Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

‘Why can’t you say something to him?’ his father would roar. ‘What kind of older brother are you?’

Ashamed, Saverio would try to broker peace.

It would then be Leo’s turn to scream at him. ‘I don’t have to apologise to that patriarchal fascist shit!’

‘You think that’s something to be proud of, do you? It’s not. You should be fucking ashamed!’ Dawn’s voice had been brutal and disapproving.

Saverio had looked over to his brother, wanting Leo to save him from the ferocity of her contempt, but Leo had made no reply. It was a ghastly moment, one of those times when all other conversation had ceased and everyone seemed to be turned towards him. That could just be memory playing a trick, of course; probably no one else at the party really gave a damn. But he did not make up Leo’s silence. Leo had not defended him.

‘Dawn, I’ve been looking for work for ages, since completing my degree—’

She hadn’t let him finish. That was what he remembered most about Leo’s friends: the surety of their beliefs, the passion and the hostility. ‘Shell supports the apartheid state in South Africa. You want to be part of that?’

No, I want a job. They interviewed me, have given me a graduate position, I’ve been trying for months. But that wouldn’t do for Dawn, so he had said nothing.

She had stepped closer to him, and the vehemence in her eyes had startled him. She felt it so strongly. She wasn’t even black. ‘Don’t take the job.’

‘What?’ He had been astounded. ‘Of course I’m taking the job.’

He had thought she was going to spit on him but instead she had turned around and dismissed him with a guttural, vicious grunt of disgust.

From Leo there had been no word of congratulations, no questions about the job, what he would be doing, when he would be starting.

‘She’s right. You shouldn’t take the job.’ Then Leo had walked off to whisper and laugh and joke with his friends.

•

Saverio slammed his suitcase onto the bed. That night was over thirty years ago, but the recollection of it still rankled, still filled him with impotent fury.

He stared around the room. Every spare inch of wall was filled with canvases or photographs: Polaroids, cheap travel shots in florid colours, artistic black and white prints. Framed photos were crammed onto the bureau and bedside table. A stack of Leo’s paintings was resting against the far wall, under a framed Aboriginal Land Rights poster that Saverio remembered from the early eighties. The photographs were of Leo and his friends. Leo in Hanoi and Paris and Mexico City. Leo and Dawn in Cuba. Leo and Tom Jords wearing pink T-shirts emblazoned with a black Women’s Liberation fist at Mardi Gras.

On the small table was an old framed black and white photograph of their mother, taken when she was a young girl in Rome, her face sullen as she braved the camera. Of Saverio and their father there was nothing at all, not one snapshot.

He shouldn’t have come. Leo’s true family had been the men and women who were laughing and swapping reminiscences on the verandah.

There was a muffled ‘Can I come in?’, and Saverio swung around. Julian was holding out a glass of wine with an apologetic smile.

Saverio took it and gestured for Julian to enter. ‘You should be the one sleeping in here,’ Saverio said quietly.

Julian laughed and shook his head. ‘It’s fine. The old gang are going to sleep on mattresses and sleeping bags on the living-room floor. We’ll probably keep you awake with our drunken raves.’ Julian’s brow suddenly squashed into a frown. ‘Unless you prefer not to sleep in. .’

‘No, no, that’s fine. Thanks, it’s kind of you.’

Saverio was not frightened of Leo’s ghost. They had that in common, brothers in their rationalism and atheism, their father’s sons.

Julian walked around the bed and started flicking through the canvases against the wall. ‘I’ll have to sort through all of these before I head back to Sydney. Leo’s named me executor of his estate.’ Julian’s voice had dropped to an anxious whisper.

‘That’s how it should be.’

Saverio glimpsed a corner of a painting, the strokes thick, the colours warm, fiery. A lavender-veined penis pushing through a glory hole. Julian let the canvases drop. He seemed to be searching the walls of the room and his gaze lighted on a small, vividly coloured Polaroid. It was of a beaming Filipina woman holding a chuckling naked boy. Julian’s features, his smile, his mischievous eyes, were unmistakable. Julian unpinned the Polaroid and put it in his shirt pocket. ‘Leo was always meant to give that back. It’s the only photo I have of me and Mum back in Manila.’

Saverio felt as if he were sinking. He had hoped that it would be cooler up in the hills but he had forgotten that it was impossible to escape the humidity in this part of the world. He wanted to be back in Melbourne, in less intense light, where he didn’t feel that every corner and spare inch of space was illuminated. He didn’t want to be sipping red wine. He wanted a beer. He didn’t know how to make conversation with these people, even Julian who had always been kind to him and Rachel.

There was the sound of smashing glass on the verandah and peals of laughter.

‘It’s probably going to be like this all night.’

Saverio searched his pockets, clasped the car keys. ‘I’m going to go into town. Do we need anything?’

Julian, surprised, shook his head.

‘I’ll see you in an hour or two.’

‘Sav, will you deliver a eulogy tomorrow?’

He felt snookered. No, he did not want to deliver a eulogy. There was absolutely nothing to say.

With a toss of his chin, Julian indicated the world outside. ‘We’d all appreciate it.’

I thought you didn’t believe in family. I thought you believed it was a patriarchal capitalist construct. But maybe they did now. Maybe now they believed in family and shares and television and parliamentary democracy. He just wanted to leave the room, the house, the unbearable heat.

He nodded and Julian smiled.

An old lime Volkswagen Beetle was coming up the drive. There was a noisy crunching of gears, and then a small shudder before it came to a halt. Saverio looked through the flyscreen door to see everyone leave the verandah and cluster around the white-haired woman who got out of the car. She wore faded bermuda shorts and a yellow singlet.

A much younger woman stepped out from the driver’s side. She looked as though she was still shedding adolescence. She was wearing a pink see-through shirt and even from behind the screen Saverio could see the outline of the black bra beneath.

Julian pushed past him through the door and Saverio almost fell out onto the verandah.

Everyone was talking, calling out, hugging and kissing the older woman. Only the young woman looked up and smiled ruefully, as if to acknowledge him. She was not dressed for the weather at all. She had on a tight black miniskirt with embroidered white stockings. Her thick-soled black boots laced up past her ankles. Her hair was dyed a platinum blonde, set in curls that fell to her shoulders, and her face was heavily made-up with rouge, thick black eyeliner and scarlet lipstick. She reminded him of a young Marilyn Monroe. She seemed to know everyone, greeting them with kisses. Julian had placed a protective arm around her and was beckoning Saverio to come down.

The older woman looked up as he descended the steps. He recognised her face: Margaret Cannon was a well-regarded fiction writer; Rachel had read all her books. Saverio had no recollection of meeting her before. But her smile was warm, inviting, and her grip firm as she shook his hand. ‘It’s Stephen, isn’t it?’

‘Saverio.’