Looking for Alibrandi (13 page)

Eighteen

THIS YEAR IS
going by so fast. It’s already more than halfway through and I still feel unsettled. I always thought that I’d start university with a fresh mind and no problems. I thought it would be the beginning of a new life. But it’s six months away from university and things are just more confusing because of Jacob, and I still have hang-ups.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that Poison Ivy, one of my greatest hang-ups, and I are never going to be bosom buddies, and Friday really put the lid on things.

Both of us were reading the same paper while we were waiting for Sister Louise in her office. One of the stories was rehashing the funeral of an Italian businessman who was supposedly murdered.

“You new Australians wear black a lot, don’t you?” she asked, looking at the picture.

“New Australians?” I asked incredulously. “Me? A new Australian?”

“Yes.”

She had the audacity to look surprised at my outburst.

“How dare you call me a new Australian.”

“You’re Italian, aren’t you?”

“I’m of Italian descent, thank you,” I snapped. “And I’m also two months older than you, if my records are right, so if anyone is a new Australian, you are, because you’re two months newer than me.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You know what I mean. You’re an ethnic.”

“I’m not an ethnic,” I spat out furiously. “I’m an Australian and my grandparents were Italian. They’re called Europeans, not ethnics. ‘Ethnic’ is a word that you people use to put us all in a category. And if you’d really like to know, Ivy, the difference between my ancestors and yours is that mine came here one hundred years after yours and mine didn’t have chains on their feet. They were free and yours weren’t.”

“Your ancestors were on the German side in World War Two,” she yelled. “They probably killed my grandfather and John’s grandfather. They were friends during the war.”

“My grandfather and uncle were in a labor camp in Adelaide, so I doubt very much that they killed your grandfather or John’s.”

“Well, one of your other thousand uncles could have. My grandmother had to bring up ten kids all by herself.”

“All Italian families don’t have one thousand members, and my grandmother had to fend for herself in a country where she didn’t know the language and the people were ignorant.”

“She should have learnt the language then.”

“Well, maybe she didn’t have a chance and your grandmother should have said no to your grandfather more often so then she wouldn’t have been stuck with ten children. Anyway, I’m sure she would have had
John’s
grandmother to help her.”

“I’m sure John would be very unamused about you being glib about his grandfather’s death.”

“I don’t think John gives a damn, Ivy. I don’t think he gives a damn about anything.”

“Oh, you think you know him so well, Josie? What are you hoping to achieve by assuming you know him so well?”

“You may have known him all your life, Ivy, but I think that I know how he feels a bit more than you do.”

“Don’t presume that you know anything about my relationship with John. It’s deeper than you think.”

Sister interrupted us at that point and gave us a funny look because we were both sulking. But I’m past the caring stage with Sister Louise. She doesn’t like me, so big deal. But I thought it was just like Poison Ivy to consider me a new Australian. I wonder if Jacob thinks of me as one. Or his family.

I think if it comes down to the bottom line, no matter how smart I am or how much I achieve, I am always going to be a little ethnic from Glebe as far as these people are concerned.

Do you know how frustrating it is? Why can’t these people understand that this is my country as well? Why do I feel like cursing this country as much as I adore it? When will I find the answers, and are there ever going to be answers or change?

It was a great relief seeing Jacob that afternoon when he picked me up from work at the chambers. I needed to be reassured by his presence, to know that he accepted me. He bent down and kissed me in the elevator, but stopped when the doors opened.

“Close your eyes,” he said as he dragged me outside.

“What are you doing? Everyone will see us.”

“I got a surprise for you.”

“
I’ve
got a surprise for you,” I corrected.

“You mean you’ve got a surprise for me too?” he asked, astonished.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s ‘I’ve,’ not ‘I.’”

“Whatever,” he said, with an irritated wave of his hand. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“If I tell you, it’s not a surprise, dummy, so guess.”

“Give me a clue.”

“It’s roomy,” he said, kissing me. “It’s got windows,” he added, hugging me hard. “And it hasn’t got bucket seats,” he yelled, lifting me up and swinging me around.

“A car,” I screamed, oblivious to those around me.

We ran down the steps of the courthouse to where an old metallic-blue Holden was parked.

“Someone dumped it at Darren’s garage a couple of weeks back, so we put in a new engine, played around with it for a while and gave it a paint job.”

“No more motorbike?” I asked, looking at the interior.

“I’m still keeping it, but you never have to ride on it again,” he said proudly. “So what do you think, Lady Josephine?” He bowed.

I curtsied and laughed. “My lord Jacob, I am indeed overwhelmed,” I said, fainting dramatically into his arms.

Michael came rushing down the stairs like a madman. “What happened to her?” he asked, grabbing me from Jacob.

“It’s a joke, Michael.”

Both Jacob and I laughed hysterically.

“Bloody kids. What’s so funny?” he said.

“Jacob’s got a car, Michael. Isn’t it fantastic? He did it all himself.”

“A Holden. I have a passion for Holdens,” he said, looking at me wickedly. “Conceived my one and only child in one.”

He walked away, leaving me spluttering.

“How grotesque,” I groaned. “How could he discuss that in the open?”

“I think it’s wildly erotic, actually,” Jacob said, looking at Michael as he walked away. “Your mother and him in a Holden making the great Josephine Alibrandi. For all you know, it could be this Holden.”

“It could’ve been a Mercedes. Do you think my life would have been different if I’d been conceived in a Mercedes?”

He laughed and unlocked the door, letting me in.

“You should have seen it, Jose,” he said like an excited boy. “It was a pile of crap and I put it together.”

“Well, whoever said you couldn’t? I myself have always thought you to be a genius.”

“Yeah?” he asked, blushing.

“Yeah.”

He kissed me gently on the mouth before he started the ignition.

“I’m good with my hands, Josie,” he said, looking at them. “I might not be a great university scholar, but I’m good with my hands. You’re different. You’re good with your head.”

“Well, with my head and your hands we could be famous,” I said, taking hold of his hands and kissing them. “We could go into partnership.”

“What would a fancy barrister want with a mechanic in business?” he asked solemnly.

“Tons of things,” I said, excited. “We could form a company. I’d be the theory part of the business and you’d be the practical.”

“Yeah, we could be the first husband and wife . . .”

He stopped suddenly, realizing what he had just said.

“Forget I said that,” he muttered, taking out a cigarette.

I folded my arms and sent him a quick look. “I think you’d be a lovely husband.”

He sneaked a look over to me and shrugged. “Bet you’d be good with kids and all.”

We laughed and hugged each other before he let go and began to drive.

“Know what?”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m glad it hasn’t got bucket seats.”

“I would never have fixed it up for us if it did.”

I moved across the bench seat and squeezed in closer to him and hugged his arm, and at that moment, that very second, I pictured myself with Jacob Coote for the rest of my life.

Nineteen

TOMATO DAY.

Oh God, if anyone ever found out about it I’d die. There we sat last Saturday in my grandmother’s backyard cutting the bad bits off overripe tomatoes and squeezing them.

After doing ten crates of those, we boiled them, squashed them, then boiled them again. That in turn made spaghetti sauce. We bottled it in beer bottles and stored it in Nonna’s cellar.

I can’t understand why we can’t go to Franklin’s and buy Leggo’s or Paul Newman’s special sauce. Nonna had heart failure at this suggestion and looked at Mama.

“Where is the culture?” she asked in dismay. “She’s going to grow up, marry an Australian and her children will eat fish-and-chips.”

Robert and I call this annual event “Wog Day” or “National Wog Day.” We sat around wondering how many other poor unfortunates our age were doing the same, but we were sure we’d never find out because nobody would admit to it.

His grandmother and mother and father and brothers and sisters came over as well and we all sat around like Sicilian peasants. My Zio Ricardo had a hanky on his head with each of the four sides tied in a knot. By the end of the day all the little kids had the same type of headpiece.

“We have been doing this for over forty years, Guiseppina,” my Zia Patrizia told me, wiping her hands on a polka-dot apron (the same apron as every other woman in the yard because my second cousin Rita had once bought ten meters of material on sale).

Nonna and Zia Patrizia were sitting side by side, beaming at me. They look very similar except Zia Patrizia isn’t as vain as Nonna and has done nothing about her graying hair. I looked over to where Mama was with Zio Ricardo, wishing she would look my way. I wanted her to save me from Zia Patrizia and Nonna Katia. From their reminiscing and gossip.

“Remember the year Marcus Sandford helped us, Katia? An Australiano squeezing tomatoes wit us.”

“Marcus Sandford?” I asked, looking at Nonna. “He came back on the scene?”

“Who’s Marcus Sandford?” Robert asked, wiping his hands on my T-shirt.

“He was an Australian policeman who helped Katia and me when Nonno Ricardo and your Zio Francesco were in camp.”

“What camp?” Robert asked.

“During the war Zio Ricardo was working with Nonno Francesco in the sugar fields, so I had to look after Patrizia because she was pregnant again,” Nonna explained to us.

“One day,” Zia Patrizia interrupted, “they came wit the truck. They started from the north of Queensland and drove down. They took every Italian man. Even the boys. It was because of that
bastardo
Mussolini.”

“Aliens, they called us,” Nonna Katia said. “They caught Francesco in the first truckload, but it took them days to find Zio Ricardo.”

“Ah,
Madonna mia,
” Zia Patrizia said, waving the knife in her hand around. “We cried and cried. What were we going to do? we asked ourselves. Where is Ricardo? Is he dead?”

She was fanning herself and Robert patted her hand.

“It’s okay, Nonna, you know he’s not dead. Don’t get worked up.”

We exchanged looks, grinning at their theatrics.

“An Australian family down the road was hiding him.” Nonna tried to get in before Zia Patrizia. “Zio Ricardo was one of the very few Italians who went out and mingled wit the Australians. He learned the language and demanded that everyone spoke it. Nonno Francesco refused to and wouldn’t let me learn, but Zio Ricardo was strong and taught Patrizia, so she taught me during the day.”

“Did they ever find him?” Robert asked.

“Ah,
Dio mio,
” Zia Patrizia prayed.

Robert and I rolled our eyes again.

“He snuck around during the night to be wit us, but one day those people next door, Turner . . . Thompson, whatever their stupid name was, they told on him. If I saw them today I would spit on their faces.”

They both swore in Italian, agreeing with each other.

“There we were, Giuseppina, two defenseless women on our own. Me, wit one little boy and a baby on the way. Katia wit her garden ruined because nobody could look after it. We had no money. Snakes came into our house, Roberto, snakes!”

“So one day I said enough is enough,” Nonna butted in, whipping her hands in the air dramatically. “I went to speak to the army.”

“We all were hysterical,” Zia Patrizia said. “ ‘No, Katia,’ we pleaded. The other Italian women went crazy. We thought that the army was going to come around and take us or our children next, but Katia said ‘enough.’ ”

“I thought that maybe if I spoke to someone they would feel sorry for us and send us back one man. Maybe all our husbands.”

“But they didn’t,” Zia Patrizia hissed. “So she is walking out and this big tall Australiano stops her. ‘Katia?’ he says. We all look at her. How could Katia know this man?”

“It was Marcus Sandford,” Nonna giggled to me. “He was in the army. It had been two years since I had seen him. He was pleased to see me. Pleased that my English was better, and when he heard about our problems, he did all he could to have one of the men released. But it was impossible. All he could do was reassure us that they were treated well. But we didn’t want reassurance. We needed an extra pair of hands.

“So Marcus Sandford became our extra pair of hands. He squeezed the tomatoes wit us, he helped us grow our spinach, he fixed the garden, everyting.

“But the other women,” Nonna Katia groaned. “Remember, Patrizia, Signora Grenaldo? Talk talk talk. ‘What is a man doing in Katia Alibrandi’s house?’ she would ask. Stickybeak.”

“But we did not care. It was all innocent,” Zia Patrizia defended. “He helped us. He loved my little Roberto and he even helped deliver your Zio Salvatore, Roberto.”

“Is little Roberto the one who died?” I asked.

They both made the sign of the cross and kissed their fingers.

“Oh, my
gioia
Robertino. I still cry for him, Katia. I still cry.”

“One day when we couldn’t find him, everybody started looking. Italian, Australian, Spanish . . . everyone,” Nonna Katia said. “For one whole day we looked for little Robertino. Marcus? He never stopped.

“Even the Australian women came around wit tea and sandwiches while we prayed and cried. Later that night while we sat on the veranda watching the searchlights through the trees, Marcus walked through holding someting in his arms. He was crying. I was crying. Patrizia was crying. We walked toward him looking at what he had in his arms.”

“It was my little Robertino. He had drown in the creek,” Zia Patrizia said quietly.

“He put Robertino in my arms, still crying.”

“And I yelled and yelled,” Nonna Katia said, looking at Zia Patrizia. “Screamed wit such anger. I blamed Marcus Sandford. I blamed this country. If the men hadn’t been away we would have been able to see what Roberto was doing, but we were too busy being the men of the house because the Australians had our men in their camps.”

“Everyone in the town came to the funeral. Remember, Katia? But we never saw Marcus Sandford again.”

I looked at Nonna Katia, but she turned away. Somehow I doubted that she never saw him again.

“Enough of old stories. How about you, Giuseppina? Do you have a boyfriend?” Zia Patrizia asked me.

“I’ve got one hundred boyfriends, Zia,” I said, kissing her, picking up the tub full of tomatoes and taking them to where Mama and Zio Ricardo were.

Like all tomato days we had spaghetti that night. Made by our own hands. A tradition that we’ll never let go. A tradition that I probably will never let go of either, simply because like religion, culture is nailed into you so deep you can’t escape it. No matter how far you run.