Looking for Alibrandi (10 page)

Twelve

WHEN I NEXT
sat on the couch at my grandmother’s place I succumbed to the urge. The urge of asking her to show me her photos. I regretted it the moment I saw the look of glee on her face. Because of the way Nonna makes my mother feel, I hate making that woman happy.

“My first house,” she said, pointing to a shack. “No matter how much I would clean it, it would always be dirty.”

Don’t believe that. My grandmother, like most Europeans, has this obsession about dirt. She cleans her house at least five times a week.

“Sometimes the snakes would come in, Jozzie. Oh, Jozzie, Jozzie, Jozzie, do you know what it is like to have a snake in your house?”

“No, we have heaps of cockroaches, though.”

She closed her eyes and put her hands together as if she was praying. “You do not know how much I hated Australia for the first year. No friends. No people who spoke the same language as me. Your nonno worked cutting the cane in another town, and sometimes I was on my own for many nights.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

“My job was to make a home for us. His was to make the money.”

I turned the page, looking at photos of my grandfather.

He never smiled. He was always standing straight and haughty. He was extremely tall for an Italian and very dark. Nonna was the opposite. She was smiling in the photo and her skin was white and clear. She’s right, although very vain. She had been a beautiful girl.

I turned the page and looked at her, pointing to a photo.

“Who’s the hunk?”

She looked pensive and reached over to touch it.

The person in the photo was of medium height with golden-brown hair. He was smiling broadly, leaning against a shovel, with no shirt on.

“His name was Marcus Sandford.”

“An Australian?” I screeched. “You knew an Australian hunk?”

“He was my friend.”

I looked at her curiously.

“Who was he?”

“My first Australian friend,” she sighed. “I had gone into the town one day. Straight to the post office. Oh, Jozzie, to get a letter from my family was like going to heaven. I would stand there in the middle of the post office and I would laugh at what my sister would tell me about my young brothers and family.

“But this day, Jozzie, this day she wrote to me to tell me that my mama and papa were dead.”

“The Mafia?”

“Oh, Jozzie, of course not. It was the influenza. So in the middle of the post office I become hysterical. These poor Australians who are not used to the Italians do not know what to do. We Italians cry out loud, Jozzie. The Australians do not. So nobody moved. There I am on the floor pulling my hair out and suddenly a man picks me up off the floor and carries me out to the back.”

“Oh my God. How romantic.”

It was funny watching her talk about this man. Her face softened and I wondered what he’d really meant to her.

“He spoke to me. I spoke to him. Neither of us understood each other, but he was a comfort to me at the worst time of my life and I will remember him for the rest of my life. Nonno was away at the time, so Marcus took me home. He visited me a lot after that. He would bring me stuff from the town when I couldn’t go myself.

“Nuting wrong with that, Jozzie.”

“Did I say there was?”

“He would help me wit the garden and then he would help me wit my English. Oh, but when your nonno came home it stopped, Jozzie. He was a very jealous man. He said it was wrong that this man would come to visit a married woman. He even trampled the garden,” she whispered to me.

I realized then that my grandmother was still a bit scared of Nonno Francesco even though he’d been dead for most of my life.

“It was his garden, he insisted, and only he would tend to it. Anyway, over the next year a few more Italians moved in around the place and I began to have company. Sometimes the company was good. Sometimes bad. But I began to accept the fact that I was never going to go home to Sicily and this country was now my home, so I worked in my garden and I made my house into a home. Sometimes I would have people over and we would speak in Sicilian and I would feel as if I was back home again, Jozzie.” She closed her eyes and smiled.

“I was happy, except people would talk because I wasn’t having babies. Why? they would ask. What is wrong with you, Katia Alibrandi? What are you waiting for? That December, Francesco and I came home after the canecutters’ Christmas party and sitting on my doorstep was my sister Patrizia, six months pregnant. My little Patrizia with a husband. I was in shock.

“They had managed to get to Australia even though there was a war and they were going to live in Australia forever. Oh, Jozzie, your Zio Ricardo was so handsome. Just like Roberto. He was such a good husband. Still is. My sister was so lucky.”

“I know. I always wondered what Zio Ricardo would have been like when he was young. I mean, he’s so strong and so good. Men like him just don’t seem to be around these days.”

“Those times,” she sighed. “They were not the good old days, Jozzie. Not the nineteen-thirties and forties. There was war and there was ignorance. People died in childbirth. If you were sick you could not just go to the doctor and ask him for pills. Sometimes there was no doctor, and if there was, he did not understand what was wrong wit you. Your Zia Patrizia had a terrible pregnancy and sometimes there we were, two young women, alone in the bush.”

She shook her head in distress and turned the page, beginning a story on the Russo-Saleno wedding feud.

I didn’t listen to it. I just sat there glad that I live in these times. I get depressed hearing Nonna talk. She remembers a lot in fondness, but just the feeling that nobody seemed to be around most of the time is frightening. Living just outside the city means that there are people constantly surrounding me. I don’t think I could ever handle the quiet world she lived in. I don’t think I could ever handle the silence of the bush in North Queensland. Or of the country. Especially the silence of the people.

I hope I never have to live in a country where I can’t communicate with my neighbor.

Thirteen

THE REFLECTION IN
the mirror was exceptional. I could have been a model for
Hot Pants
. Except that when I finally put my glasses on, reality set in.
Hot Pants
would have to come later.

I poked my head out of the bathroom and watched Mama sew the hem of my uniform, and with a deep breath I walked into the living room.

“Did I tell you about his speech on voting?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, without looking up.

“And did I also tell you that Jacob Coote is school captain of Cook?”

“’Bout a hundred times.”

“Oh.”

I fixed up the shoulder pads on my black jumper and teased my hair with my fingers. I decided to leave it down for the night and regretted it instantly because the curls went haywire.

“Did I mention that Jacob was . . .”

“. . . deep and meaningful when he wants to be,” Mama finished off, looking up for the first time.

“I mentioned it, eh?”

“Every day, every minute and every hour. What is it, by the way, that fascinates you people so much with black?” she asked.

“Will you straighten my hair?”

The doorbell rang and Mama raised her eyebrows and smiled.

“The school captain is here.”

I rushed over and knelt by her side.

“Mama, promise me that no matter what, you’ll be nice.”

“I’ve always been nice to your friends, Jose.”

“He’s different.”

“The door.”

We looked at it for a second before I stood up and slowly walked over to answer it.

I’m not quite sure why I was disappointed. Maybe because I had spent one whole day trying to look good for him and had spent one whole paycheck on black Country Road pants. He, instead, wore the oldest jeans I have ever seen, and his jumper had holes at the sleeves. We looked at each other and I knew he had done it on purpose.

“Come on in,” I said flatly.

Mama stood up, and I could see her trying to hide her shock at the sight of him.

He also hadn’t shaved for days. No trendy designer stubble, though. Just this “hood” look.

Mama and I exchanged glances and then looked back at him.

“This is my mother,” I snapped.

He almost grunted a hello.

Mama looked perplexed and I gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’ll just go get my jacket.”

I rushed to my bedroom and gave my mother five seconds before the door burst open.

“Josie, he . . . he looks like one of those people who ride motorbikes.”

“Oh, Mama, don’t be stupid,” I babbled, turning away so she couldn’t see my face.

“I can’t let you go out with him.”

I turned back to her pleadingly.

“Oh, Ma, he resented having to meet you so much and he’s coming across worse than he really is. I mean, they don’t make you captain if you’re a hood even if it is a public school, and he’s so deep and meaningful when he wants to be.”

“He wears an earring.”

“He doesn’t wear black, though.”

“His clothes are torn.”

I took her hand and shook my head sadly.

“His mother is dead. Nobody sews for him.”

“Oh, Josie,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Nonna would have a fit.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“He grunted at me, Josie. I felt as if I was conversing with a pig.”

“I think that’s how he shows his nervousness,” I tried.

“The minute that movie ends tonight, I want you home, Josephine. I don’t know if I’m going to let you go out with this boy again either.”

“I’m not sure I want to go out with this boy again,” I said, picking up my bag and walking out.

I stalked past Jacob and was down the stairs before he could move. He caught up with me up the road and when he grabbed my hand I turned around and swung at him with my bag.

“You crrrreeeep!”

“What?”

“How dare you?”

“How dare I what?” he yelled.

“Look like you do! You wore a tie to the school dance.”

“And you think I’m gonna wear a tie to the movies?”

“I thought you’d wear decent clothes, and it’s ‘going to,’ not ‘gonna.’ ”

“Get off my back, woman. I wear what I wanna wear and I speak the way I wanna speak.”

“Oh, you’re such a . . . a
pig,
” I spluttered.

He marched to the bike and climbed on, crashing the helmet down on my head as I followed.

“Next thing, she’s going to tell me how to live my life,” I heard him mutter.

“How dare you treat my mother that way. You didn’t even speak to her,” I hissed. “I told her that I was going out with a human being and you turn up.”

“Oh God,” he yelled. “That’s it, woman. No more, mate. Never again. I must be a prick to ever go through this again.”

“You are a prick, you prick.”

He started the bike and drowned me out, speeding toward the city.

I cursed myself all the way. My first date. My first big favor from my mother and I wasted it on Jacob Coote.

I was freezing to death sitting on that bike. The winter wind was biting into my skin and my face ached from the cold. I envied all around me who were sitting in a car protected from the weather.

Jacob found a parking spot in the back of the Hoyts complex and we didn’t mutter a word to each other until we had to cross the road and he demanded to hold my hand.

“So what do you want to see?” he asked gruffly.

“They’re showing the Greer Garson version of
Pride and
Prejudice
at the Mandolin.”

“No way, mate. I’m not going to see a pansy movie.”

I tried to hold on to my temper as we walked into the complex, but his attitude was making things worse and believe it or not, I began to nag.

I suggested another movie and he gave me a dirty look and shook his head.

“Well, what do you want to see, Mr. Film Critic?” I snapped loudly.

People turned to look at us and he grabbed my hand and pulled me away.

“A normal movie,” he whispered angrily. “Cops and robbers. Good people winning over bad people. People I can relate to.”

“
Morons from Outer Space
is no longer showing.”

He groaned, shaking his head.

“I gave up a Saturday night for this.”

“Oh, how sad. You could have been going out with someone whose mother you didn’t have to grunt at,” I snapped sarcastically.

“You never shut up. You must have the biggest mouth in Sydney,” he said, turning to face me.

“Just because you had to meet my mother, you went and acted like a prick. Why?”

His eyes darkened and I hardly recognized him.

“This is me,” he said, pointing to himself. “This is the way I look when I go to the movies, and pardon my ignorance when it comes to meeting mothers, Josephine. It’s just something that I don’t need to do on a first date. But then again I have never had to go out with an ethnic girl.”

“Don’t you dare call me an ethnic,” I said, furious.

“Well, what the hell are you? The other day you called me an Australian as if it was an insult. Now you’re not an ethnic. You people should go back to your own country if you’re so confused.”

We looked at each other for a minute before he groaned and shook his head.

“Forget I said that.”

“This
is
my country,” I whispered before I turned and ran out of the complex back into the freezing weather.

I heard him call out my name once, but I ducked into one of the arcades and watched him run straight past. When I felt that the road was clear I stepped out and ran in the opposite direction.

A ten-minute date, I thought as I walked home.

I thought seriously of writing to
The Guinness Book of
Records
.

While I was walking home thinking my mother would kill me if she ever found out, I realized that a car was slowly following me. If it had been a motorbike it wouldn’t have frightened me because I would have known it was Jacob. But it was definitely a car trailing me and quickly I prepared myself for a great dash. I began quickening my step and when it stopped alongside me, I could stand it no longer.

“My father’s a cop and he’ll kill you,” I screeched without looking.

“No, he’s a barrister,” I heard Michael Andretti say in a calm voice, “and he’ll kill you if you don’t get into this car.”

I looked in, confused but relieved.

“What are you doing here?”

“Get in the car.”

I stepped in, trying to avoid his look.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, in what must have sounded like a prissy voice.

“I certainly don’t want to hear about it.”

“Typical. Men don’t care about anything but themselves.”

He shook his head disapprovingly and turned into my street.

“Does Christina know you’re strolling the streets alone?”

“Yeah, I rang her up and said, ‘Mum, I’m going to stroll the clean streets of Glebe tonight. Is that okay?’ ”

“Are you ever at a loss for words?”

“When I have something to say, I say it.”

“I think that if you kept your mouth shut more often, you’d learn a lot more.”

He stopped the car and we sat facing the front for a while.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

He sighed, lighting up a cigarette.

“I had decided to come and visit you. I thought you’d like to go out for a pizza or something.”

“Why?”

He looked out the window for a while and then faced me.

“Because if I pretend you don’t exist you still won’t go away. So I thought I’d like to get to know you better, but not in your home. I’d feel uncomfortable and so would Christina if we sat around while our obnoxious creation enjoyed our discomfort.”

“Obnoxious creation?” I said, annoyed. “I’ve never been obnoxious in my life.”

“So I’m cruising down the road and the object of my thoughts is racing down the street, screaming that her father is a cop. A public servant? Very unflattering.”

“I like a man in uniform.”

He laughed. “Do you like pizza?”

“What a ridiculous question. I suppose you’re going to ask me if I like pasta next?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Okay, would you like pizza?”

“I don’t think you deserve my company, but I feel sorry for you, so I’ll say yes.”

“God help me,” he said, half under his breath.

We chose a place on Glebe Point Road that had an open fireplace and was packed with people. The aroma of coffee mingled with pizza was mouthwatering, and after the freezing journey on Jacob Coote’s bike, I felt comforted with warmth.

It was weird sitting opposite Michael Andretti. I kept on thinking to myself, “He’s your father. He’s your father,” and the reason it was weird was because I really loved the whole atmosphere of it.

I found myself, though, looking out the window at all times in search of Jacob Coote.

“Looking for someone?”

“Slap my face if I ever mention the name Jacob Coote again.”

“Okay.”

“Jacob Coote is the most unreasonable pig I have ever met.”

“I wouldn’t mind some garlic bread.”

“I don’t even know why I went out with him. I think I was desperate.”

“How about a small salad?” he asked.

“Do you know what he said to me? Do you know?”

So I told him.

I quite enjoyed talking to Michael Andretti. He was a great listener and didn’t try giving unwanted advice. I realized that when we weren’t being hostile or sullen with each other we had plenty to say. When we forgot the fact that biologically he was my father, we could be friends. He told me about his move from Adelaide and even confided his fears to me about the move. I told him I was going to be a barrister and he seemed quite rapt.

“I’ll get the bill tonight,” I said, taking out my purse when we’d finished eating.

“I think I’ll take care of it this time.”

“No way. I’ve just started working and I haven’t bought much yet, so I’ll pay for tonight.”

“Where do you work?”

I looked at him, as if daring him to laugh.

“McDonald’s.”

He frowned.

“At night?”

I nodded.

“Sure that’s safe?”

“I’m earning my own money and I like it that way.”

“I can easily support you. I told your mother that.”

“And she said that if you can’t support me emotionally, don’t support me at all.”

“You were listening at the door,” he stated, frowning.

“Maybe.”

“How about I issue you a proposition.”

He called the waitress over and ordered another two cappuccinos.

“You’ve already drunk one. Do you think I’m made of money or something?”

He laughed aloud for the first time since I had met him, and secretly I liked the fact that I could make him laugh.

“Okay, this is my proposition. How about you come and work for me at the chamber? You can do photocopying and help the secretaries,” he suggested.

“But you’d be paying for nothing,” I said. “You’d pretend that you had work for me.”

“I’m a businessman. I don’t pay anyone for nothing,” he said. “If you come to work for me in the afternoon you do exactly that. Work.”

“It sounds great,” I said, beginning to get excited. “I mean, it’d help in regards to me wanting to be a barrister.”

“You won’t be doing any legal work, hotshot,” he warned.

“But it’d be great telling people that I will. I mean the closest anyone has to a Saturday-morning job in connection to their ambitions is Poison Ivy. She wants to be a doctor and she works in a pharmacy. Well, big deal,” I laughed. “Because all she sells are condoms, tampons and Dr. Scholl’s arch supports.”

“I think I get the drift,” he said drily. “I hope you won’t be boasting.”

“Of course I will.”

“I’ve created a monster,” I heard him say to no one in particular.

I left a two-dollar tip and he drove me home. I told him more about Jacob the Creep and John Barton. He seemed to think that John Barton was more my type.

When we got to my place I stepped out of the car and poked my head through the window.

“I’ll call you, Michael, okay?”

“I’ll call you, Josie.”

I nodded.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, shy all of a sudden.