Luck in the Greater West (3 page)

—Nuh, today sounds cool. What about at the Lebo shop, I mean, the takeaway on Vivisector Street, ya know it?

—Yes. I think I know the shop. So, what time?

—I dunno, half past four, five-ish? he said.

—Okay, I'll see you there, Sonja replied, and smiled, and she could tell he liked it.

 

She picked up Polly from the primary school and kissed her on the head.

—What was that for? Polly asked.

—Because you're so cute.

—Thank you, Soney, Polly said, and kissed her sister's hand. Will we have pancakes for dinner tonight?

—Yes. Yes, I think we will, Sonja answered.

And they crossed the highway, again having to detour around the linesmen's witches hats. Sonja smiled at the guy strapping on his safety harness.

Today Brunei Court didn't look so bad. The sun shining off the broken glass in the carpark had lost its piercing glare: today it was more of a brilliant highlight in the asphalt's rich texture. The sounds of domestic disharmony bouncing out of the stairwells had lost their insidious edge. Until she recognised one of the raised voices as her mother's.

 

Sonja's father had never hit any of his family. He'd shoved his wife when she'd tried to confiscate alcohol, but violence for its own sake was never the motive. Katerina Marmeladova also enjoyed a drink. But she soon found herself doing anything to discourage Zakhar from drinking. Because now Zakhar, once started, would continue until something of himself, and those around him, had been drunk off. His keeping a job kept the family part of their adopted community; and fuelled the hope for more as long as he prevailed. But alcohol quickly became his nebula. He needed to be at the centre of it, and its gases affected them all. In Russia, Zakhar had held the power in the Marmeladov family. Now, Katerina would yell at Zakhar until he left the house or ceased drinking. Either way, they knew it would mean a day off work.

Today she was yelling at her husband, in Russian, and in a dialect that Sonja found harsh and hard to understand, and in English, because it unsettled him. But although Zakhar grimaced,
he continued to draw moselle from the cask he'd brought home. He sat on the floor, with his back against the lounge.

—
Prkola
, he said. It was his drunk curse word. Sonja didn't know exactly what it meant, and had never asked. She doubted its Russianness.

—Are you okay, Ma? she asked.

—Sonja. Please. Look at your father. No, don't. And don't talk to him, Katerina hissed. Her mother's eyes changed when she got into this mood. They reminded Sonja of a husky's eyes — they'd go a wild blue. But also they wouldn't focus, they'd dart around you, and her eyelids would flutter as if she was about to scream. And her mother would perpetually push her hair back behind her ears.

—Where's Peter? Sonja asked, looking at some scribbly drawings her brother had done on the back of a cardboard box.

—He's in the room. He's scared of his own father. Scared, Sonja. Of his own father.

Katerina yelled at her husband again in the dialect reserved for his drunkenness.

Sonja took Polly's hand and went in to her brother. Peter had been crying, but he'd found a game to play with his makeshift toys and had forgotten why the tears had cleaned a path down his cheeks. Sonja hugged him. She looked up at Polly. Pancakes were doubtful. Any meal was doubtful. Unless Sonja cooked something. Katerina Marmeladova indulged in emotions as her husband indulged in thick oblivion. The parents were wasted tonight.

Sonja went back out into the hot, thick air.

—Are you okay, Dad? Are you feeling sick? she asked.

—Sonja. My beautiful daughter.

Zakhar had spilled wine down his shirt and on his crotch. He looked too pathetic to hate. Besides, Sonja knew he thought he
was only abusing himself. It was a different story with her mother though. Her reaction to his drinking was becoming a habit, and a predictable one. Sonja wondered whether her mother thought it was the right thing to do to yell and cry and nag her husband and neglect everything else. The thing was, though, that her mother wasn't like this when her father was sober; the situation was his fault.

Sonja made some toast with stale dark rye bread. There was no butter, of course, so she drizzled some vegetable oil over it. The three children ate; the mother sat and cursed, occasionally yelling; and the father sat and drank, eventually wetting himself on the lounge-room floor.

Sonja and Polly slept together in the single bed. Peter slept in the broken, paint-peeled cot behind the door. Sonja hugged her sister and smelt her hair. She loved it. It was her home smell. Lying back down away from her sister's perfect little head, Sonja began to think of Raz. Shit, Raz. She'd pushed it to the back of her mind when she'd seen her father's — and her mother's — state. Shit. She hoped he wouldn't be too pissed off, that he'd still want to meet her another time. But she didn't want to think about it too much, because he probably would be pissed off, and wouldn't even want to talk to her again. She'd have to think of an excuse; one that wouldn't make her family look neurotic and alcoholic — one that seemed normal and Aussie.

 

Once, last year, in Year 9, a boy had brought a magazine to school. He was showing all the girls the pictures in it and laughing at them when they said yuck. Sonja had looked at the pictures. A woman had a man's penis in her mouth. He also had it in her down there, and in her bum-hole. In one of the pictures, the man was holding
his penis and it was spurting pearly liquid onto the woman's stomach. She said yuck as well, but later, at home that night, she wished she could look at the pictures again.

Nothing like that could happen to her, she was sure. It was nothing she'd ever experience. The boys at school were just that: boys. The people in the pictures, especially the men, seemed very adult. Veiny, muscular, confident. The pictures had been strangely arousing, but they were alien, of another breed. Any attraction she had to the boys at school, like Raz, was more about wanting them to find her appealing. Sex with these boys seemed way too remote. She doubted they looked anything like, or could do anything like, the men in those pictures.

Sonja was pissed off with her parents. For making it a miserable night again — the first of many to come if she knew her father. And for making it impossible to meet up with Raz. But the night had made her feel differently about the whole Raz thing. The curiosity had fermented overnight, and now she just wanted to know why he wanted to hang out with her.

She finished urinating and washed her hands in the stained stainless-steel washbasin. She looked in the quarter of mirror above the basin. Today, at least, she just didn't care. The rollcall bell rang and she left the smoky, cheap-perfumey toilets.

Raz was outside the toilet block, spitting and kicking pebbles.

—Hey, Sonja, he said.

—Hey.

—Did you forget about yesterday? he asked, lightly kicking the ground.

—No. Look, I'm so sorry. I had a family thing that came up suddenly. I should have got your phone number, I'm sorry, really, Raz.

—That's okay, I thought maybe I scared you off, he said, but not with the confidence the statement should carry.

—No. I wasn't scared. I was kind of looking forward to it, actually, Sonja said.

—Yeah? Raz squinted a smile at Sonja. What class ya got now?

—Maths.

—I got commerce. I'm thinkin' of waggin' but, Raz said.

—What are you going to do then?

—Dunno. Maybe go down Brownthistle Park, hang out for a bit.

—Oh, Sonja said. She wasn't sure if Brownthistle sounded any more exciting than maths class, but being with Raz was certainly more enticing. It was a strange request, but then everything here seemed a bit strange. And girls did seem to suddenly get boyfriends within the space of a class. This could quite likely be how it happened. Mind if I come?

—'Course not. I was hoping you would.

Brownthistle Park lay in a gully between Rooty Hill and Mt Druitt. There was the skeleton of a children's adventure playground, and an open stormwater drain running through it. There was also an amenities shed, burnt-out, but still squatting firmly on its foundations.

Raz and Sonja sat on the slat bench outside the shed. The black and grey bricks and the blue sky above made it seem like this was a real experience, like she was doing something that would awaken her to the Aussie way of life. She was glad she'd ditched maths.

—I like your hair, Raz said, and touched it with sweaty fingers.

—Thank you, she replied. But it was a compliment she'd never expected.

Raz took out a packet of Stradbroke Blues and offered Sonja one.

—No thanks. I don't smoke. Thanks though, she said.

He lit one and touched her thigh. Sonja thought she felt a tremble in his touch, but then, it could have been her.

—I like your legs.

—Thanks, she said and looked at him. She liked it, and would kiss him if he got rid of the cigarette.

Raz blew out blue smoke and leant in to kiss Sonja. Their front teeth clashed, but so did their lips. Sonja kissed back. She'd never kissed before. She moved in closer to him. His body made her feel like getting closer. It wasn't like the feeling she got from those pictures she saw last year; she wanted to feel, not see. She wanted to be too close to see. Raz tossed the cigarette and pulled Sonja onto his lap, facing him. They kissed. She rubbed her vagina on him. It was too much. The kissing, the being inside each other's mouths. Raz touched the top of her thighs, under her panties. He tried to pull them off, but it was impossible in this position.

—Stand up, he said.

She stood. She was dizzy, but smiled at him. He moved her up against the shed wall and pulled down her panties. They kissed. Raz lifted up Sonja's school skirt and looked at her. He whispered something she didn't catch and undid his school trousers and dropped his undies. He held his penis. Sonja looked at it. It was like a junior version of the one in the pictures — she suddenly remembered a junior scale guitar a friend of hers had had back in Russia. He held it up to her vagina and rubbed it on her lips. She opened her legs slightly. Raz groaned and her vagina lips felt warm and something tickled the inside of her thigh.

—Aah. Shit. Fuck. Did you come? he asked.

—Um. I don't know? she said.

—I thought you were coming too.

Sonja didn't answer. She looked at the semen running over her knee. She would've liked to have kissed and touched some more, but the sudden coldness of the semen told her it was over. She pulled up her panties as Raz had already done up his pants and grabbed his bag.

—Listen, I gotta go, he said.

Surprisingly, there was toilet paper in the shed. Sonja wiped herself clean and walked out of the park. It was way too early to pick up Polly, so she headed home.

She felt like she was observing herself and her surroundings through a milky, amnesic filter. It didn't make them look any better. The carpark annexed by Brunei Court seemed unforgiving — sunburned, tired, and in need of sympathy itself; the broken glass sharp and aggressive. And she saw her father sitting on the first step of their stairwell. By his side was a cask of white burgundy.

—Sonja. Your mother kicked me out. Kicked me out of my own home, Zakhar Marmeladov said, shifting the cask behind his leg.

—Didn't you go to work today? Sonja asked, and walked past him.

—I was sick today, he called back to her, but she was already at the front door.

Sonja walked through the flat, ignoring her mother, and lay face down on the bed. What the hell was that? Was she Raz's girlfriend now? She doubted it. He seemed to quite suddenly regret being with her and getting so excited. He'd come — what he'd called it — like the guy in those pictures. Why had he just left like that? Had she made him do it the wrong way? She knew though, watching his back as he walked away, that that was probably it. She wouldn't be Raz's girlfriend.

Senior Sergeant Salvatore Testafiglia pulled into his double driveway and pressed the horn of his assigned deep-blue late model Commodore. Maria, his wife, was meant to have the garage door open by the time he arrived home, but today she'd neglected to. Maria, reacting to the two controlled but urgent horn blows came out of the double ornamental front doors and ran to the garage door. She looked through the windshield to gauge his mood, and slid open the aluminum shutter.

Everything about the house was double. Double storey, double garage, double brick. Salvatore's cousin, Melito, had built it. The house was in Newington, a suburb on the Parramatta River that had been advantaged by the Sydney Olympic development and the demolition of warehousing and industry. The petrolly mud on the banks of the Parramatta River had become a valuable commodity. The Testafiglias had moved out of the Italian precinct of inner-city Leichhardt when Salvatore had been posted out to the Western Plateau Local Patrol three years earlier. He'd crowned the house with a short sandstone wall so the family could watch the fireworks from the flat roof on New Year's Eve.

Inside the leather and tile house, the family lived in the large kitchen. The formal lounge was off-limits, except to dust, polish and vacuum. The formal dining room was strictly for the favoured Aunt and Uncle, and the upstairs was for sleeping. Along with his wife, Salvatore kept two children in the house. Charlie was sixteen, and Artemesia, his daughter, was seventeen. He and Maria had tried for more children, only to be shamed by Salvatore's sister's unpaused fecundity. Salvatore had only recently ceased the constant attempts at increasing his heirs, mainly due to the embarrassment he suffered when the doctor told him that he had to give Maria a break so her bladder infections would clear up.

But despite the smallness of his family, Salvatore's existence was what was expected.

And he expected things in his house to similarly conform to his wishes.

—Where's Mia? Salvatore asked as he sat down to the
pasta lenticia
.

—She, ah, rang earlier. She's at a friend's place for dinner, Maria said, cutting the bread.

Charlie stifled a laugh.

—Ai. What's so funny, mister? Salvatore fixed his son with a sharp look, and then addressed Maria. And do you know this friend?

—I think Mia has had her over before, Deba is her name.

—And the parents. Do you know them?

—We haven't met them, but —

—Have you got the address? Salvatore demanded, mixing the pasta with his accusing fork.

—No. But I can ring her on her mobile and —

—After dinner I'll pick her up. Dinner is a family time. Mia knows that.

So Salvatore re-dressed in his uniform when he went to pick up Artemesia, because she claimed, when her mother rang her on her mobile phone, that she'd already left her friend's place, and would meet her father at the train station. The uniform would demonstrate not only to Mia, but to anyone stupid enough to be hanging around, that he meant business.

—Where is your friend? he asked his daughter before she could get into the car.

—What do you mean, Daddy? Mia said, kissing his cheek.

—Why didn't she walk you to the station and wait with you? It's dangerous for a young woman, Mia, I know only too well.

—What, and it's only dangerous for me, but not for my friends? she scoffed, drawing back her long, thick dark hair.

—Don't be smart, Mia, you know what I mean, he said. And this is a girlfriend is it?

—Daddy.

—You know I don't want you to have a boyfriend. Not until you're twenty. School and family are what's important now. There'll be plenty of time for boys.

—But, Daddy, Mum said I could have a boyfriend when I'm eighteen.

—Your mother doesn't make the rules.

—Anyway, you're my boyfriend, Daddy.

 

When they got home Mia went straight to her room. She had everything she needed there: DVD player, stereo, telephone, floor-to-ceiling mirror, hair-straightener, double bed, and a wardrobe fit to burst.

Her brother, Charlie, knocked lightly on her door and opened it slightly.

—Mum told me to bring you up some pasta, Charlie said.

—Thanks, babe. Just put it on the dresser, Mia said, pulling off her stretch Lees.

—So. Were you with
him
tonight? Charlie asked.

—Sssshhh, she said, and shut the door.

—Well? He leant against the back of the door.

—Yes.

—Ah, Charlie said, blowing his sister a mock kiss.

—Shut up. He wants to meet you. I told him how you like those cars, XYZs or whatever, she said, sitting on the bed, where she could look at herself in the mirror.

—WRXs.

—Like I said, whatever. Anyway, next time we hang, he said to bring you alo– Shit, Dad.

Salvatore knocked on the door.

Charlie left, managing to avoid eye contact.

 

Senior Sergeant Testafiglia kept a photograph of his family on his desk. It was from several years ago, and Mia still looked like a girl-child. It was a good time. It was a family time. Artemesia loved and, more importantly, respected him then. Now she seemed only to respect people outside the family. Friends and, despite the pain it brought him to think about it, boys, he suspected. She swore she wasn't seeing any boys, but Salvatore knew liars, and there was something of that in his daughter lately. And it all started around the time he suddenly noticed that little Mia was actually a woman. A woman who would be causing lust. And lusting herself. He'd had to start being sterner
about what he expected of her. And witness the growing contempt on her face.

But he'd decided not to think about this at work.

There'd been a new development in the community. Most of the crimes in his local patrol were related to domestic violence and drugs and alcohol. Issues that Senior Sergeant Testafiglia felt could be resolved and even annihilated by adhering to simple European family values. However, there had been a second report of a much more brutal and deliberately malicious incident.

Senior Sergeant Testafiglia prepared to give the day-shift a truncated briefing of the events, as was required.

—In both reports, he said, then paused to halt any further talking but his own. In both reports teenage girls have been coaxed into going with a group of eighteen to twenty-year-old boys to smoke marijuana and have then been raped by up to five males. Both girls were Anglo-Saxon, and both had been insulted for their backgrounds by their attackers, who have been described as Middle Eastern and/or Mediterranean, and refer to themselves as a gang. This most likely means they're not from the immediate community. You can pick up descriptions of the guys we're looking for from Clare in Communications. Any further reports of similar incidents are to be forwarded directly to me.

Salvatore rubbed his chin and walked back to his office. Now a taskforce would have to be set up, and that would mean more time away from his family. His daughter. If parents were stricter about their children's whereabouts … At lunchtime he would drive by the school and make sure his daughter was there. He had started doing this every day. As far as he knew, she hadn't noticed him.