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  We weave through dark suburban streets, get onto the freeway and I’m grinning from ear to ear, listening to the radio, listening to my friends sing along, out of tune, watching the headlights of cars, watching the suburbs drop away as we head into the city.

  A junkie has fallen asleep on the Flinders Street station steps. A young boy in an old black coat and jeans. His girlfriend, maybe it’s his sister, she looks like him, has her arms around him and she’s staring out at the traffic and the floodlit intersection. We drop Betty off at the corner and she joins a few punks and hippies hanging around, smoking, avoiding the police. I don’t like her friends, Joe mutters, as we drive away.

  –You’ve become pretty straight, haven’t you Joe? Alex leans forward and fiddles with the dial on the radio. Joe doesn’t answer her. I turn around and wink at my sister. We drive up Elizabeth Street, onto the Parade and into Parkville. The traffic is slow entering Sydney Road and I spend my time humming along to the radio and checking out the Greek and Arab boys hanging out in the cafes.

  –Fuck, this place is full of Turks. Joe looks disgusted. We’ve hit the North, Alex replies. We pass the town hall and turn into the street where Charlie lives. Are you coming in? Alex asks and I turn to Joe. He shakes his head but I tell him to wait a second. He turns off the engine and tells me not to be long. Alex and I get out.

  In the front yard a group of dark-haired, dark-skinned boys are hanging around a car, playing at being mechanics, waving torches over the engine. They greet Alex and I shake Charlie’s hand. He introduces me around. Mum is inside, he tells Alex, go in and say hello. I don’t like him ordering my sister around but she’s made the decision to go out with him and there’s not a lot I can do about it. My arm goes around my sister’s shoulder. I feel protective of her with all these boys around.

  His mum is sitting watching television and his little brother and sister are playing card games around her feet. Alex introduces me. She gets up and asks if I’m hungry. The smell of oil and spices I don’t recognise is in the room. She’s a big woman, and a black scarf covers her hair. The room is sparse; a couple of couches, a small table, the television. A few photos on the wall. A small bureau near the doorway is cluttered with junk from Lebanon, including a hookah. Alex sits down with the kids and they include her in their game. The mother isn’t warm towards my sister, but she doesn’t ignore her either. She asks Alex to make her a coffee and Alex gets up and goes through a doorway into what must be the kitchen.

  –You happy your sister with Lebanezo? I’m not ready for that question and immediately answer yes, just to be polite. But I’m not happy about it. I don’t care who Alex dates, and personally I couldn’t give a shit what Charlie is, but I don’t think Charlie is going to settle for a Christian girl. Not that Alex is religious, but I know that the Muslim boys treat Christian girls like shit. And the main problem is family; the divide is too big, too deep. Alex hasn’t told my parents she’s with a Muslim. That’s one point in Charlie’s favour. He’s faced the family about it. Are you happy that Charlie’s with a Greek? I ask her.

  –In Beirut my neighbours were Greek, she answers, when I was a little girl. We all live together, Orthodox, Muslim. We all friends. She doesn’t mention the Catholics. She doesn’t say that she’s happy about Alex being with Charlie.

  –Here in this country, everyone hates everyone else.

  –Alex is a good girl, I venture. I sound insipid. She agrees. I shake her hand. I’m pleased I’ve met you, I say.

  –Me too. Maybe one day I meet your mother, your father. I smile weakly. Maybe one day. I’m not looking forward to it. I yell goodbye to Alex and go out into the yard. You coming to the Retreat? I ask Charlie. His friends cross their arms and wait for his answer. Maybe, he says, maybe not. Part of me gets angry at his dismissal of me, at the line of boys looking at me with their arms crossed. Part of me sympathises with him. Why would he want to go out to a Greek club? I say goodbye and walk out to Joe’s car. I hear laughter behind me and I give them the finger. My ears are burning.

  –What’s your sister doing with that jerk? Joe starts the car, does a u-turn and we head back to Sydney Road. Where did she meet him?

  –Some party. I don’t want to talk about it with Joe. He doesn’t push it, instead we drive in silence and he parks his car behind the town hall. Anyone around? he asks me. I get out of the car and take a look. Further back in the car park a group of Turkish boys are smoking a joint, talking in their own language.

  –It’s cool, I answer Joe.

  –Have you got any speed left? he asks me. I hand him a packet of powder and stay out while he fixes himself a small line. The moon is nearly full, the night is warm. A light breeze. A gentle night. The sound of traffic on Sydney Road, the faint murmur of the bouzouki can be heard. I light a cigarette and wait for Joe to finish. He puts a safety lock on the wheel, hands me the drugs wrapped in a twenty and a ten. Too much, I tell him, and give him back the ten. He refuses it. You need it, dole bludger. I call him a wanker. Don’t tell Dina, he orders me, I told her I’ve cut out all drugs except dope. Sure, I answer.

  Two drunk Greek men are standing at the entrance to the pub engaged in an argument. The younger man, in a white shirt and thin black tie, is arguing about politics. The older man, in a black jumper, is disagreeing with everything the younger man is saying. He keeps pointing his finger at the younger man, digging it into his chest. The sounds of music, of shouting, of conversation come out into the street. I follow Joe through the door and the room we enter is crowded with people, smoke is everywhere. Large crowds are seated around circular tables, eating, drinking and smoking. Every available space is taken up with people standing around shouting to be heard above the music. Greek folk songs, the unmistakable sounds of the clarino and the bouzouki. The band are performing on a raised platform at the back of the pub. They’re all young Greek men except for a dark-haired woman banging listlessly on the tambourine. Occasionally she sings. A circle of young women are dancing on the dance floor, holding hands and performing a sirto.

  I can’t take in everything at once. Familiar faces pop out of the crowd, wink or smile at me. I smile back but continue to follow Joe, keeping my eyes on his broad back. The noise and the motion of the crowd in the small pub is too much for me, and I want to take Joe’s hand, let him lead me through the mass of people and noise. But of course I don’t take his hand, he wouldn’t let me.

  Dina and the others have secured a small table near the band. Joe takes the seat Dina has saved for him and I stand at the edge of the table. Does anyone want a drink? I ask. They all shake their heads except Joe. Get me a pot, he yells above the music.

  The old men are congregated around the bar, drinking whisky, ouzo, or pot after pot of beer. Young men and women push their way around the bulky bodies of the old-timers, trying to find a space to order a drink from the barman. The barman is fat with thin grey hair made wet from sweat. A cigarette on his lips. His first priority is the old men. When they are all satisfied, he turns to the young people and asks them what they want. No particular order, it is whoever he notices first, not who has been waiting the longest. I squeeze against a huge man with a beard and wait my turn. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Spiro, a good guy, a friend of my brother’s. I shake his hand warmly.

  –Your brother’s here, he tells me. We exchange banalities. How’s study? I ask. The same, he replies. More empty phrases follow. This is a great place. Yeah. It’s crowded. Sure is. Greeks make some noise, don’t they? Sure do. He stops talking for a while and looks around him, his eyes settling on a woman across the bar. He smiles softly at her and she returns the smile. Then she looks away. He turns back to me and drops his voice to a whisper. Peter said you might have some speed. I answer in a normal voice, no reason to whisper in a pub as noisy as this one, how much do you want? I’ve got a gram. Can I have half? Too much trouble I tell him, I’ll sell you the gram for sixty. He agrees and tells me he’ll meet me in the backyard in twenty minutes. Where’s Pet
er? I ask him. He points to somewhere near the exit. I nod and he moves away and finds a place next to the woman who smiled back at him. Spiro is tall, good looking, a good body. He doesn’t have much trouble starting a conversation.

  An older man, maybe in his forties, with a long, thick moustache is staring at me. He’s opposite me on the other side of the bar. I don’t avoid his eyes. A blue fishing cap sits on his head, and a faded yellow shirt is open to his navel. He’s wearing a white singlet underneath. Coarse, heavy hair appears over the top of the singlet. His chest is muscled, his stomach is beginning to fall to fat. But his thick arms, strong, tense, hairy, are pure muscle. I drop my gaze but keep him in the corner of my eye.

  Sensuality, the availability of sex, I feel it every time I am surrounded by Greeks. Not only Greeks; Latins, Arabs too. In small ways, even if you don’t like the clothes they are wearing, don’t admire the style by which they present themselves, everyone in this place wants to be seen, to be admired. A chain of flirtation is ever-present. My mouth is dry. I need a drink. The drugs are circulating through my body. My skin is alive in sharp bursts of electricity. My nipples are erect, my face is flushed, the hair on my naked arms is tingling. I’ll have to dance soon, or fuck soon. The energy inside me is pushing against the confines of my body.

  The barman gets to me. Whatcha want? I ask for a pot, and for a whisky and soda. I watch him pour the whisky into a glass and notice he’s only pouring me a short one. I raise myself on the bar and yell more whisky, in Greek. The man in the fishing cap looks up. The barman grimaces but pours another dose into the glass. He slams the drinks down hard in front of me and barks out five dollars. I hand him five bucks, wink at the fishing cap man who turns to ignore me and I move back to my table.

  Joe takes his beer and I tell him I’m going to take a wander. He doesn’t hear me, he’s talking to friends. I weave through the dancers and the crowd and find my brother. He’s with a crowd of Greeks from uni. He hugs me, slaps me on the shoulder and says hello little brother. Introduces me around. I don’t take in the names. Someone offers me a cigarette and I take it, light up, and take a big mouthful of whisky. Peter’s face is flushed and he is slurring his words. He looks drunk.

  –Spiro’s looking for you, he tells me.

  –He found me.

  –Any go? Yeah, I reply. Peter smiles a big grin. His little brother supplying drugs lends him attitude amongst the uni crowd.

  –Where’s Janet? I ask.

  –Don’t know, with friends. Janet hates wog crowds, they intimidate her. I’m not surprised she’s elsewhere. I want to ask where George is, but I don’t. Peter doesn’t offer the information, not that he knows he should.

  –Have you danced yet? someone asks me. I shake my head. They’ve only played demotika so far, I say, I want something heavier. Conversation happens, talk about uni, a bit of politics, who is fucking up who. I don’t join in. I’m content to hang around the edge of the circle, listening in. A woman comes into the pub. Her black hair in rich, thick curls piled above her head. She’s wearing a torn black T-shirt with a silk white vest over it. She’s beautiful and she sniffs the air as soon as she comes in, taking in the smells of the pub. She sees me and rushes up to me.

  –Ari, give me a kiss. I give Maria a kiss, I give her a hug. How you doing, good-looking? I say.

  –I’m fucking full. The circle of men I’m in parts and she takes the centre, nodding at everyone but talking to me. I’ve been out to dinner with this new boy and he took me to a pasta place. The best cheese cake I’ve had in ages. I’m here to dance off the kilos.

  –Is he with you? She shakes her head. No, I’m meeting Kosta here later. I laugh. Maria is never short for a date. I know, I know, she laughs, I’m a slut. The only decent Greeks have all been sluts. She pauses. Or poofters, she adds, and winks at me. I wink back.

  –I’m going to get a drink, she asks, want anything? Later, I reply. I’ve got some quick, do you want some? Her face lights up. Darling, she screams, and hugs me. That’ll get rid of the cheese cake. She takes my hand and leads me through a door in the back of the pub and into the women’s toilets.

  We lock ourselves in a cubicle, avoiding the looks we get from the women doing their faces at the mirror. I pour the last of the speed from one packet onto the toilet lid and add a small amount of powder from the gram I’m going to sell to Spiro. Maria crouches against the cubicle door and lights a cigarette. She watches me cut up the powder into two medium-sized lines. How much do you want? I ask her.

  –One of those will be plenty. I snort my line and squeeze myself into the corner while she snorts her share. When she’s finished I sit on the toilet seat and she sits on my lap, both of us waiting for the drug to come into effect. She begins to sing me a Greek song, her voice a distorted echo of the song the band are playing. I hum along with her, swaying her on my knees. A platonic serenade that we both enjoy. When she’s finished her song I ask her about her date.

  –He’s a bit thick, she answers. I wanted to sing him a song at the restaurant and he requested Gary Glitter. Fuck. Australian men don’t have a romantic bone in their weedy bodies.

  I don’t often fuck with Greeks. It is protection for myself. Someone may know a friend of my parents, or know an uncle. Greeks have big mouths and word can get around. When I was fucking with women it was not such a problem. No one cared about what woman you slept with, it made you more a man, as long as you didn’t end up getting someone’s sister or someone’s daughter pregnant. Fucking with Greek men is half sex, half a fight to see who is going to end up on top. When I get the urge to have sex with a dark man, a Mediterranean man, I end up in Coburg or Preston looking for Turkish or Lebanese cock, someone outside my community, someone no one I know is ever going to meet. Sometimes, however, I see a Greek man, not necessarily someone particularly handsome, and I want to feel their body against me, to use dirty Greek words with them, to have them whisper Greek obscenities.

  When Maria and I get out of the women’s toilets, the man in the fishing cap is waiting there. He doesn’t say a word. I watch him walk out through the screen door into the pub’s backyard. I tell Maria I’ll catch up with her later and follow him.

  Outside, the smells of beer mix with the stench of garbage. A group of four men are huddled together sharing a joint. The man in the fishing cap walks past them, out the open back gate and into the small car park beyond. I follow him in the night air, down a suburban side street. He glances back, then keeps on walking. He turns into an alley and I hesitate. I think of mad fuckers, think of my throat being slit, think of those crazy men who get off on death. The visions of madness entwine with my urge to have sex. Blood and semen; these days the liquids go together. I turn into the alley, slowly, walking into the dark landscape of a dream.

  He is pissing, a thick stream against the boards. I come up next to him, unzip, take out my dick, conscious of it looking small and shrivelled from the speed. I don’t pretend to piss, I stand next to him masturbating until I get a hard-on. He finishes pissing, plays with his thick dick, watching me from the corner of his eye. I look down at his cock and reach for it. He groans, a slight murmur. I smell piss, smell alcohol on him. I masturbate him and try to guide his big hairy hand onto my cock. He resists. Instead he pulls down on my shoulders and I squat and take the head of his cock in my mouth. I taste drops of urine. He thrusts against my throat and I keep pulling on my cock, trying to avoid getting on my knees because of the piss on the ground.

  I’m off-balance and I try to get up. He pulls down harder on my shoulders. Don’t spill any of it, he whispers savagely in Greek. I don’t want him to come in my mouth, I fear the disease that might be floating inside his body. But he pushes his cock hard into my throat. I’m caught between two desires, to gorge on his cock, to take him inside me as deep as he can go, or to get up on my feet, push him against the wall and hurt him for debasing me.

  Time, time betrays me. Before I can make a decision I feel the hot sting of liquid in my mouth. He pul
ls away and I spit out his semen, his stench from my mouth. He dries his cock on a handkerchief, zips up and starts to move away. I’m up on my feet, I grab his arm and push him against the alley wall. I stick my hard cock into his hand. Pull me, I bark out in Greek. He groans, but I have one arm against his chest, holding him back and he doesn’t turn away. I hate him now and I don’t let him leave. My cock feels like iron. He pulls at it and I look into his eyes, two shining glints of light in his dark, unshaved face.

  He looks pained now, the strength I saw in him, the strength which attracted me to him, is spent; spilt on the ground, diluted in the urine. I keep watching his eyes, not allowing him to turn his face away. He hates what he’s doing, feels no desire as he mechanically pushes my foreskin across my cock. I rub my free hand inside his shirt, weaving my fingers in the hair of his stomach and chest. I feel that I’m about to come. I lift his shirt above his nipples and my white flashes of sperm land on his stomach and down around his feet. He pushes me away, wipes himself and glaring at me tucks in his singlet. I spit into my hand and wipe my cock. He walks back to the pub and I lean against the wall and light a cigarette.

  My breathing seems loud to my ears. I allow the night breeze to tease my body, to cool me down, and I piss against the alley wall. I tuck my T-shirt into my jeans, tread on the cigarette, mixing the tobacco in with the come and piss on the ground and walk back through the car park and into the backyard of the pub.

  Spiro is waiting for me. My brother has his arm around a tall, beautiful woman in a black sweater and a short skirt. Her painted face is pale white, her curls tight and black as night. This is Ariadne, Peter introduces me. I shake her hand, I smell expensive perfume. Just a touch; a pleasing scent. I pull the packet of speed from my pocket and offer it to Spiro. He winks and slips sixty dollars in my hand. He hardly looks at the amount of powder in the bag. He trusts me. In the pub the band have begun to play rembetika. I sway to the music.