On Cringila Hill (11 page)

‘Well, you was a nice little boy, always polite. And people like it, when you remember what they're called.'

‘Ah.'

Lupce is uncomfortable. The priest blocks the way he would go to leave. Lupce waits for something to happen.

‘Lupce Valeski,' the priest says. ‘I
see
you here. I see you in your church. Lupce, are you returning? Can I take it you have made an approach to your mother church?'

‘Nah. I was just passin'. Goin' on business. Saw where I was. I remember times I was in here, in here for differen' things. Just thought I'd come in for a while, remember some times.'

Coughing racks the old man again. He struggles with the desperation of it, gropes for his handkerchief, coughs, spits into it, gasping for breath. The priest is looking at the handkerchief, from concern or vulgar curiosity, to know what's contained in its folds. Lupce crumples it into a ball of cotton, turns his body to hide it from the young man's view, struggles the handkerchief back into a pocket.

The priest says, ‘Lupce Valeski … you're dying.'

Lupce scowls ahead, raises his eyes to see the forms of the Saviour, his blessed Mother. ‘Who says?'

‘People on Cringila Hill believe it. It's said on Cringila Hill.'

‘People on Cringila Hill talk too much. People talk things they don' know nothin' about.'

The old man stands, moves towards the priest, waits for a way to be made for him to pass.

‘Lupce, please … look, if you wish I'll go, and leave you. I've disturbed you, which I should not have done. I
want
you here! I want you to be comfortable here. I want you to come.'

‘Nah. Goin' now. Just dropped in, passin'.'

The younger man gets to his feet, moves back into the aisle.

‘Goodbye, Father Riste,' Lupce says.

The priest calls to Lupce's back as he walks from the church.
‘Lupce, please … come again. We could talk. You could feel
the services.'

Once Lupce is out on the footpath, Jose gets out of the car to hold the door open.

‘Jose, let's move. There's a priest in there.'

‘I saw him go in. Figured you'd be okay.'

‘Sure. But move on. Pull up to the next corner, turn right, park. Park up there.'

Having repositioned the car the two sit for a while. Jose says, ‘What's the name of that church you said?'

‘St Kristen of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox.'

‘Ah. St Kristen. A Macedonian saint?'

‘Yeah. Very holy. Very learned. From hundreds of years ago. More than a thousand.'

‘Ohrid. What's that, a place?'

‘Sure. Very beautiful town. Beside a very lovely lake. Got a hill. Got a castle.'

‘What,
you're
from there, Ohrid?'

‘Nah. I was a shepherd in mountains west of there. I saw Ohrid twice. I had a job there, for a few days, on a boat. Took English people out on the lake, people who was visitin'.'

‘Ah.'

‘Yeah. Heard them talk English that first time. I thought tha's a good thing to know, how to talk English, lots of people in the world talk English. We had a priest back in the village we lived near, he could talk English. And he taught
me
little bits, when I said I was interested. Same priest taught me to read.'

‘I see.'

‘Yeah. Big help to me when we came out here, talkin' a bit of English. The works got me to tell other Macedonians what they was wanted to do. People would gather roun' me, you know, listen to me, rely on me. That was the start of it. There's
power
in somethin' like that. Come as a big surprise to me when I realised that, I got a bit of power.'

‘Sure. So, when you came and there was to be a church, that's what it was called.'

‘Well. We soon enough saw what we was out here, we was the shit, got the jobs no one else wanted to do. We was the lowest ones. So we named our church. See, we was sayin', “We ain't like this. We ain't these low people. We from a beautiful place, where there's culture, great ancient learning. We from Ohrid!”'

‘But you weren't.'

‘Well,
I
weren't. But it was still mine, you know. It was still about me.'
Lupce looks again at his watch.

Jose says, ‘ready?'

‘Not yet. Few more minutes.' After a pause Lupce says, ‘I hear your uncle's president of the Spanish Club.'

‘Yeah, he is.'

‘Big honour.'

‘Maybe. Lots of pressure, just the same. Is there enough money to run the club, can they pay its debts? Have they got more staff than they need, or can afford? Someone got to be put off, everyone hates Uncle Manuel, though he's just doing what's got to be done, not what he'd prefer.'

‘Sure.'

Lupce turns his face to the window to hide from Jose a smile he can't resist. He says, ‘There's the Portugese Club too. Those two little clubs, people from the same part of the world. Maybe you two should combine, make
one
club.'

He hears Jose's laughter. ‘Oh, you naughty man. Big chance of that, the Spanish and the Portuguese make one club together, cooperate. More chance a
war
than there just be one club. Better chance there be one club for the Macedonians and the Greeks.'

They both laugh. ‘Yeah, not in my lifetime,' Lupce says, ‘will the Macedonians do anythin' with the Greeks.'

‘That thing with Bolkus. That was a bad scene.'

‘Yeah, it was, how it turned out in the end.'

‘People say
you
made it happen.'

‘Ah, I went down there, you know, down to Canberra. I had some things to ask for, talked to some kid. He says, “Yeah, we'll get Bolkus to come, make an announcement. He's ethnic, you know, make us look good about the ethnics.” And I said, “He's Greek. Lotsa people on Cringila Hill is Macedonian. Send a Greek, there'll be trouble.” But they didn't listen to old Lupce, sent Bolkus, and I'd said there'd be trouble, there's gotta be some. So there was a bit of a scene, when he come.'

‘There was a riot.'

‘Well …'

‘People threw bits of housebrick at him.'

‘Yeah, they did. Got a bit excited, you know. Went too far. Made me embarrassed.'

‘Could have hit him in the head.'

‘Well, yeah, they could of, but they didn'. Anyway, now old Lupce says, “Don' do that,” they don' do it. That's a thing to learn. It's hard to make 'em do things, but easier make 'em
not
do things.'

The darkness has softened. ‘It's time,' Lupce says. ‘Let's go.'

Again he's racked by coughing. When he's drawn himself together, Jose says, ‘My dad coughed like you do, before he got that last of the sickness.'

‘Ah.'

‘Yeah. Is there anything else?'

‘There's else.'

‘Throwin' up?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Gonna see about it?'

‘Seen.'

They reach Wentworth Street, Port Kembla, head down, take turns into narrow alleyways.

‘Pull up, up there,' Lupce says. ‘That's them.'

Chapter Thirteen

A head is rising out of the sea. Jimmy is excited and afraid – he knows that it's his father's head. Sunlight shines onto the point of the ocean where the skull is emerging. Soon, he'll be able to see his father's face. But when the head is clear of salt water, there is no face, no flesh, just a skeleton, water rushing from sockets where eyes should be. Then behind the head another rises, old Lupce, with his eyes narrowed, watching. He gives a little smile, winks, and Jimmy can hear shrieking, hears someone scream, ‘
No!
' Then when he wakes he knows that the screaming is coming from him. He lies awhile, sweating. He presses the palms of his hands over his eyes.

The door opens and his mother enters. He hears her say, ‘What is it?'

‘Nah,' Jimmy says. ‘Nah, nothin', Mama. Bad dream is all.'

The air in the bedroom is heavy with cold. Jimmy rubs his face, looks at the tall woman who stands in the doorway. Drawn over her pyjamas is a thin cotton wrap.

‘Dreamin',' she says.

‘Yeah.'

‘This is most nights lately. Wake me up most nights, screamin' out.'

‘I'm sorry, Mama.'

‘Yeah, well, it's not about me. No good for
you
, nightmares, screamin' out.'

Jimmy pulls back the covers and swings his legs off the mattress. He sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees.

‘It's been since what happened to Abdul,' he says. ‘Since then I've had the bad nightmares.'

‘What? You dreamin' about what happened to Abdul?'

‘Nah. Is the funny thing. Not dreamin' about Abdul. Dreamin' about my father.'

He rubs his face, looks at his mother, sees the concentration with which her dark eyes study him.

‘What you dreamin'?'

‘Well, just now he was in the sea an' his head was comin' out of the water an' I was lookin' to see his face, but then when he got above the surface there weren't no face, just his skull bones.'

‘Ah. You seen anythin' else in that dream?'

‘Yeah. Grandfather. Grandfather's there. He winks at me.'

‘Ah.'

She seats herself in a chair beside the bedroom window, crosses her knees, folds her big hands in her lap, watches her son.

‘You tryin' ta know somethin' you don' wanna know. Or, maybe, to
not
know somethin' you startin' to know.'

‘Don' make no sense, Mama.'

‘No. Well, either way, there ain't no peace. Ain't no peace for Jimmy, from what's happenin'. An' you got bad dreams cos of that.'

He snuffles, rubs his hands over his face.

‘Well, anyway, it ain't no fun. It ain't no fun about the dreams, I can tell you that.'

He's got his legs out from under the bedcovers. He doesn't wear pyjama pants so his legs get a strike of cold in the sharp air.

‘What time is it?'

‘Half after eight.'

‘Half after
eight
!'

‘Sure. Is Saturday. No cleanin' for me. Sleep late day for me. You come in late las' night, let you sleep.'

‘Half after
eight
! Well, coffee day, you know? Day I go drink coffee with Grandfather.'

‘Grandfather!' The woman says the word as though spitting.

‘Yeah, he expects it, me comin' for coffee. He likes it, he expects me come.'

‘Don't
gotta
go.'

‘He expects it. He'd worry.'

It doesn't take long for Jimmy to dress, wash, carefully shave his face, pat stinging cologne onto his cheeks. He finds his mother in the kitchen, kisses her cheek, gets out into the still winter's morning.

His head sings a little as he walks. He blinks in the strong sunlight, shakes his head to concentrate. On the footpath that winds down Cringila Hill it feels as though the concrete falls away beneath his feet, so that he must press his footsteps down further to make contact. A car passes him, heading down the hill. A horn blares, he hears a call, ‘Hey! Jimmy!' He waves without looking up. Down in the village of Cringila, he stands at a corner, looks a little way to where a woman is walking between people who are sitting at outdoor café tables. She carries a tray covered with steaming cups.

Jimmy has sometimes seen the woman carry the chairs and tables out from her shop, set them in place, then lift and carry them back inside in late afternoon. Sometimes, without words, he's come and done the carrying. At first it surprised him that the tables were so heavy – she is a strong little woman, though she doesn't look that. ‘You're a good boy, Jimmy,' she tells him when he helps her. ‘Well, you old Lupce's grandson. Lupce good man, helps people.'

Jimmy watches the patrons of the coffee shop. There are now three groups at the tables. A woman, maybe of fifty years, is with her husband and they breakfast together on hot drinks and pastries. At a round table is a young woman, slender, nicely dressed, who smiles down at the tabletop looking pleased with herself. Her companion, a young man, wears jeans and a t-shirt; he leans eagerly towards the pretty, dark-haired girl, chats to her, grins. Probably they've been out the night before, Jimmy thinks, spent the night together. Things are going well for them.

Three men are seated down one side of a rectangular table creating the little cloud of blue-grey smoke that drifts from their cigarettes, expels from their lungs. They are old men, skinny, thin-faced, thin-lipped, hard looking. They wear suit coats and trousers that don't match, ties; one has on a little fedora hat with a colourful bird's feather in its band. The three chatter to each other, wave their hands for emphasis.

At the head of the table, silent, watching, is Lupce Valeski.

Jimmy approaches the old men. He sees them note him, end their discussion, nod at him, smile. As he approaches, one of the three old men stands, walks to the table of the young lovers, gestures at an unused chair, raises his eyebrows: okay? The young man waves the back of his hand – sure! Take it! The old man grins at Jimmy, carries the chair and places it up at the head of the table beside Lupce. Jimmy joins the group. Lupce doesn't move. Jimmy leans to his grandfather, kisses the leathery old forehead.

‘Grandfather,' he says in greeting.

Lupce narrows one eye, smiles up at Jimmy for a moment.

‘See,' one of the group says. ‘Here's Jimmy. Lupce be
happy
now!'

‘Is good you come,' says another. ‘Is good he gets happy. Some­times he's cranky!
'

Jimmy glances at his grandfather, sees that the old man does not seem to find this joke funny.

Quietly, Lupce says to Jimmy, ‘How you doin'? Had food? Want the woman make you somethin' to eat?'

‘Nah, just got up. Not ready for eatin'. Up late last night.' Jimmy knows that the old man is aware of how he spends his nights. The boy lowers himself into the plastic chair. Lupce reaches a big hand to steady it.

‘Sure,' says a companion. ‘Lupce
always
takes good care of Jimmy.'

Jimmy watches the men grin and nod, one winks at the others, and Jimmy has a moment of remembering a wink in a nightmare. He thinks, they know more about my life than I do.

Then all conversation outside the coffee shop stops. A new-looking Mercedes Benz has turned into the street, moved slowly along it. A face peers out of a window, examining the tables. Jimmy sees the narrowing of his grandfather's eyes, the pulling down of the corners of the mouth.

The car is parked further along the street. The driver emerges, comes back towards the coffee shop in a little swagger. He is short, swarthy in the face, clean-shaven. His hair is dark and thick, swept back from his brow. He wears jeans, a t-shirt, riding boots and a stiff-tanned waist-length leather jacket.

Above Cringila Hill a green sweep of land runs away to the west and rises up into a ridge. Atop this grassed slope is a grey cement water tower. Jimmy can see that his grandfather is staring at it, ignoring the newcomer.

‘Lupce,' the Mercedes driver says.

Lupce lifts his coffee to his lips, sips. After a good, long pause he replies, ‘Guido.'

‘I went to your house. No one there.'

‘I know there's no one there. There's only one person lives there, is me. I'm
here
.'

Jimmy looks from Guido to Lupce. He can see that Guido doesn't like what's been said, and that Lupce doesn't care whether he likes it or not.

‘Be good I can talk to you,' Guido says. ‘Got something for you.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yeah. What? I go to your place, wait for you?'

Lupce permits himself a little smile. ‘You must do what you think best.'

Guido looks uncertain. ‘I'll go and wait,' he says at last.

Guido walks back to his car, executes a three-point turn and drives up Cringila Hill.

‘Now see, Jimmy,' Lupce says. ‘I got a problem now. Got an issue. Time my lady comes to clean my house. She likes me be home when she does the cleanin'. I know she's never gonna steal nothin', is an honest woman, but she likes it I be there when she's in the house. I go round there now Guido gonna think I come back to please him, not come because I gotta, about the lady. I don' want Guido gettin' that idea, that I care about pleasin' him. Don' wanna upset the nice lady cleans my house. So, what's you old Papa gonna do.'

Jimmy takes a long swallow of the coffee that's just arrived. It's good, very hot, and, despite what he's told his grandfather, he's thirsty and hungry after his cold start to the morning. He smacks his lips. ‘You gonna go to your place, for the lady. Otherwise that worthless piece of shit be decidin' for you what you gonna do, an' you not gonna
have
that.'

The three old men give a fierce shout of laughter. One slaps a thigh. There are words in Macedonian and Jimmy can remember enough of the language to know it's been said, ‘Lupce's grandson!'

‘Enjoy your coffee,' Lupce says to Jimmy. ‘Don' rush.' When Jimmy has emptied his cup, Lupce says, ‘Walk with me, Jimmy? Come roun' my house? Best go, be there for the lady.'

No bill is presented – Lupce will settle his account with the proprietor at month's end. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your company,' Lupce says. ‘Please give my finest regards to your wives.'

The three smile, bob their heads as the old man and his grandson set off up the Hill. Jimmy can see his grandfather is taking laboured steps. At the corner of Lupce's street they stop, to let the old man steady his breathing. The black Mercedes is parked on the street beneath the steps to Lupce's verandah.

‘Stupid!' Lupce says, ‘Stupid he talk to me like that, everyone seein'. Italians! This town, you gonna do business you gotta do business with Italians! When is your time, don' work with stupid people. Stupid people cause the trouble.'

‘All Italians stupid?'

‘Nah. This Guido, he's the worst thing – Italian
an'
stupid. Nah. Is one thing worse. Worse thing is stupid an' Greek.'

They slowly walk towards the car. Lupce reaches his left hand, touches Jimmy on the left bicep, says, ‘Is good you come. Was late. Thought maybe you not comin'.'

‘I'm sorry, Grandfather.'

Lupce flicks his hand. ‘Got some things to say ta ya. Got some things
tell
ya.' He frowns, concentrating. ‘Three, four, five things, I think. Yeah. Five things. Thought about it all this mornin', wake up, couldn' sleep, there inna dark, thinkin'. Gonna tell ya today. Maybe you know some of it. Gonna tell ya be sure you know.'

Guido has seated himself in one of the chairs on the verandah. Lupce frowns, goes to occupy the other chair. Guido has placed a manila envelope onto the plastic tabletop. Jimmy can see it is packed with money. He seats himself on the verandah floor, stretches his long legs down the steps.

‘Got something for you.' Guido reaches out of Jimmy's line of sight to give the envelope a push.

‘Ah,' Lupce says. ‘Yeah, nice. A donation! Yeah, tha's good, is kind … nice thing to do. You see that, Jimmy? Guido makes a gift to the Macedonian Welfare League.'

‘Yeah, well,' Guido says. ‘It's what I said. It's what I told you before.'

‘Good. Is nice. You a nice man.'

Lupce stares down the Hill towards the yards of the steelworks.

‘Well?' Guido says. ‘Is it gonna be alright?'

‘Not up to me. I'm gonna tell our people on the council about you donation, you a kind man. I know they gonna help you if they can.'

‘Well, when will I know?'

Lupce frowns as though wondering himself. ‘Not sure. Not sure
when
they gonna decide.'

‘Well, that's it.' Guido angrily prods the envelope out of Jimmy's sight. ‘Don't go asking me for any more.'

Jimmy watches to see what Lupce does with his left hand. He knows that if Lupce places it palm down on the tabletop and taps once with his index finger, he's angry. Twice, he's furious. He expects that to be spoken to this way will make Lupce angry. Jimmy sees the hand move, can hear the tap of a finger, a second, a
third
tap! Shit, three taps! Be careful, Guido.

‘I told you what you gonna hear. Don' like it, take the envelope an' piss off.'

‘No need for that. No need for that sort of talk.' Guido stands, hands on his hips, looks out at the bright, still morning. ‘Well,' he says at last. ‘They know where to find me.'

‘Sure. An' I'm gonna tell people about your kindness. Generosity. Don' do you no harm, I can assure you of that.'