Australian.”

  “I hate long-distance travel.”

  “The scenery is beautiful, Josephine. Appreciate.”

  I gave him a sidelong look.

  “Beautiful? Michael, everything is brown and the scenery has looked the same for the last five hours. I’m bored and I can’t believe you haven’t got a tape deck.”

  “A lot of teenagers don’t get the opportunity to meet the people you have since we left Sydney. Think yourself lucky that your horizons are expanding.”

  “They’re boring. They tell boring stories. There are no kids around and that last pub served us spaghetti out of the can warmed up. I’m going to puke and I have a headache,” I complained.