Authors: Alan Duff
‘If he did go like that I’d be looking to give some hurt back.’
‘We all feel like that. I wanted the bus driver to be punished, hated him for surviving the accident I thought he’d caused. I wished he was dead.’
‘Was it his fault?’
‘No. A mechanical fault — the brakes’ hydraulics system, something like that. There was a lot of anger with the grief. But,’ she continued, ‘even if it was his fault, his gross negligence, there’s no place in a civilised society for revenge. Otherwise we end up like Afghanistan. It never ends.’
‘So the grief does end?’ Johno feeling, for some reason, more in need of reassurance than he liked.
‘Not completely. Five years after the event? Maybe it does finally come to an end. But I don’t feel like killing myself, like I did back then. And I rarely think of it during a dive.’
‘But when you’ve surfaced,’ Johno said. ‘I’ve seen it.’ An expression of remembered pain, of undeniable grief that could never go away.
‘I guess that contact again with the air, with life,’ she said. ‘But Johno? I wouldn’t want to live with a vengeful man.’ She reached out for him. ‘I want a man who offers me that one place of refuge. Not the physical act, but what love stands for. I think you know what I mean.’
Yes, he did. ‘What was her name?’
‘Stella.’
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘My husband was Mike.’
‘And he was a good man?’
‘Oh yes. The best. A hard-working builder with his own construction company. Built this apartment building and we ended up with this unit free, so to speak,’ Mel said. ‘Danny’s a nice name, too.’
‘Named after the song you heard at my dad’s funeral.’
‘That chap who sang it was very good for, I’m presuming, someone from the underworld. There must be so much untapped talent languishing in prisons everywhere. You sang a few lines of “Danny Boy” to me, but then you stopped.’
‘Singing to a singer?’
‘You have a good voice. You wouldn’t disgrace yourself in public.’ She was right up close now. ‘You can imagine my feelings when you asked
me to sing at the funeral. It did bring back memories of Stella.’
‘Why didn’t I see that something wasn’t quite right?’
She put a finger on his lip. ‘But now I hear the music, which I couldn’t for a good three years. Music that tells me the world’s still a wonderful place, that even a sad song has joy. It’s just humans expressing themselves.’
Her eyes were filmy, yet she was smiling. ‘I can tell you, life does go on and mostly it’s beautiful. And more so since I met you.’
J
ohno had to hope that Danny not coming diving on Sundays was, as Melanie said, just ‘an extended phase of innocent infatuation with Frederick’. At times he felt like commanding Danny to come out diving, but he didn’t wish to compel his son to do anything.
The key money was way behind him now, business was up, Tahu had taken over the Ultimo building and renamed it Tahu’s Place. Wilson still rented a room there. Tahu reported that trade was excellent and, ‘Surprise, surprise. My old man has stayed right away. We meet up at each other’s places.’
But Dixon Kanohi did drop by to see Johno a few days after his release.
At ten in the morning a frightened kitchen hand came to tell Johno, ‘A very scary man is asking after you. He’s covered in tattoos, I think he’s a Maori, and—’
‘He’s an old friend. Send him in. I hope no one’s said anything stupid to him.’ Johno was just teasing, yet glad Kanohi hadn’t called during trading hours.
He’d forgotten how big and, yes, frightening the man was. Hugging Johno, Kanohi said, ‘Haven’t you done well? And took my boy on the ride with you.’
‘Aw shucks, Dix. Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.’ Johno slipped right back into easy exchange with a man he’d never been afraid of, though he’d feared for those who upset him.
‘Fucking cheek, Tahu asking me to stay away from your bars. At first
I near busted up my cell and he and you were going to follow. But then I heard a warrior ancestor’s voice saying, “Boy? What kind of stupid reaction is that? You think you look like the Pope?”’
‘Wouldn’t the ancestor have talked in Maori?’ Johno knew Kanohi would see the amusing side so long his authority wasn’t being challenged.
‘Not this one. He’s bilingual, bro. Seeing I don’t speak a word of my parents’ tongue and nor did they — smartarse.’ The big man’s grin changed the pattern inked into his face. The mop of wavy black hair was now streaked with grey.
‘Same ancestor’s asking me, “Doesn’t your mate look after his guests with a beer or three?”’ In an explosion of laughter and spittle drops.
Kanohi drank while Johno showed him around. He was most impressed with Danny’s paintings; he had a deeper understanding and appreciation of art than Johno, presumably from his book learning during all those years inside, though he was saying little.
They sat right beside the beer garden waterfall, Johno at a table and Dixon on the edge of the rock pool. He asked for ‘more beer while we sit right here and appreciate Nature reshaped and in another context by clever human hands’. Same flowery talk.
‘I used to go to this waterfall as a kid, deep in the bush behind our little forest village in the middle of the North Island. To get away from the madness of everyone drunk off their faces, fighting all the time. Women too. Man, I hated it. Never knew I was gonna grow up and be the same.’ As he cracked yet another beer can.
‘I’d sit there, looking at the water falling and thinking if rocks can cry, then so can I. I had this idea I had brains, but I could feel something either broken, or breaking, inside. I never cried again. Hardened my heart. But, hey …’ He brought huge tattooed hands together. ‘I didn’t come here to be talking like this. It’s not manly. Course the last thing I expected to see is a fucking waterfall in the middle of Balmain. This area used to be typical old Sydney town when I went away, and even a criminal haunt.’
‘It’s changed all right,’ said Johno, but without nostalgia. ‘Guess a
lot of men’ve got the same problem about crying. But that’s quite a sad little tale, Dix, if it makes any difference to you.’
‘Coming from you, yes. Though fat lotta good talking does.’ The big man back to type. ‘By the way, I got two carloads of my boys waiting outside. I hope they ain’t got any zealous parking warden in this area or they’ll be taking down his pants and jamming his parking tickets up his white ass. Man, this beer tastes sweet after so long without it. And haven’t you come far — and my son with you, a Kanohi with his own hotel in a big city. Least one of my brood got saved.’
Johno said, ‘That’s the second time you said that. I’ll start to think you’re after something.’ As Kanohi’s little finger pulled the ring tag of the next beer can; no other finger would fit.
‘Only thing I want is to say thank you. And if you need my help — say some heavies turn up demanding protection money, anything like that — just call me.’ He produced his mobile phone.
‘Now these didn’t exist when I went in. Now I can’t do without one. Gimme your number and here’s mine. You had any standover merchants come sniffing around? I hate them worse than anyone, ’cept kiddie sexos. How about cops on the take?’
‘Don’t see them around these days,’ Johno said. ‘I heard they got cleaned out again.’
‘Tell you a name you’ll know, now resident in our former abode,’ said Kanohi. ‘A D by the name of Marsh? I remember you said you owed him one, like a good beating. The name stuck ’cause I grew up with a Marsh family — hard bastards, too. But they had kind hearts, unlike my olds. There I go again. Must be something about you, brother, brings out the hurt child in me.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Johno said. ‘He asked us to call him Marshie once we got to know him. We were thick as — well, thieves. But when Shane and I did a private truck heist nothing to do with the dockies, Marsh said we were moonlighting. They turned on us. That’s when you and I met. A place I still have bad dreams about.’
Kanohi said, ‘Best thing ever happened to you getting thrown
into jail. Made you grow up, even when you didn’t want to, like most men. This is the reward you get, this great place.’
Johno told of Danny being the catalyst, of reeling under Evelyn’s home truths, ‘until I saw, a few years later, what I was’.
‘I told Marsh he’d sent down a good mate of mine and his turn was coming,’ Kanohi said.
‘You hurt him?’ Johno wasn’t sure he was pleased. ‘For me?’
‘Nah. He was too pathetic, trembling, sent someone to beg me to cry off. I let him hang out to dry a bit. I mean you were both being naughty, right?’ The incorrigible criminal talking. ‘Then I summoned him.’ The cheesy smile revealed rather good teeth. ‘Told him if he made one false move he was gone.’
They moved to one of the three bar counters. Kanohi’s beer count now stood at nine cans. Too much and too early by half a day for Johno.
‘Here’s to Mother Freedom, whose delights have all tasted of hops in the four days I been out.’ Kanohi touched his can against Johno’s water glass.
‘So what you getting up to this time round?’ Johno asked.
‘I’m the old dog can’t learn new tricks. But I’m finished with heavy drugs — sticking to weed and only in bulk to the wholesalers. Getting a retail outlet with strong cash takings to siphon the money through, and, when I’ve made enough, gonna buy a beach house up in Queensland somewhere and sit my
good
grandchildren on my knee and feed them propaganda against crime and immorality. That sound like a good plan?’
‘I’ve heard worse.’ They exchanged hand clasps in the Dixon–Kanohi way.
‘How’s your son doing?’ Kanohi asked, pointing at one of Danny’s pictures.
‘He has his moments. He’s got a talent, as you’ve seen.’
‘Better than good,’ said Kanohi. ‘He’s outstanding. This kid has it. I bet he’s a right little weirdo, though.’
‘You bet my junkie mother right,’ Johno said.
‘Being weird is miles better than being bad. Maybe I’ll meet your boy one day? Scare the living daylights out of him, till I give him a Dixon special hug. You ever see your old lady again?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t want to?’
Johno said nothing, shook his head.
Kanohi stood up. ‘I got to be going now. Thanks for the beers. And for Tahu, brother. You more than weighed in. I’ll owe you forever.’
Not good timing to make a flippant remark. Not when the big man had tears in his eyes.
O
ne Sunday Danny decided he wanted to go scuba diving again, more to please his father than anything else. But out on Ross’s small inflatable in a choppy sea, by the time he got into his cumbersome wetsuit, put on the heavy weight belt, compensator and air tank, fins and mask, the waves looked frightening and he felt claustrophobic.
As soon as they flipped backwards into the water he knew something had seized hold of his mind. It took some time before he could go under the water. He’d descended just a few metres when he lost touch with all he’d learned. Panic took over. He was certain he was about to drown.
Next his father was bringing him, thrashing, to the surface, where he tore off his mask, spat out the mouthpiece, started screaming — till a series of forceful slaps across the face brought him to his senses, at least enough to get him onto the boat, where Johno held him; and even as he sobbed, Danny could feel his father’s disappointment.
Father and son stayed on the boat while Mel and Ross dived, and Danny knew Johno’s words were out of duty, saw the lack of eye contact, understood that he’d lost some of his respect. It hurt.
At home Johno got on Danny’s case about how many beers he had, as if he were going to end up an alcoholic, a drunk. He said, ‘I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be.’ The words immediately sounded unfair: he knew how much his father loved him. But then again he didn’t understand so much about his son.
Like drink not being the same for him. Yes, it did change his consciousness but not greatly so. In fact he felt freed, his artistic spirit
liberated. But he could be like that without alcohol. Like Frederick? Hardly. Frederick drank each day till it felled him, wherever he happened to be. Yes, he shared the occasional drink — only vodka and then merely tiny sips — with Frederick. But he didn’t have a need for alcohol, it just gave him another experience for expressing his art. What was wrong with that?
Frederick’s drinking aside, if he sometimes disappeared into a dark mental hole, he was lost to the world for days, even weeks, on end; a stranger looking at Danny blankly, not responding to any shared memories. Not even Danny quoting Hopkins could rouse him. Sometimes Frederick was hostile, though more like a dog growling than likely to attack.
Sure, he had got into the habit of helping himself to the beer at home and he’d taken up smoking — that habit from Frederick. But none of this was a sign of a serious problem developing, of that Danny was certain.
He didn’t get his father’s concern. What was the fuss about enjoying a few beers? His father hated smoking because, as he admitted, he used to smoke himself. So it becomes wrong when he decides to quit? And why was scuba diving so important? Danny didn’t always like it and, just because he happened to have a panic attack, was it the end of the world? His father’s male talk had always made him feel uncomfortable. Being told before every diving trip that they were ‘going hunting’ or ‘taking no prisoners down there’ when crayfish were the objective, had never resonated. His sole attempt at catching a crayfish by hand had him frightened by the creature’s furiously struggling resistance, its horny appearance.
He knew his father meant well and was only doing what he thought was in his son’s best interests, but he never asked if being ‘a man’ in that sense was what Danny wanted. He would have answered with a resounding no. Let him grow into whatever Nature decided. ‘Our fates are written in our genes,’ Frederick told his young friend, ‘like your artistic bent, your gentle nature. Like my mental condition decided my fate.’
How come his father didn’t ask about his paintings in detail? Like his recent run of park scenes featuring murky figures, not homeless park residents but older guys in trendy jeans and black T-shirts, who approached the gangs of young men. Clearly these encounters were to do with drugs, as he’d seen money and packages change hands, heard angry exchanges and once witnessed one of these youths head-butted twice and kicked as he lay on the ground.
They frightened Danny, and he’d painted one interpretation of these hard-looking men with their gold medallions sending off lethal rays — gold bracelets on hairy wrists and the same round the throats of several young men dying. The big gold rings they wore he gave a knuckle-duster look and over the heads of two ugly thugs he painted black, spiked steel haloes.
Admittedly, he’d hidden this painting from his father in case Johno banned him from going to public parks on his own, but he’d left other work around and there’d been no comment on his depictions of teenage Polynesian girls who roamed the city parks. Danny wasn’t sure if they were homeless; he only knew from Frederick that they were sad, and why. He painted them huddled together and weeping, even though he’d not seen them crying, showing these tough girls as vulnerable and afraid, with the faces of absent mothers up there in the clouds looking guilty, ashamed, and in the shadows under trees the men who had hurt and sexually abused them.
All this he knew from Frederick.
When Danny saw these girls attack drunken citizens who’d wandered like prey into their territory, it seemed little different to a wildlife documentary on television. Even though he abhorred all violence, he could see they had a kind of innocence too. They were just trying to survive, like the drunks and like Frederick.
In this unpredictable other world that he partly shared, he had to convey to these youths that, though he wasn’t homeless, he was still friends with a known and kind of respected homeless adult, and wasn’t a threat to anyone.
One day such a group hassled Danny, demanding to know ‘why a rich, pretty boy is hooked up with a log’. Their word for anyone homeless, and often drunk and unconscious. ‘He fucking you, rich boy?’
The accusation was beyond Danny. He’d only recently discovered masturbation and, though it was pleasurable it was also disturbing, the frenzied excitement, in retrospect, quite ridiculous, and undignified.
That’s when Frederick turned up. When the youths called him a sex pervert and threatened both him and Danny, Frederick pulled the knife from his trolley. ‘I’m not even fucking my hand, you knuckleheads,’ he told them. ‘You touch my friend and I’ll cut you to pieces.’
So Frederick had the warrior in him, not as much as Johno but the gesture was appreciated. Danny knew he needed protection if things turned physical.
If Frederick did virtually all the talking, he rarely spoke about himself, only about how he saw the world and what he’d studied in better days and still remembered.
More than a friend, he was a beacon of learning, humble in the face of wider knowledge, above self, ‘shed of vanity’, an enlightened man with no ego, aware that a single human existence was but a ‘pulse beat, but for one thing: the human brain’.
He’d told Danny, ‘Out of this onslaught of impressions a human can make sense and find cohesion. He discovers mathematical truths in the chaos of the universe. Or, like you, he makes art where others see nothing but what is immediately before their unseeing eyes. Perhaps this human brain will one day find a reason why we live, what is worth living for that can’t be taken away, lost, destroyed in an instant. There has to be a point.’
Words Danny was too immature to grasp and yet in a way he did. He thought they might have something to do with love, since the notion formed in his mind like a beautiful loop.
For the fourth Sunday in a row Frederick wasn’t at his usual spot in Hyde Park, Danny looked in all the parks, walked the inner city, but
no sign of the distinctive coat, the supermarket trolley, Frederick’s tall figure.
But no reason for alarm. It had happened before; no doubt a dark period for Frederick, just extended.
Danny surprised his father by turning up at the beer garden for a late barbecue lunch; Mel was with him. He liked her: she had an open, honest face, like his father and maybe more so. Yet seeing them together also blurred his image of what he’d always assumed was their exclusive father–son relationship. Unreasonable jealousy poured into some internal breach.
The thought of his father having sex with this woman conjured up an act that was ugly, ungainly and messy, and to Danny’s way of thinking, confusing and disturbing, as his own self-discovery had been. The sex act seemed graceless, animal-like, which was why everyone did it in private. He thought he might stay separate from that aspect of being human.
‘Ross had boat engine problems,’ Mel said. ‘Least it’s made your father’s mind up to buy a boat so we have a back-up.’
‘It was always loud.’ Danny remembered the jarring throbbing but had no diagnosis, just a mental picture of gears and pistons meshing and destroying one another.
‘Have you had a productive day?’ Mel asked. Such a polite,
well-meaning
person, yet she kind of talked down to him, as if to someone either deaf or, more likely, with a mental problem.
He felt like telling her he hadn’t caught Frederick’s illness, that it wasn’t contagious. But aware his jealousy was making his thoughts angry.