Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

‘Oh, don’t start with that shit.’

My smile is gone. ‘I waited up.’

‘I said I’m sorry.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I just did.’

The cat has jumped up on the coffee table and nudges herself into the fruit bowl. I’m lighting a cigarette, silent.

‘You’re smoking?’

I inhale.

‘It sure sounds sexy.’ Low, low voice. Late-night movie and joint voice. I exhale. Forgiving him.

•

The party was loud, crashing percussion on the stereo. There were bodies pressed against bodies in every room, the atmosphere thick and wet. Drunk people dancing, drunk people shouting, drunk people slumped in armchairs and couches. I turned up late, after a midnight session at the pictures. Sober. I weaved through the couples in the narrow hallway, made my way to the bathroom and tried to find a beer, but I was out of luck. There were only empty cans and cigarette butts in the icy bathtub slush.

‘Looking for piss?’ He held out his stubby to me.

I hesitated.

‘G’on,’ he urged, ‘take a swig.’

I took one.

He stumbled over to the toilet bowl and unzipped. I took another sip and watched him. His jeans were baggy, so I couldn’t make out the shape of his arse, but his black T-shirt stretched tight across his hefty shoulders. He started pissing and turned around to look at me. He held out his hand. I walked over and handed him the stubby and, still pissing, he took a swig before handing it back. We smiled, together.

‘Finish it,’ he said. The stream of urine slowed down to a trickle. He shook out the last drops, zipped up and left without washing his hands. I noticed that. I can’t piss without washing up afterwards. The habit of a lifetime.

I found Leah in one of the bedrooms, sharing a joint with some of her friends from college. I sat down next to her, put my arm around her and kissed her neck.

‘How was the movie?’

‘Good,’ I answered. ‘Fun.’

The man from the bathroom was now standing in the doorway, stroking the face of a very beautiful neo-hippie girl. She had glitter on her cheeks and he was tracing the stardust.

I looked away, pretending to ignore him.

He was pretending to ignore me.

•

A grape has fallen into the cat’s water bowl. Black hairs are swimming around in it. I pour out a dish of dry food for her and wash the bowl in the sink. The grape falls into the plughole and I squash it down with my thumb, watch the flesh drop through the grille. Some nights, especially when it’s rained, slugs swarm around her bowl, getting into the meat, drowning in her water. I pick them up with toilet paper. I hate touching them, hate the sticky residue they leave on my fingers. He doesn’t mind at all, picks them up and chucks them straight back into the garden, wipes his fingers across his jeans, leaving silver streaks.

The cat sniffs at the dry biscuits, eats a few, turns away. I close the laundry door, walk through the garden and go out the back gate. The kitchen hand from the Vietnamese restaurant next door is sitting on a milk crate, smoking a cigarette.

‘How you going?’ I ask him.

‘Alright.’ He drops his voice and points to the terrace behind us. ‘But I wish I wasn’t working in this fucking dump.’ A strong wind is blowing stale hot air hard onto my face. I smell the greasy stink from the kitchen.

It takes forty minutes to walk to his place. I arrive hot, sweating and in a bad temper. He is out in the back garden, a wet cloth draped over his head, empty beer cans around his feet. He’s wearing his underpants, nothing else. His white underpants, his very brown skin.

He looks up at me, squints, grinning. ‘How are ya?’ He doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘Feel like going to the pub, mate? I’m all out of piss.’

•

They had put chairs and a few cushions out in the backyard. Scented candles were melting over a small coffee table. I left Leah, her friends and their boring conversation about school and exams and gossip. I was stoned. There was no one else in the yard, the party had thinned out and I was enjoying the solitude. It wasn’t much of a garden, a few patches of green. I lay down on a cushion, looking at the stars. A half-moon.

‘Had enough, eh, mate?’

He sat down next to me and passed me the joint. We sat in silence for minutes, listening to the music, trance reggae. We smoked the joint and I sat up. His eyes — black eyes, not brown — were shining bright, mirroring the candlelight. There was stubble on his baby face. It suited him.

He was looking hard at me.

‘Enjoying the party?’ It was an inane question, but I wanted to break the tension. This silence was getting uncomfortable.

‘Where you from?’

I didn’t expect that question. He kept on looking into me. ‘Melbourne.’

‘No, I mean where your parents from?’

And you, where are you from? That’s what I was wondering.

‘Jordan,’ I answered. ‘My father’s from Jordan and my mother was born in Egypt.’

He whistled. ‘Jordanian-Egyptian. Very sexy.’

I laughed. ‘I’m a mongrel. Mum’s half-French and half-Greek. I’m a genetic soup.’

‘That’s why you’re so good-looking.’ He said it softly. But every word was clear.

I got scared. But I liked him calling me good-looking.

‘Are you going to come home with me?’

I wanted a cigarette. I started fumbling through my pockets. My pack was squashed. He offered me one of his. I took it, slowly, careful not to touch his hand.

‘Are you going to come home with me?’ Again, soft. The same steady insistence.

I pointed towards the house, to the party. ‘That’s my girlfriend in there.’

That’s when he looked away, pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on them. He said something, said it to a place deep down inside himself.

‘I can’t hear you.’ I wanted him to look up, to not be sad. I wanted him to look at me again.

He lifted his face. A wide, wicked grin. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

•

‘Fuck you!’ I scream it, stressing both words. I’m pacing up and down his concrete shithole of a backyard.

‘I’m out of money, alright! All I did was fucking ask you to shout me some cans. You don’t want to do it, fine. Just leave it.’

‘It’s the way you ask me. No hellos, no how are you, no nothing. I’m sick of it.’

‘You want a kiss, baby?’ Sarcastic tone, spat out in a faggot voice.

‘You’re a prick.’

A grunt.

‘You’re a prick!’ I scream it out.

‘Enough!’ I can tell he’s angry now, really angry. I shouldn’t push it. But it’s hot, too hot, I’m tired, and yeah, fuck him, I could do with some affection.

‘You’re nothing but a drunk.’

He stands up, abrupt. Automatically, his hand becomes a fist. I jump back. And he laughs.

‘Come on, come on.’ He leans over, kisses my lips. I lick his, we touch tongues and he pulls away. ‘I’ll cook you dinner.’

‘You serious?’ I’m dubious.

‘Oath.’ He crosses himself.

I go down the road, get him his beer.

•

I told Leah I was tired, felt a bit sick. She was having a good time, was talking about going dancing, and after a few moments of her stroking my face and holding my hand, we kissed goodbye. She asked no questions about him; she thought nothing of him walking out with me.

We walked through parkland. There were possums everywhere and he stopped in front of one, crouched, and whispered quietly to it. It looked at him, transfixed, but he overbalanced, fell, and the possum ran fast up a tree. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and he took it and helped himself up. He didn’t let go.

I looked around, nervous, feeling spied upon. His hand felt rough, enormous, so different to Leah’s light touch. I took my hand away.