Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Dan had discovered that he had been mistaken, that books did not exist outside of the body and only in mind, but that words were breath, that they were experienced and understood through the inseparability of mind and body, that words were the water and reading was swimming. Just as he had in water, he could lose himself in reading: mind and body became one. He had taken the Chekhov story with him on release, and the pages remained folded in a tight square in the one gift Carlo had ever given him, an old vinyl pouch in which the older man had kept his tobacco and his drugs. The pouch now sat on a makeshift shelf Dan had constructed next to the mattress in his bedroom. That story was a song: in reading it he believed he was opening his lungs and singing.

He didn’t know how to explain all of this to his mother, but at that moment, with the books tucked under his arm, he decided that when they were back in Melbourne he would show her his home, in which there was no television or radio, no stereo or computer, just books. And he would tell her that prison had taught him that books were all he needed, books were enough. They were music and light and sound to him — they were the world.

‘I like reading,’ he answered simply, and held out his hand for the keys. ‘My turn to drive.’

They hadn’t driven far, listening to a live recording of Aretha Franklin backed by a gospel choir, when his mother lowered the volume. ‘It was Regan who was always the reader,’ she announced, suddenly. Her tone shifted. ‘Have you heard from her?’ There was pleading in her voice.

‘No,’ he said, and remembered with mortification his brother’s scoffing words. ‘Have you?’

His mother didn’t answer straight away. She had her eyes closed, was swaying to the music. ‘She speaks to your father. He’s visited her when he’s been up north. We want her to go back to school, finish her VCE, but she won’t hear of it.’

The call and response of singer and congregation tumbled and rolled under his mother’s words.

Her voice trembled on the edge of tears. ‘I feel like I failed her, Danny. I did what my mother did to me. I took my daughter for granted. I don’t know why I did that.’

His gaze didn’t waver from the open road, the parched wheat-coloured farmland. His mother turned up the volume. Franklin’s ecstasy filled the car and Dan found that he could breathe out. It was safe again.

It was pitch-black night as they descended from the hills into Adelaide, only the weaving headlights breaking through the obstinate darkness. The descent had come abruptly, the drop sheer and frightening, the city’s canopy of sparkling lights suddenly glimmering below. Dan was tired and had to snap to attention, fearful with every turn that he could lose control and send the car flying out into the night. Part of him wanted that flight, that release.

His mother had turned off the stereo; they were descending into silence.

‘I’m scared, Danny,’ she said.

‘Sorry, I’ll slow down.’

‘No, not of your driving. I’m scared of going home.’

Home. It surprised him that she would still use that word for this city. ‘Maybe Dad should have come with you instead?’

She shook her head vehemently. Dan was concentrating on the precarious twists and turns of the road but he sneaked a look across at her. No make-up, streaks of ash now in her once coal-black hair, which was tied back in a severe roll. She was wearing a corn-yellow cardigan over a white top, loose dark linen pants. No intricately embroidered stockings, no heels on her shoes. This was not the mother he knew, the woman who delighted in artifice, in elaborate dress, in exhilarating aromas. She had stripped herself down to a woman on the other side of middle age.

‘Your dad came last time,’ she finally explained. ‘It was a disaster. Your papou was dying, he was so sick but he still found it in himself to rise from his deathbed and order your father and me out of the house.’ Again, she was shaking her head ferociously, as if by doing so she could shake her memories loose, untether them and toss them away. ‘He called me the most terrible names — it was awful. I thought your father was going to punch him.’

She touched her son’s wrist, the lightest touch, then put her hand back in her lap. ‘I really appreciate this, Danny. I need you here but I’m sorry to put you through this.’

His neck hurt, he felt bone-weary from the driving and her words. A dull pain was thumping at the back of his head. He couldn’t fail her, he must not fail her.

‘You don’t have to thank me, Mum. I’m glad I came.’

He had no sense of the city as they drove into it, his mother giving directions, but she ended up getting them lost, and they had to stop at a late-night service station to ask the way. At last they turned into a dark cul-de-sac and his mum told him to park outside a box-like dark-brick house with a tiny neat lawn. There was no fence; the yellowing grass came down to the footpath. Dan grabbed his backpack and his mother’s suitcase from the boot and they walked up the drive and rang the doorbell. As they waited he was conscious of his mother’s agitation, then there were footsteps approaching. The door was flung open by a plump young woman with lively, thickly lashed eyes, dyed-blonde hair and enormous gold-hooped earrings.

The woman peered crossly at Dan and his mother and then her face softened. ‘Hello, Aunt Stephanie,’ she said warmly. The soft purr of her voice, the self-conscious way she ushered them in, the quick kisses she gave his mother reminded Dan of a shy pet. ‘Hello,’ she added, turning to him and kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You must be Daniel. I’m your cousin Joanna.’

The first few minutes were a rush as he followed his mother and cousin through the house, all plush carpets and richly patterned rugs, showy furnishings and endless photos on the walls. An enormous television dominated the lounge room. Two young boys were sitting on a white leather sofa, fighting over a gaming console. They stopped struggling as the adults entered, and looked up sheepishly; the youngest tried to hide the console behind his back. On the white leather armchair across from them sat a man in a black t-shirt, AC/DC printed on it in synthetic white Gothic lettering. He was wearing grey trackpants, his feet were bare. He didn’t get up to greet them, didn’t meet their eyes.

‘This is my brother, your cousin Dennis,’ said Joanna, and then pointed to the boys. ‘My eldest, Michael, and my baby, Paul.’

Dan couldn’t take in the names, forgot them as soon as he heard them. The two young boys couldn’t hide their openmouthed astonishment at being introduced to him. The intensity of their examination of him disturbed him; it felt as if he were an animal on display, as if he and his mum were strange and alien beasts. But his mother didn’t seem to notice or care as she swooped down on the boys, wrapped them in a tight embrace and kissed them. They turned anxious eyes to their mother, and Dan caught Joanna’s covert nod of permission. They returned their great-aunt’s embrace. Dan’s mother then turned to hug the large-framed man, who still hadn’t risen from the sofa or looked their way. This disrespect made Dan want to lift him up by his shirtfront, this big-muscled wog jerk, all balloon biceps and puffed-up jock chest. But his mother didn’t mind at all — she was affectionate with Dennis, caressing his face and messing his short spiky hair. The man relented a little, looking her way but not smiling, not really returning the hug.

‘Do you remember me?’ asked Dan’s mother. ‘Do you remember your thea Steph?’ Dan couldn’t fathom why she was talking to the man as she would to a child.