Tsiolkas - Loaded

Contents

About the Author

Christos Tsiolkas was born in 1965 and lives in Melbourne. Loaded is his first novel.

Christos Tsiolkas

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781446476932

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Vintage 1997

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

Copyright Christos Tsiolkas 1995

Christos Tsiolkas has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

First published by Vintage in 1997

Backstabbers reproduced by permission of Warner/

Chappell Music Pty Ltd.

Unauthorised copying is illegal.

Working Class Hero 1971 Northern Songs Ltd.

All rights reserved.

International copyright secured. Reproduced with permission from Music Sales Pty Ltd.

This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its art funding and advisory body

Vintage

Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within

The Random House Group Limited can be found at:

www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099757719

For Wayne van der Stelt

and Alan Sultan,

And for my family

The immigrant child has the advantage or the burden of knowing what other children may more easily forget: a child, any child, necessarily lives in his own time, his own room. The child cannot have a life identical with that of his mother or father. For the immigrant child this knowledge is inescapable.

Richard Rodriguez An American writer

EAST

Sister Sledge Lost in music

The morning is ending

The morning is ending and Ive just opened my eyes. I stare across the cluttered room Im in. I yawn. I scratch at my groin. I feel my cock and start a slow masturbation. When Im finished, and it doesnt take long, I get up with a leap, wrap a towel around my naked body and make a slow journey downstairs.

I hear noises from throughout the house. A robotic voice is squealing over a bass-beat on the CD. The very narrow stairs stretch down before me. I walk past cobwebs, stains on the carpet, a biro on one step, a cigarette butt on another. In the lounge I grab a packet of cigarettes and light one. On the mantelpiece I notice an old family photo. Ive forgotten this photo. My brother in a red shirt and black shorts has one arm around the old man and another around my mum. She looks like Elizabeth Taylor, or at least is trying to, and Dad is wearing a grey suit with a narrow black tie. Hes trying to look like Mastroianni, or like Delon. The tie belongs to me now. Im in the picture too. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, in a blue shirt, aiming a plastic gun at the camera. The colours in the photo are rich, bright. Colour photos dont do that any more. Technology makes things look too real. I turn away from the photograph and look at last nights mess strewn across the lounge room. Its not my place.

In the kitchen Peter is cooking bacon and eggs. Janet is sitting reading him something from the paper. George, one of the boys they live with, is sitting across from her. He smiles up at me and I return him a cool smile, nothing too eager. Hes in pyjama bottoms and through the slit I catch a glimpse of pubic hair. All I want to do is touch him but I look away. Janet stops reading.

Want some food? I nod, take a seat, try not to look at George. My head hurts and I wish I was home. Peter slips me a smile and asks me if I have a hangover. I nod and Janet laughs at me.

Poor baby, she smirks. Corrupted by his brothers friends. Her voice rings loud in my head. This morning she is a study in red. Her hair dyed burgundy, a red floral dress over her fleshy pale body, pink slippers on her feet. Shes reading the sports pages of the newspaper and I grab a glimpse of the front-page headlines. Australia have won the First Test. Ive just got up and Im already bored. I wouldnt mind a joint.

Have you got any gear left? I ask my brother.

Breakfast and coffee first. Then you have to ring Mum and then you can roll your own joint.

You can make your own coffee too, blurts out Janet. Peter gives her half a dirty look. I catch it and feel immediately better. Im his little brother. Hes got to look after me. I eat the food quickly and gulp down some water. George is laughing at me. He slowly picks at the food on his plate. I try to say something to him but my mouth is too full of egg. He leans over and wipes some food from my bottom lip. He smells of fresh sweat, dry come and tobacco. My cock goes hard and I dont try to speak, just scoff down the food.

Someone has changed the music upstairs and disco comes wafting into the kitchen.

Turn it up, yells George, and the volume increases. I tap the edge of the table in time with the music. Peter puts on a pot of coffee then comes over to me and grabs me from behind. He sways from side to side, crooning the song into my ear. I giggle and tell him to fuck off.

You fuck off, Ari, he laughs. Go have a shower and stop parading your young flesh around us old-timers. I give him a brotherly kiss.

In the bathroom I put the radio on and a slow sensual wail comes out. A middle-eastern chant above a techno drum pattern. I inspect my face in the mirror and scrub away a faint trace of egg and dry spit around my mouth. I turn the water on full blast and sing along to the radio. Wiping away the smells of sweat, alcohol, dope, I sing along to the radio, louder and louder. My mouth is still dry, even with all this water and I put some toothpaste in my mouth and gargle. When Im finished I stand in front of the mirror, wiping myself dry, wiping myself clean. The throbbing in my head has gone and I start reading a postcard on the mirror. Womens liberation stuff. An old woman with a banner that reads: We hold up half the sky. She looks very tired. Lots of lines on her face like someone who must have smoked too much.

Coffee, I demand, coming back into the kitchen. Janet is about to say something rude to me but I rush to her and kiss her hard on the cheek. Thanks for the coffee, sis, I say to her, and rush out and up the stairs. Im not your sister, I hear her scream, Im only sleeping with your brother, Im not married to him. But I dont give a shit. My voice gets louder and louder climbing the stairs, grabbing at the cobwebs, singing along to whatever music is playing in the house. I put on my tracksuit pants and my T-shirt and rush down the stairs again.

Coffee, I scream again, and Janet flicks a grape into my face. I catch it in my mouth, roll it out on my tongue and spit it back to her. She turns her face away but George grabs the grape in mid-air and puts it in his mouth. That was my spit, I whisper. I whisper down deep inside me so no one can hear.

Call Mum. Peter holds the phone out to me. I get up and start dialling. Janet asks Peter why Ive got an image of Africa on my T-shirt. Mum, I say, how are you, I slept over at Panayiotis house. Hes anti-racist I hear Peter say, not adding that its an old T-shirt of his. Yeah, Ill come home soon, I tell Mum. No, I dont think hes coming up. Are you coming home? I ask Peter. I am home, he says. Hes not coming up, Mum. I dont know, maybe hes busy. She asks me if Janet is there. I start talking in Greek, trying to be discreet. She wants to talk to Peter or Janet. I say goodbye and hand the phone to my brother. Im all for racism, I tell Janet, moving slowly towards her, rolling my eyes and putting on a mean motherfucker sneer, dropping my voice very low. I think every whitey deserves to get it in the throat, I whisper in her ear. How about you? she counters, moving away. Youre white. I just look at her. Im not white, Im a wog. Youre white, she insists. I say nothing because the conversation is boring. Im just talking crap to get at her. I read the papers, I see the news, I talk to people; white, black, yellow, pink, theyre all fucked. The T-shirt feels heavy on me. Wrong T-shirt to bring to this house.