The Jesus Man

  —Yeah? You reckon?

  —I reckon. She probably goes home at night, clutching her big salary and her expensive purse and then sobs into her pillow. Those career women are too uptight for sex.

  —Jeez, Eva. That sounds really sexist.

  —Does it? It sounds like the truth to me.

  Neither Eva nor Soo-Ling considered themselves feminists, but they were virulently opposed to misogyny, to visible expressions of hatred towards women by men, to violence in particular. This combination, a feminist nonfeminism, though apparently paradoxical, was not an anomaly at all. They were both intelligent women and intolerant of intolerance.

  But they had prejudices. Including an envy of other women which could be expressed with harsh cruelty.

  —You don’t want a career?

  —I want another baby.

  —Yeah. Are you and Dom planning?

  Eva giggled into her glass. He’s not so sure, says wait and see how the business goes, but I’m ready for it. She drops her voice to a whisper. I’ve been putting holes in the condoms.

  Soo-Ling broke out in laughter, a rich peal that made the people around them look up.

  —What are you doing? Puncturing the packets?

  —Nah, Dom gets me to put them on for him, reckons it keeps him hard. So, you know, I’m doing things down there. Eva stopped, blushed. Laughed and turned away. Don’t look at me, you know what I mean; anyway I make sure to put holes in the tip.

  —How often do you have sex?

  Soo-Ling looked away as she asked the question. The bar was filling up. The noise, conversation and music, the second drink, was flooding her head. The song was dance, a floating bass. The singer’s voice, feminine and cruising. It’s a natural thing. Soo-Ling could no longer see the silver haired man; he was obscured by bulky Italian men in European suits.

  —With the baby? Hardly fucking ever. We’re both too tired. But, you know, an occasional quickie on Sunday night.

  Soo-Ling realised that she was the only Asian face in the bar. She disliked this thought immensely. She hated it.

  —Tommy’s not wanted it for a month now.

  A flash, a memory. When Eva first met Tommy it was summer and he was wearing black shorts. He sat across from her, smiling, legs apart, and his crotch was heavy. On occasion, when Dom was fucking her, Eva closed her eyes and thought of Tommy. This, of course, was a thought she shared with no-one.

  —Well, you know, if he’s worried and stuff, about work … He’s probably just tired.

  —I guess. But he’s usually so horny, much more than me. Soo-Ling’s voice was soft. The consciousness of the crowd.

  —I reckon all the Stefano men are horny little buggers. Artie still looks pretty sexy for an old guy. And don’t forget they’re Greek.

  —I don’t know much about Greeks. There weren’t many around in Ballarat.

  —Well, there were fucking heaps of them in Lalor, mate, and all of them randy little buggers. They’d fuck anything.

  Soo-Ling had at first been shocked by Tommy’s body, his hair; on his chest, his arms, his buttocks and the faint curls on his lower back, the thick bush of his crotch. And then the stark contrast to her smooth father had enraptured her.

  —What do you think I should do?

  —Be patient. Eva sniffed, hard. The next question was delicate. Are you talking about marriage?

  The Italians had parted, the silver haired man was folding his newspaper. He walked the length of the bar, looking ahead, avoiding her eyes. He exited.

  —He doesn’t like me talking about it.

  —Bloody men.

  Soo-Ling laughed. Yeah, they hate that subject, don’t they?

  —Dom took ages to ask me.

  —Did you say yes immediately?

  —You betcha. Eva downed the bourbon, tried to catch the barman’s eye. I knew from the start I wanted him.

  Soo-Ling wanted to marry Tommy.

  —It’s just time, Suze. You understand? Men, you know, they get so wound up about work and they forget everything else. Tommy loves you, you know.

  Then why the fuck has he not said it to me?

  Soo-Ling shrugged.

  —I know, or I guess he does.

  —I’m sure of it.

  I don’t know, does he love you? Eva could not imagine fucking an Asian man; somewhere, inside, guiltily, the thought repelled her. No, not the fucking, the kissing. She searched Soo-Ling’s face. But maybe it was different with the women. Again she was very aware, in the crowded bar, of how beautiful the woman sitting opposite her was.

  Soo-Ling searched her bag. Eva tried to stop her but Soo-Ling was victorious.

  —No, said firmly. This one’s my shout.

  They drank, falling into silence. The wine had begun its magic. Soo-Ling drifted with the music, the repetition of the beat. Men were looking their way. She felt attractive.

  —There was a demo in the City Square. Hiroshima Day, I think.

  —Yeah? Soo-Ling fingered the stem of her glass.

  —Yeah.

  —They should just forget it. No-one listens to them.

  —A pity, isn’t it?

  Soo-Ling scrutinised Eva’s face. Her tone had been sad, almost despairing. Soo-Ling was suddenly ashamed of her indifference.

  —Well, good on them. You’re right. At least they’re not shutting up.

  The beat was getting more rapid, the sounds harsher, a stern rap waved through the bar.

  Eva took Soo-Ling’s hand. You’ll be all right, mate, and so will Tommy.

  —Yeah, I know.

  Stop it, stop it. Soo-Ling was yelling inside her head, forcing back the crying. She finished her drink, fast.

  —Another one?

  Eva looked at her watch. Just one, otherwise my mum will go ballistic when I go to pick up Lisa.

  —What’s she like, your mum?

  —Fine. I love her. She can give me the shits. Uptight Polish bitch.

  —I don’t know many Poles.

  —There are a few around. Lots of them Jews. Mum can’t stand the Jews.

  —Really?

  —Yeah, hates them.

  An uncomfortable silence.

  Eva continued.

  —I don’t mind them. Jesus, they suffered enough. But they are in control, don’t you reckon? She handed another ten dollar bill to the barman. And they stick together.

  —Doesn’t everyone?

  —What do you mean?

  —The Chinese are the same.

  —True. You’re good at making money too.

  Inside, Soo-Ling flinched.

  —And the Poles?

  —Too fucking lazy. Except the Jewish ones. Eva accepted the drinks. The barman winked at her. Eva smiled back.

  —What are you up to tonight?

  —I’d like to see a movie. But I don’t think Tommy’s into it. So I don’t know, a quiet night at home.

  —Getting shitfaced.

  Soo-Ling laughed. Yeah, getting shitfaced.

  —Been ages since Dom and I saw a movie. Too long. But with the baby and all, it’s a bit hard. What are you thinking of seeing?

  —Do The Right Thing.

  —Yeah, who’s in that?

  —Don’t know, but it had some good reviews. People say it’s interesting.

  —What’s it about?

  —I think some racial trouble in New York. Something like that.

  Eva was getting pissed, she could feel it, the world had sped up, her skin was flushed.

  —Sounds heavy, Suze. I’m in no mood for that. I’ll get Dom to go down and get some vids tonight, something funny. You and Tom want to come along? You’re welcome.

  No. I’m not. Not yet. Status undecided.

  —No. You know what Friday is like, you’re too knackered to do anything.

  —Yeah, fucking working life, eh? It stinks. I’m just going to make babies, Suze. I know some women get pissed off with that attitude, you know, I should care about career and all that, but seriously, mate, what
the fuck for? Eva sculled her drink. A factory is not much of a career, is it?

  —It’s work.

  —Well, someone else can have it. I’ll do my bit for the unemployment problem.

  —Eva, I’m scared what’ll happen if Tommy loses his job. Soo-Ling clasped the glass tight, aware that for the first time in the conversation she had been honest.

  And the honesty had scared her.

  Eva took her hand.

  —Suze, love, don’t worry. If he does, it’s no shame. Christ, love, there’s heaps of people on the dole. It’s not like it’s his fault. And he’ll find a job, Tommy’s smart.

  Dominic’s voice: My brother’s a fucking idiot, he’s always been a fucking idiot.

  The crucifix, petite, gold, on Soo-Ling’s neck. Eva touched it, gently.

  —It’s nice.

  —It was my mother’s.

  —Are you Christian? Eva stumbled over the words.

  —Yes.

  Under the counter a pile of newspapers. A tabloid photo of a large black man. Eva pointed to the picture.

  —That’s that Abo guy, the one who’s been done for murder in the States.

  Soo-Ling looked down at the image. The man’s eyes, there was nothing in those eyes. She shuddered at the ugliness.

  —He’s horrible.

  —Do you reckon? Eva took up the newspaper, scanned the print. I feel a bit sorry for him, you know. He’s had a tragic life, taken away from his family, all that. Put in institutions. Eva shook her head. It’s all sad. She put the paper back, the other side up. An advertisement for Mazda.

  How about her? How about the woman he killed? Blonde woman, raped, cut. Like the little girl. The little schoolgirl. And Soo-Ling thought of six young black youths, the battered body of a woman jogging in Central Park.

  Tommy: What did she expect?

  Big Aboriginal man with nothing behind his eyes.

  The loud music. Bass.

  Fuck Do The Right Thing. Eva was right. Enough depression, she and Tommy should see a comedy tonight.

  —Eva, what’s the crow?

  Eva pulled her hand away.

  —A story and a joke. Some bullshit. She touched, softly, Soo-Ling’s hair. The crow is a Stefano obsession. Dom reckons that when there’s something bad about to happen, he’ll always see a crow. It can terrify him. Stupid, isn’t it?

  —Do you believe it?

  Eva looked hard into Soo-Ling’s eyes, too hard, and Soo-Ling turned away.

  —What’s Tommy say?

  Tommy doesn’t talk about it. Tommy doesn’t talk about fucking anything.

  —He says it’s bullshit.

  —Then he’s probably right. Eva raised her glass. Let’s drink to the smartest Stefano brother.

  The smartest Stefano brother is Lou. Soo-Ling, suddenly, a humiliation, could not stop the tears falling. Eva, herself embarrassed, looked away. Italian men in European suits.

  Soo-Ling wiped at her eyes, finished the drink.

  —Eva, thank you, I’ve got to go. It’s getting late and I don’t like the trains at night.

  —I know, I know, all those boozy louts.

  —How you getting home?

  —Tram to Mum’s. Dom will pick us up from there. Eva finished her drink, grabbed her bag and hugged Soo-Ling.

  —Honey, seriously, it will be all right.

  Soo-Ling was stiff, the hug choked.

  They stood in the cold, arms tight around their bodies, adjusting to night. The street was full of young people, milling around the disco next-door, chomping on fast food.

  —How about a barbecue next week?

  Soo-Ling nodded. They kissed, and they parted.

  The descent into Parliament Station unbalanced Soo-Ling. She clutched the escalator rail tight. Fortunately the train arrived quickly, and she sat in the middle of the carriage, away from the drunk young men who threw her dirty looks. As the train pummelled down the tracks she counted down the stations, eager for the trip to be over. Richmond, Burnley, Hawthorn, Glenferrie. The ride seemed long, the window looked out into a lonely black. Beside her a couple, a man in his thirties and a woman much younger, were holding hands. They did not look at her. The stations passed slowly. East Camberwell, Canterbury, Cotham, Surrey Hills. Too slowly, and the sound of boom gates clashed in her head. As the train slid into Box Hill Station and she waited to get off, Soo-Ling realised there was a tension in her stomach that the alcohol had not quite alleviated. She stepped off the train and glanced around her. A boy in a thick black jacket pushed hard against her. Above her a billboard proclaimed the fifty year anniversary of the beginning of World War Two. Celebrations were being prepared. Soo-Ling walked slowly up the ramp—there was no-one checking the tickets—and headed for the bus. She was heading for Tommy, eager, anxious, wanting him. She was heading for Tommy, and she realised as she waited, feeling the cold, looking down at the suburbs stretched across a night horizon, that she was scared. The fear had no meaning. It was fear, pure, concrete. It touched her, engulfed her. She thought of Tommy, his arms, holding her. Inside his arms the fear couldn’t get to her.

  7

  Grand Final

  Laika was the first living creature in space. She was a dog. Her picture, wavering frames on a black and white television screen, had never been forgotten by Tommy. Her long thin face and the pert ears. The accomplishments of humanity were listed in a monotonous tone by the scowling Mr Morris; the classroom repeated them by rote. Ancient Greece. The birth of Christ. The printing press. The discovery of the Americas. The Renaissance. The Industrial Revolution. The World Wars. Man on the moon. Tommy mouthed the words but he couldn’t forget the dog.

  Starving to death, in perpetual orbit.

  At home, his father drinking beer, his mother preparing dinner, Dominic reading Mad magazine in bed. Tommy started crying.

  —Laika, Laika, they just left her, Laika. It’s horrible, it’s horrible.

  He was screaming.

  And his father was laughing.

  And his mother said, shaking her head, Why are you worrying about a stupid dog?

  And Dominic, who had risen to find out what the tears were all about, joined his father in laughter.

  —What do you care about some stupid mutt?

  And Tommy called his brother a cunt, and shouted to Maria that she was a stupid wog, and before he could say anything to his father, the man delivered the thundering slap.

  And then Tommy stopped crying and fell silent.

  When Somers, coughing, not looking at him, told Tommy that he was to be retrenched, that the corporation was downsizing to reflect the realities of the current economic situation, Tommy’s first thought was of Laika, a fuzzy black and white image of a sad dog in space.

  His next thought was that he wanted to find a church and to pray. And then—fuck prayer—his thoughts turned to sex. To find some woman, some stranger and fuck her so hard, so hard that she bled. Or he bled. There had to be blood.

  Somers coughed a lot. He was clearly uncomfortable and Tommy was only one of many who were to be fired. He’s so pale. Somers’s skin was flushed, a corpulent red.

  —I’m sorry, Tom.

  —That’s all right.

  Immediately: Why the fuck did I say that?

  The two men, made tense by the silence, looked out across the partition to the print room. John was staring at them and quickly looked down to his work. Pathis knocked on the door.

  —Kevin, are you finished?

  Tommy stood up.

  —If it’s all right, I may take the rest of the day off.

  Pathis shook his head.

  —Have you finished the sale catalogue?

  Tommy ignored him. He looked at Somers.

  —Is that all right?

  Somers mouthed, One moment. He dialled a number.

  —Hello, Susan, can you see Stefano now? Somers waited, then interrupted. Can you make some time now? His voice was insistent. He put down the phone.

  —Go see Susan McIntyre a
nd then you can have the day off. There’s some things she’ll want to talk to you about.

  Tommy stood up, shook Somers’s limp hand and brushed past Pathis. Wog. He whispered it.

  Pathis laughed. The door shut.

  The noise from in the print room was disorienting. Tommy walked slowly to his desk, ignored John’s eager, nervous glances.

  —What did he say?

  Tommy picked up his work, put it in a neat pile, loosened his tie and took off his white coat. He turned to his workmate.

  —I’m fired.

  Of course, after that, there was nothing to add.

  McIntyre was nervous. She thought Tommy Stefano was lazy, lacking ambition and lacking drive, and it had been easy to argue for keeping on John Karthidis and getting rid of Stefano. John was expanding his skills, studying new computer graphics, he showed a commitment to the organisation. Stefano was surly; competent but not an innovator.

  Still, Susan McIntyre was anxious when the man knocked on the door.

  —Hello, Tom, please take a seat.

  His face was unreadable. There was a sternness there.

  —I’m sorry, this isn’t pleasant.

  He nodded, once. Simply.

  Susan opened a manila folder.

  —Tom, you’ve been working with the company for just over four years. Restructuring is never easy, but as I’m sure you well understand, the current recession combined with the new technologies in your profession mean that this whole section of the company will have to change. She stopped, searched his face. A cold impassivity. She continued.

  —I doubt that in a year the print shop will be running. Unfortunately we have to let you go.

  The decision, seven o’clock, Susan sipping a wine, Pathis and Somers drinking beer.

  Somers. We could retrain him.

  Pathis. He’s not worth the investment.

  Susan, tired, rubbing her neck. Wishing to be home.

  Pathis, handsome, turning to her.

  —Susan, what’s your opinion?

  McIntyre: I have to agree. Neither his performance nor his attitude justify the investment.

  The manila folder is shut.

  —What am I entitled to?

  Susan coughed.