The Jesus Man

  —Papa! the man roared at Artie, and he kicked at the boy.

  He may be getting old, thought Artie, but he’ll still knock me out if Pickett docks me a day’s pay.

  —Right you are, Bill, we’ll wait till knock-off.

  The other youth relaxed.

  They bathed nude, behind the bluestone jetty, a small cove with rocks on its beach instead of sand, and one which families never entered. They were hidden from the town, visible only to the passing ships. The two young men became boys again, splashing in the shallows. The sky was still.

  The water was cool, refreshing, but by the time Artie was climbing home along South Terrace, he was sweating again. He turned left into Little Howard Street and walked up to the house. In the afternoon sun, children were playing. His brother Joseph was sitting on the porch, his eyes closed, a soft snoring. Artie took a seat beside him.

  —Good day?

  Joseph’s eyes remained shut. He grunted.

  —Too hot, eh?

  Another grunt; the smell of oil, of grease and fish.

  —You smell, mate, you need a wash.

  —Piss off. Joseph opened his eyes. He turned back to the house.

  —Nonna’s upset.

  —What’s happened?

  —She got a telegram. Some dago in Greece just died.

  Along the horizon a ship was lazily sailing into view. Artie got up and entered the house.

  Joseph closed his eyes again.

  His Nonna was silent in her chair. No tears, just the silence. He glimpsed the blue paper in her hand. He walked over and touched her face. She grabbed his hand.

  —Can I read it, Nonna?

  She offered him the telegram. Kosta Papapouchitis died. Stop.

  —Who was he, Nonna?

  —My brother.

  He sat with her, searching for tears, but there was nothing but the soft sounds of her breathing. He got up, she released his hand, and he went outside to the water trough to wash. He removed sawdust and sweat from his neck and underneath his arms. He put a coffee on to boil and sat silently and patiently next to his Nonna.

  The arrival of his Mama and sister Sophia, both in starch blue uniforms, returned order to the house. His Mama had frozen on seeing the telegram.

  —What does it say, she whispered to her daughter. Sophia read out the three stark words. Mama started a moaning. The expected tears of mourning satisfied Artie. But his Nonna remained dry eyed. Artie went outside again, joined his brother on the front steps.

  —Everything all right?

  Artie nodded.

  Joseph spat at a mangy dog that shuffled close to the boys. The dog whimpered and walked away.

  —I didn’t even know she had a brother.

  —Who cares? Joseph had no time for Nonna.

  —How was work?

  —Same.

  —Where’s Papa?

  —The pub.

  The boys fell to silence. On the horizon the ship was still sailing. Artie scooped his hand across the sea, willing the ship, the water, the world to rest in his palm. A crow danced in the air above him. He dropped his arm and went inside.

  Papa arrived and noticed his wife’s red eyes.

  —What’s happened?

  —Nonna’s brother Kosta has died. The man nodded slowly and glanced over to the old woman. Her glare was stern, there was only contempt. He shook his head, was about to speak, and instead walked out to the trough. Mama sighed a relief. They ate dinner in silence.

  The next day, as he returned from work, his Nonna was waiting for him on the front steps.

  —Turro!

  —Yes, Nonna? He kissed.

  —Tomorrow we go to Perth. It was an order.

  Artie groaned. Saturday. He was hungry for a day in the ocean.

  —Why tomorrow, Nonna?

  —Tomorrow, she repeated. And he agreed.

  He spent the night with Bill, at a pub near the port. They drank beer and smoked and listened to drunk Persian sailors. It was dark when they made their way home. Outside the National Hotel, lights out, all long shadows, three black bastards were sitting on the ground. Pissed. One of them, a woman, possibly young, possibly old, impossible to tell for her face was made bitter with drink, shouted after them.

  —Spare a shilling.

  They walked on without turning. They heard her stumbling footsteps behind them.

  —Spare a shilling.

  —Go to hell, spat Bill.

  The woman was fat, horrible, no teeth and a broken nose. She clutched at Artie’s arm and he shook her off. Underneath the thin cotton of her dress, her breasts were naked. Large. He pushed her away. She cursed and they walked free.

  Joseph was asleep and Artie quietly stripped himself. He slid into bed next to his brother and Joseph snored, once, shook, then turned over. Artie watched his brother’s naked form, his head spinning. His limbs ached, he wanted water. Softly, holding his breath still, he began a soft stroking of his cock. Joseph stirred and Artie stopped, scared, awaiting humiliation. Then again snores. Slowly Artie stroked himself to climax, thinking of the gin’s massive tits, the strong sphere of her nipple. He splashed into his hand and he wiped it under the mattress, careful not to make a sound, embarrassed that he had aroused himself through dreaming of such ugliness.

  The morning arrived with a demanding sunshine and Nonna’s knock on the bedroom door. Joseph had already risen, for he had to work on Saturdays, and Artie threw the bed sheet on the floor.

  —Coming.

  A banging in his head.

  They took the bus into the city. He was conscious of the stares the Nonna received from the other passengers. Two young women, one very pretty, turned around then giggled at the old woman wrapped in her black shrouds. The bus followed the sea, crossed the bridge, and the water spread for miles below. They passed the long sheds in which Joseph and Papa worked: men, stripped to their waists, were moving boxes and crates. Then the bus turned away from the ocean and the view changed to bush. Shrubs had turned from green to gold in the summer heat. Artie pushed his nose, his face, tight to the window. Watching the world outside. He turned around and noticed tears on his Nonna’s cheeks.

  —What’s wrong, Nonna? he asked, concerned. She took hold of his hand and began to speak in Greek. The two young women turned around again and Artie felt his face flush. He pulled his hand away.

  —Talk Australian.

  The old woman turned away from him, wiped her eyes. Artie returned to the lopped kaleidoscope world outside the window.

  The city was hot, pools of light on the concrete, and there were people everywhere. Again Artie was embarrassed by the foreignness of his Nonna, wished she did not wrap her body and head in thick black cloth. But he was excited to be in the city. He peered through windows, noted the hotels and the streets behind the markets that led into dark passages and corners in which women did not enter. He wanted to stay around the markets, to wander freely through the city, but his Nonna’s steps were eager, impatient. They crossed a small park and stopped before a small building, yellow brick. It was a Church. He was disappointed. All this way and only for God.

  The Nonna did her sign of the Cross, not like Papa, she crossed right then left. They entered the building.

  He noticed the smell first, strong waves of spice that stroked his nose, entered through his mouth. He felt dizzy. An older man, older than the Nonna, sat on a chair and he guarded a box of yellow candles. The Nonna grabbed two, deposited two pennies and they walked into the church.

  Long elongated figures, purple and gold. Candles, thin, and flickering with heat and light. The pews. The Nonna lit her candle, ordered him to do the same, and they placed them in a box of sand. Artie watched her face the altar, kneel and cross herself. This did not look, did not smell like real church. The figures painted on the wall were dark and sinister. Gaunt men with lined faces, their gaze admonishing and their poverty frightening. One saint bled from his feet. The Nonna took Artie’s arm and pushed him towards a stand on top of whic
h sat a small icon, a picture of Our Lady holding the baby Jesus; the picture was haloed by flowers. But this was not a smiling benevolent Madonna. Her face was stern, and she and the baby were not soft but hard. His body was that of a child but it had the face of a man.

  —Kiss it.

  Artie shook his head.

  —Kiss it, she ordered. He brushed his lips against the glass. The Nonna did the same and then walked towards the altar.

  There, under the gaze of the saints and of Jesus, under the severe eyes of the Lady that was not Our Lady, she threw herself onto the floor and began a wailing.

  Artie watched, shocked, scared, but made immobile by her grief. The woman started banging the stone floor with her fists. Artie finally rushed to her, attempted to raise her. She fought him off but he held her until her heaving slowly descended to quiet anguished spasms. She got up without looking at her grandson. Her lips were praying and her eyes were raised. Artie looked up.

  God was looking down on him from the ceiling. His beard was long, white, his hands were outstretched across the earth. Gold flecks shone in his hair. The church itself was small, much smaller than the church near home. Artie understood the pews and altars, the symmetry of the building, but was lost in the unfamiliar images. Beside him the Nonna was still praying. He moved away from her, walked towards an open door that was leading to sunshine. He stepped outside.

  The building was fairly new, no more than ten years, if that. His experienced eyes travelled across the window frames, investigated the structure of the building. It was simple, inexpensive. The frames already in need of more paint.

  A moan, from inside the church, stopped him. He ran to his Nonna.

  She was standing next to a priest, a man in black with a short stubby beard. Artie stood under a painting of a disapproving old man, his halo cracked and fading, a snake under his foot. The snake was thin, twisted, a voluminous black. The priest had placed a hand on the Nonna.

  She recoiled, angry.

  No. She was defiant but Artie was also surprised to hear in her voice a rare and reluctant respect.

  He could not make out the conversation, all of it in Greek. The priest looked towards him. He said something to the old woman and she turned around.

  —Thanassi, come here. It was the priest who spoke.

  He walked over.

  —It’s Arthur. He coughed. It’s Arthur, Father.

  —You don’t speak Greek?

  Artie shrugged.

  —Take your grandmother away, Arthur. She is tired. His accent was musical, but there was a chilled retreat in his voice, in his manner.

  The Nonna, eyes lowered, said one more thing in Greek. The priest turned to Artie.

  —You are Catholic, boy?

  Artie nodded.

  The priest whispered.

  —And so is your grandmother. He turned to the old woman.

  —You should go to the Catholic Church, that’s your Church now.

  The Nonna shook her head in refusal. The priest sighed, his face unhappy, as miserable as the icons on the wall. He turned to the youth, and said tenderly, Your father wished his family to have one faith. Take your giagia to the church your family attends. The priest there, I am sure, he will help her.

  The Nonna touched the man’s sleeve.

  —No, you have to leave.

  And with this he briskly turned and walked away from them, disappeared behind the altar. The Nonna stood quiet, her hand outstretched, stood still for what seemed an eternity.

  Artie took her hand, lowered it into his.

  This one moment would continue to surface, in waves of memory, be entrapped in his dreams, for the rest of Artie’s life. The priest’s sweet accent, his dark steel beard: he could not forget him. Not that memory is faithful. Sometimes the priest is an old man, sometimes young. Sometimes there are other figures praying behind them, sometimes he and the Nonna are alone. The story would change, his memory would fade; facts lost to time. The Nonna’s grief and the priest’s sadness, however, were never to disappear. This solemn tableau of his Nonna and himself banished from the church was to be his only witness to the ferocity of God. He was to grow old believing not in the promises of his Catholic faith but in the beauty and the despair of this exile. He walked his Nonna away from the altar, and as they passed the burning candles, he hesitated. And swiftly, his hands a wind, he snatched the icon from its frame.

  Outside, in the daylight, with strangers passing, the Nonna spat savagely on the footpath. A thin woman recoiled, shuddered. An old man laughed. Bloody dagoes. They walked in silence in the heat.

  —Are you hungry, Nonna? Artie asked finally.

  She shook her head.

  —Should we go home?

  He didn’t want to. Now that he was in the city, he wanted to play, he wanted to roam. They were walking through the park.

  —Marta! The voice that screamed out to them was shrill. The old woman spun around. Artie, horrified, saw a large black gin, all belly and breasts, run towards them.

  Then a further shock.

  —Bess! The Nonna walked towards the gin, her hands outstretched. They met and they fell into hugging, into tears, into kisses. Artie stood still. Behind the two old women, now tight in a circle, he spotted a younger gin, much younger, sitting on the grass. The old gin pulled away from the Nonna but took her hand and pointed to the younger woman.

  —There’s daughter. Come meet daughter.

  Like his Nonna, her English was broken.

  The Nonna turned to Artie and signalled him to follow.

  —This is my grandson. Arthur. Arthur, this is Bess.

  The old gin held out her hand. Artie did not move. The woman smiled but dropped her arm to her side.

  —Thanassi, shake her hand!

  —It doesn’t matter.

  Artie’s eyes went wide. The boong had just spoken Greek.

  The daughter was called Jen and, despite her black skin, Artie thought her pretty. She was young but her belly was round, with child. Jen too was surprised at the familiarity between the two old women. They sat, holding hands, talking, a mixture of languages, their gestures also a voice. Jen winked at Artie.

  —Who’d believe this?

  He smiled weakly. Above him he was conscious of people walking through the park; the looks, the distaste in a man’s eyes as he spotted the two old women. They were grotesque.

  —We have to leave.

  The Nonna refused to listen.

  —You married?

  Artie shook his head. Jen was offering him a bottle of wine, to suck from. Though thirsty, he wanted nothing that had touched her lips.

  —You?

  She laughed. No.

  He was looking at her belly. She followed his gaze.

  —This one’s Tom’s.

  —You’ve got another?

  —A little girl. But her daddy’s a white man, the nuns took her away. Jen pointed to the sky. Up north. I’ll see her one day.

  A young couple were passing. Artie hid his face in embarrassment. When he looked up, Jen was smiling at him, drinking from the bottle.

  —You sure you don’t want some?

  He scratched a twig into the dirt. Jen asked for tobacco. He rolled her a cigarette. The icon spilt from underneath his jacket. She grabbed it.

  —What’s this? She teased. But Bess looked up and scolded her in blackfella language. Jen handed back the icon sheepishly.

  —What’s she say? asked Artie, curious.

  —That’s the Greek gods and I got to respect them.

  —God isn’t Greek. Artie was sullen and wrapped his jacket around the icon. Jen smiled and offered him the bottle again.

  Again he refused and turned to his Nonna.

  —We’ve got to go. His voice was now almost a childish wail.

  The old black woman was ugly, thick lips and her small eyes, radiant white, were crossed with red lines. The old women were touching each other’s faces.

  —Can I come see you, Marta?

  T
he Nonna looked at her grandson, who was on his feet, scowling, his arms crossed.

  —His Papa a bad man.

  Artie flinched. How dare she insult Papa in front of that black bitch?

  —Would not be right, eh? Not right.

  The two old women hugged, kissed and there were tears when they parted. Artie walked ahead, not turning around, not saying goodbye, only wishing to escape the park.

  —Goodbye, Thanassi, Bess called after him. Her voice stopped him. He turned around. Her tears were a stream. He softened.

  —Goodbye, he replied. In Greek.

  The Nonna walked behind him. When they reached the street, away from the park, heading back towards the station, he stopped and waited for her to catch up. She was far away.

  —You shouldn’t speak to the boongs, Nonna. Papa doesn’t like it.

  —She’s a friend.

  —Friend?

  —Yes, replied the Nonna in harsh English. Only friend.

  —Where did you meet?

  The Nonna chuckled. She spat.

  —Your Papou was married to her sister.

  Artie did not believe her. He was outraged.

  —You’re lying.

  The Nonna shook her head.

  —Nonno was married to an Abo?

  —Yes.

  —Before you?

  —Yes. Bess was sister.

  —And what happened to her?

  The Nonna was sad. She put an arm around her grandchild.

  —It doesn’t matter.

  —Please, Nonna. What happened?

  —She died.

  —How?

  Above there was a fluttering. Artie looked up to the sky. The sun burnt his eyes, there was a diving flash of black and the flash became the crow. It danced in the harsh light for a moment.

  Your grandfather killed her.

  The crow spoke in his Nonna’s voice.

  It was still light when they reached home and Artie ran from the house to the beach, jumped in the water and washed away the city and the church, washed away Jen and Bess. Washed away the crow. He danced in the water. When he arrived back, home his father was washing in the trough. The Nonna was sitting, scowling, in the kitchen. Mama was cooking and Johnny was playing at her feet.