The Jesus Man Page 6

  Tommy thinks about what it would be like stealing a girl, how would he do it.

  He would pretend to be a tradesman, hire a station wagon. He would drive around the streets and maybe a schoolgirl would be walking home alone. And he’d pull up next to her and ask her if she knew the way to somewhere. And he’d pull out a road map and maybe she would come over and look at it with him. He would drug her, with ether. That’s what they did on TV. And take her home. Then he would blindfold her and just keep her in a room, just for a few days. He would just get her to suck him off, slap her if she refused, he’d just fuck her, a few times. Just to see what it was like. A girl’s cunt, hairless, smooth, tight.

  Tommy blew a jerk of thin semen. It fell on his groin, ran down his legs.

  Tommy closed his eyes tight, so tight it began to hurt. Tommy saw red dots and a million lights flooded his head.

  Tommy didn’t open his eyes again, lay there, wet, not daring to look into the dark. The Virgin Mary and the Baby Jesus were there, on the wall, looking down at him.

  Tommy wiped his crotch. He could smell the stench of come.

  Tommy prayed and kept his eyes tight shut.

  It took a long time for the world to vanish.

  3

  Chinese girls are not sluts

  Soo-Ling Kwok was born in Ballarat, a town built on gold mining and violence. She was not the only Chinese girl at her school, there were a few, descendants of prospectors, but Soo-Ling grew up aware of the demarcations provoked by the slant of her eyes. Her father ran a grocery, her mother worked the till. Kevin Kwok was a tame man, that’s what all of Ballarat thought of him. He too had been born in the bush, but his father’s country had infected his tongue: there was a chopped rhythm to his accent, a miniscule variation that confirmed his foreignness.

  —Malaysia is a beautiful place, her father would tell Soo-Ling, but it’s very harsh. When you go to Malaysia, he would always add, you must never forget you are Chinese. Not Malay, you are Chinese.

  I’m never going to fucking Malaysia.

  Malaysia was her mother, the quiet shy An. An never yelled, rarely spoke above a whisper. The marriage had been arranged in a room in Kuala Lumpur. Grandfather Kwok and Grandfather Lee had dealt their children’s future.

  —And you didn’t mind?

  An was reading from a Chinese novel, Soo-Ling was thirteen, back from school.

  —I didn’t know to mind.

  —What does that mean?

  —Soo-Ling, he was your grandfather, my father, I had to listen to him.

  Soo-Ling chucked her schoolbag over her shoulder, marched out of the shop.

  Kevin was gentle, kind to his daughter. But he was strict with her time. If she arrived from school after four o’clock, he would fret.

  —Where have you been?

  —Just out. With Sharon.

  —Sharon is no good.

  —Why?

  —Her family is no good. They drink.

  Soo-Ling kept quiet.

  Soo-Ling was not allowed to go to parties.

  —Australian parties are bad. Too much drug, too much alcohol.

  An lived in terror of drugs.

  —Mum, it’s all right. I won’t drink.

  —No, would interrupt Kevin, and that was that. His face would collapse into disappointment if Soo-Ling attempted to argue with him.

  —I said no!

  An would touch her daughter’s sleeve.

  —Be quiet, she’d whisper.

  Kevin Kwok is all right, not bad for a Chinaman. That’s what the locals said.

  Soo-Ling had God in common with the other girls. Milkshakes with Sharon, Karen and Sally after Mass. The Catholic God mesmerised her with His passionate martyrdom, His death on the Cross. His feminine and savaged body. Soo-Ling prayed to Jesus every night to get her out of Ballarat.

  Kevin Kwok never hit Soo-Ling until 20 November, 1979.

  She had rung her mother.

  —Mum, I’m out with Sharon, I’ll be back soon. Mrs Corrs invited me for dinner.

  An put down the phone.

  At nine-thirty Soo-Ling had still not come home.

  —Ring her, ordered Kevin.

  An dialled the number.

  —Good evening, Mrs Corr, this An Kwok. Is Soo-Ling there?

  —How you doing, An? How’s Kev?

  —Please, Mrs Corr, can I speak to my daughter?

  —Sorry, love, the kids are out. I haven’t seen them all night.

  —Thank you.

  An put down the phone and shuddered.

  Kevin found Soo-Ling in the back of a panel van belonging to red-haired, red-faced, red-arsed Steven Jacobs. This was a sight he was to carry forever. The boy’s pale arse, the shock of red halo around the swinging balls. The quick ugly flash of his daughter’s thickly black snatch. Kevin Kwok roared.

  —You slut, you’ve shamed me, you slut! He cried into the night, frightening the empty bush into a cacophony of bird shrieks and marsupial wails. Chinese girls are not sluts.

  Kevin swung open the van doors, tore the boy off his daughter and threw him into the shrubs. He pummelled his daughter, breaking her face. The young Steven, naked, tried to stop the violence. The man, disgusted and ashamed, cried tears over his cowering daughter. The boy pulled the man away. Soo-Ling jumped back, covering her breasts, her cunt. She huddled, heaving, inside her boyfriend’s denim jacket.

  Kevin looked at the frightened Steven. The boy’s penis, long, the head thick. Kevin covered his eyes, again ashamed. A man had fucked his daughter.

  —Get dressed, he gasped, and turned away from the couple.

  Soo-Ling and Steven did not exchange one word. They quickly got dressed, not looking at each other, and Soo-Ling came and stood next to her father.

  —You leave for Melbourne tomorrow.

  Blood was pouring down the girl’s cheek, drenching her shirt.

  An began screaming when she saw her daughter’s face, but her husband ordered her to stop. Tj-Shin, Jack, also cried and ran up to his sister.

  —Don’t touch her. Kevin stopped his son. Soo-Ling flinched. Go to your room.

  The boy hesitated.

  —Now!

  The boy obeyed.

  Her father did not speak to her again that night. Her mother packed her bags, cleaned her face. In Soo-Ling’s shaking hands she placed five crisp fifty dollar bills and a mess of soiled twenties, tens and fives. She gave her child an address.

  —She will help you find a room, a job. An softly touched her daughter’s cheek. The girl was sobbing.

  —You cannot stay here, daughter, it isn’t possible. You have to disappear. An started praying, in her first language.

  Soo-Ling watched her mother pray, heard the words to God in a foreign tongue. Mum is very beautiful, Mum is so fragile. Soo-Ling sniffed. I’m not that.

  She arrived in Melbourne, sleepless and cold. A job, cleaning, was found for her immediately. She had a room with the Chin family; at night she drifted into dreams fed by smell, tracing the stories of the oils and the spices, the food and the grease that dominated the Chins’ shop. Soo-Ling missed her mother’s patience and she missed the space offered by the bush. But apart from that, she missed nothing of Ballarat. Her nose healed, but it was always crooked, imperceptible to others, but not to Soo-Ling. Jack, she was ashamed to discover, she did not miss at all; in fact she was relieved to no longer have to take care of him. Her father she thought of not at all; if she did, the passionate hatred humiliated her. Of Steve, she missed the kisses, the hard tenderness of his mouth.

  Maria was watching her. Tommy scowled and pushed away his plate.

  —What is it?

  —Nothing, Ma. I’m not hungry.

  —Eat, you idiot.

  Dominic patted his thick stomach and then quickly cut up another chop.

  —You should watch it, fatty, said Eva, and smiled at Soo-Ling. The boys in this family have it too good, she continued, and quickly glanced at Maria. They need a daughter. Or two.
r />   Maria got up from the table.

  —Any more wine?

  —Sit down, growled Artie. You haven’t eaten anything.

  She was very attractive, Tommy’s mother, thought Soo-Ling. Not in the same way as An, not thin. But not quite plump. Maria Stefano’s style was defined by the icons of the fifties and the sixties. But a Mediterranean definition. Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and the dark Hollywood beauties, someone like Ava Gardner. Maria’s hair was dyed black, swept over her neck. The dress she wore was cut fine across her breasts, and though not expensive, it fitted well and looked good.

  —I like your dress, Mrs Stefano.

  The woman smiled.

  —Are you still hungry, darling?

  Soo-Ling shook her head.

  Maria said something in Greek. Tommy jerked angrily, Dominic laughed and Artie looked up, quizzical, and then glanced over at Soo-Ling.

  —Fuck off, Mum. Soo-Ling was shocked at Tommy’s profanity. She touched his arm, a warning. He was fuming.

  His mother continued in Greek, defensive. Soo-Ling kept her eyes low, aware and thankful that Eva was with her. Tommy answered his mother in angry broken Greek.

  —Soo-Ling, I said nothing bad, I promise. Maria was smiling at her.

  —What did you say?

  Soo-Ling liked the father. He was staring at his wife, patient, waiting.

  —I said that Chinese girls are so beautiful, have very good figures, because they don’t eat much.

  —That’s not all you said, Mum. Lou looked over to Soo-Ling, he stared right at her. Soo-Ling, Mum said that, well, it’s one good thing about the Chinese girls, they’re cheap to keep.

  Soo-Ling immediately burst out laughing, and so did Lou. Maria exploded. Shut up, Louie. She was blushing.

  Tommy had one thought. He wanted to grab his brother’s young face and push it hard against the wall. He wanted to hear the crack.

  After lunch enormous amounts of food were still left on the table. A pile of charred meat, dripping fat. Two bowls of salad: tomato and fetta, coleslaw. Maria allowed Soo-Ling to help clear the table, but she was not allowed to help wash up. Eva did the drying.

  Outside, Artie and Dominic were scraping the barbecue. Tommy sat on the verandah, watching his niece play, watching the men.

  —Is work good, Soo-Ling?

  —Yes. I like it. Soo-Ling neither liked nor disliked work. She had to do it and so did it.

  —How’s Tommy’s job. He is happy?

  —Yes. A flicker of hesitation and Maria pounced on it.

  —Very tough, very tough now for people. Especially when there is no jobs. Maria touched wood. That’s all I want for my children, that they find secure jobs. And good wives.

  —Excuse me, said Soo-Ling, where’s the bathroom?

  It was a house solid with objects. It was small, smaller than the house she had grown up in. From walls hung photographs and tapestries. The toilet smelt of air freshener—pine—and disinfectant sat quietly next to the toilet brush. On the wall hung a painting done on glass, an ocean view from a villa. The marble steps, the dark blue of the sea. A garden from a Hollywood musical.

  Just outside the bathroom, on the wall opposite, was a portrait taken when the family had just arrived in the new house. Lou was still a toddler, a cherub. Tommy was smiling widely, almost beginning a laugh. Artie was handsome, Maria beautiful. Their clothes were ludicrous. Soo-Ling giggled at the flares and pinstripes, the wide unflattering collars. From the hall there was a faint stir of unfamiliar music.

  She knocked on the door where the sound was coming from.

  Lou was sitting in the middle of the room, against his bed. The television was on. Silent, a football game. The radio was playing electronic dance music Soo-Ling did not recognise. A cluttered desk with a computer.

  Lou smiled at her.

  —Welcome. This is my room.

  Soo-Ling sat on the bed. The boy’s window opened onto the garden. Artie and the sons were opaque beneath the heavy lace and folds of the curtain. Above Lou’s desk were naked images of Madonna, the Playboy spread.

  Soo-Ling pointed.

  —What’s your mother think of that?

  —She don’t mind that. That’s what freaked her out. Lou pointed above her head.

  Soo-Ling swung around. Posters, images. Who the fuck are the Sonic Youth? she wondered. She finally caught the offending poster. Torn from a magazine, an AIDS notice. Two boys kissing.

  —Mum hates that.

  —What’s that song, on the radio?

  Lou shrugged.

  —Some acid house thing, I think.

  He squizzed at the radio, screwed up his face. No. He hesitated, then nodded. Yeah, I think it’s acid house.

  —What’s the station?

  —Triple R. Noncommercial. You don’t ever listen?

  —No. I’m a bit of a dag, I guess.

  —Doesn’t Tommy listen to it?

  —I don’t think so.

  Lou turned back to the television.

  —Tommy used to listen to it all the time. That’s how I got into it.

  Mentioning his brother had reminded Lou of the intimacy of the situation he was in right now. This woman’s long and slim legs. He blushed and fixed on the television screen. The football had dissolved to advertising.

  —You barrack for anyone?

  Soo-Ling shook her head.

  —I guess you Asians aren’t that into football, eh? My mate Vinnie is the same, he can’t stand footy. He’s Vietnamese, not Chinese, the boy added.

  —Maybe it’s a girl thing with me.

  The boy grinned.

  —Nah, can’t get away with that. Heaps of girls like footy. His embarrassment had disappeared.

  Protesting students. Lou followed the woman’s gaze. Flash back to the newsreader.

  —Tiananmen? I guess you’re following all that, eh?

  Soo-Ling smiled at the boy and got up.

  —I know nothing about that shit. See you.

  A shape ran from under the bed, it jumped onto Lou’s lap. A small black and white cat, adult, stretched its neck towards the boy. Lou lowered his head and they touched, nose to nose. Soo-Ling laughed.

  Lou turned to her, a finger to his lips.

  —Don’t tell anyone, she’s not meant to be inside. The boy stroked the cat, which began purring and clawing his thigh. Lou turned to Soo-Ling.

  —Mum goes all woggy about animals inside the house. Don’t tell her.

  —I won’t, promised Soo-Ling.

  As she was leaving she had a strong urge to play with the boy’s hair. But she didn’t.

  In the kitchen Maria was making coffee.

  —You want one? Greek?

  —I guess. I’ve never had one. I’ll try it.

  Soo-Ling was to serve the coffee. The tray had gilt edges, an Acropolis scene on a black shiny surface. Four Greek coffees, two Australian.

  —Is Lou having one?

  Maria yelled loudly through the house. In Greek.

  The boy yelled back.

  —No!

  The men were sitting on the verandah. Soo-Ling felt the chill. She served the coffee and went inside for her jacket.

  Tommy sipped at the coffee, there was not enough milk. Eva was breastfeeding the baby and Tommy did not look at her.

  Dominic whispered loudly in Greek.

  —Eva, do you have to do it here?

  Eva gave him a fuck-you sign.

  —I don’t speak Greek, remember.

  Artie laughed.

  —There’s nothing wrong, Dom. And I don’t mind catching a perv of Eva’s tits.

  Tommy thought his father was a stupid ignorant cunt.

  Eva ignored the men and ministered to the baby. Soo-Ling joined her, sat next to her on the verandah.

  —She’s beautiful.

  —Yeah, she’s good. Eva looked proud. She hardly cries, we’re lucky.

  Artie sipped at his coffee.

  —You like yours? he asked Soo-Ling.

&nb
sp; The coffee tasted harsh, the thick sediment stained her lips.

  —It’s fine.

  Artie laughed.

  —I’ve never been able to drink that shit.

  —Stop. Said in Greek. Maria was shaking her head. You Australians don’t know anything about coffee, she spat.

  —I’m part Greek, protested Artie, winking to his sons.

  —Bullshit you’re part Greek, laughed his wife. You’re one hundred per cent kangarootha.

  Tommy looked over at Soo-Ling. She was pretty. He hoped everyone could see how pretty she was.

  —How’s work, Tommy?

  —Fine, Dad.

  —They still talking of selling up?

  —Yep. Tommy didn’t look at Soo-Ling.

  —Well, you should keep your eye out for other jobs.

  —It ain’t that easy, Dad.

  —It was easy for me. Maximum two days and I’d find me a new job. I’d knock at every factory door. And you’ve been to fucking college. You gotta get off your bum.

  It isn’t that fucking easy any more. Soo-Ling wanted to scream the words. She did not realise it but her fingers uncoiled, they were reaching out for Tommy. Maria was looking at her.

  —Arto, you’re a malaka, an idiot. There’s a recession on, it’s not like when you and I started.

  Tommy was thankful for his mother’s intervention. Now shut up. But she turned to him.

  —Tommy, you need a house. It’s stupid living at the flat, wasting your money on rent.

  —I’m saving. Tommy was frowning.

  —How much have you saved? his father asked.

  —About three thousand. Again, Tommy did not look at Soo-Ling. His savings account now held nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents. It was pay week.

  —That’s fucking nothing, mate. Dominic shut the paper he was reading. Mum’s right, move back here. Everything’s done for you, you’ll save heaps.

  Don’t listen to him, Tommy, prayed Soo-Ling.

  —I like the flat.

  —Why? demanded his mother.

  —I like the independence.

  His mother exploded into Greek. Independence! Contempt ate at the word.

  Fuck you, you bitch. Tommy said nothing. He stood up.

  —I’ve got to go to the toilet.

  He deliberately pissed over the seat, splashed on the floor. Then he feverishly sprayed disinfectant, tore paper from the roll, vigorously cleaned up. He felt sick, his stomach was bloated. He had eaten too much.