The Other Madonna (6 page)

I
didn't remember until 6.17 pm that Pepe had wanted me in early that night. I was shaking my head and mumbling to myself as I power walked. How could I be late for work? I'd never been late for work. Never. How did a kid's handprint get on the outside of our twelfth-storey glass door? The handprint could have been there since I was little. Dad and Evie and I had been slack enough about housework for that to be a possibility. It did look fresh. My pace quickened as I imagined Pepe looking at the clock. I could see him crossing his arms and tapping his foot and . . .

‘Madonna!' he sang.

I puffed, with excuses hanging behind my teeth.

‘Look who's here! It's Jiff. You remember him, huh? He's coming back to work with us for a while.'

I think it was the power walking that was making my heart rattle in my chest and my face prickle with blood. Definitely. I smiled at Jiff and he stepped over from the counter.

‘Got an official shirt like you and all, ay.'

He stuck his hand up his shirt and made a fist under the Pepe's logo. He showed me the logo but all I saw was his belly button and the trail of fine brown hair heading north. And south.

I fanned my face with my hand. ‘I thought you didn't want a job,' I said, and wished I'd kept my mouth closed.

He tucked himself in, tossed his head back and smiled. ‘Job offers don't exactly fall out of every conversation. Anyway, I'd just be hanging around my auntie's place so I thought I'd come and use my time productively. If last night was anything to go by then it all happens here, ay?'

On cue, the restaurant exploded into activity. The phone rang, someone stuck their head in the door and asked if we were open, and something clattered to the floor in the kitchen. We laughed. I turned the
closed
sign on the door and invited the people in off the street. Jiff slipped behind the counter with Pepe. I darted to the toilet and found Lucia puckering at herself in the mirror over the hand basin. I startled her and her lips made a funny popping sound.

I closed the door behind me. ‘Sorry, Luce.'

She clicked her tongue then pulled a face. Her lipstick had become toothstick and she rubbed at her teeth with an index finger until they squeaked. ‘Do I look okay? Is my hair all right at the back? Oh god, look at the bags under my eyes.'

‘You look fine, Luce. Didn't you sleep very well?' I said, and darted into a cubicle.

‘God, I'm so . . . what if he calls? What if he doesn't call? What if . . .?'

She sniffed. I peed. She babbled. I flushed. She was still at the sink. I smiled at her in the mirror and pushed through to the basin. She'd gone a bit heavy on the eye make-up. Yeah, and like I'd know. My experience with make-up began and ended with lip-gloss. Colin knew more about make-up than I did. Colin has a mum.

‘Luce, you look beautiful. Relax. He'll call.'

‘You reckon?'

I nodded. She hugged me and kissed the air near my left ear. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, whispered something to herself and barged into the restaurant.

‘Lucia! Delivery!' Pepe hollered. ‘She's getting cold.'

The delivery was for Ari.

Luce forced a smile as I held the door open for her. ‘Thanks, Maddie.'

‘No worries.'

She bent close, ‘Cover for me.'

I winked.

She squealed.

Jiff worked like he'd been part of the establishment for thirty years. He sat with customers and joked as he took their orders. A couple tucked in the corner poured him a wine but he didn't drink it.

‘You don't need to watch him all the time. He's doing okay,' Pepe said, and my cheeks got hot.

‘Yeah. Good. Good worker.'

Pepe nodded.

When he was behind the counter, Jiff stood so close that his aftershave drowned out the smell of garlic from the bain-marie. He elbowed me, pushed himself against me, reached across me at every opportunity. He was reckless with sharp objects. I had to confiscate the dough cutter when, in a quiet moment, he started throwing it in the air and catching it. When he was cutting pizzas I took two steps back. He was boisterous and playful all night and I thought that he and Colin would have a great time together. The thought made me feel tired.

Jiff was cutting a family-sized Pepe's Special when the boss leaned on his shoulder. ‘Take it easy with the pizza cutter, Jiff. She's very sharp. Don't cut yourself.'

‘Yep. No worries, Pepe,' he said, and I watched as the very next cut skewed on the tray. The blade lumped over his middle finger.

I drew a breath.

‘Fuck!' Jiff cried, and the restaurant stopped and looked.

He staggered back from the counter, staring at his outstretched middle finger. The top pointed at the floor. I could see white in the cut. The blood drained from his face and began to flow from his finger like a Zen fountain.

‘Oh moi gawd,' Pepe said, and backed into the oven.

I grabbed Jiff's cut hand. I held the severed part tight against the finger and squeezed. ‘Ring an ambulance, Pepe.'

I held Jiff's hand high and led him past a table of staring faces into the kitchen.

‘Is he okay?' someone asked.

Yeah, I thought. Just chopped the top off his finger. Bit of blood. No worries!

Bruna was stirring a pot of bolognese sauce at the stove. Angelina was washing lettuce at the sink.

‘What's the matter? What happened? Is he okay?' Bruna could see the look on Jiff's face and she wiped her hands on her apron.

‘Where's the first-aid kit?' I asked. I was so cool about it all. I could be an ambulance officer, I thought.

‘First aid? Why do you want first aid?'

‘Jiff cut his finger.'

‘Oh moi gawd,' she said, and stepped into the storeroom.

My hand was sticky with Jiff's blood. My face felt hot.

‘Sit down, Jiff. Here.'

He propped his bum obligingly on a sack of potatoes that leaned against the wall. His face was grey. His mouth hung open.

‘You're going to live, mate. Breathe.'

He took a breath and rubbed his brow with his free fingers.

Bruna came back empty handed. ‘We have no first aid. You want a Bandaid? What? It's not so bad, huh?'

‘More like a bandage, Bruna,' I said, and the first-aid stuff started coming back. ‘RICE!'

‘You want rice? Why do you want rice? Arborio okay? We only have arborio.'

‘Not rice, R-I-C-E. Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate. Get some ice, Bruna. From the bar.'

‘You want ice or rice?'

‘Ice. Cold stuff. In drinks. Ice!'

‘Okay,' she said, and pushed through the kitchen door.

Angelina stared at us from the sink over a colander of wet lettuce.

My fingers tingled. I could feel a hot pulse in my palm and I wasn't sure if it was Jiff's or mine. The colour was coming back to his face. His blood squeezed between my knuckles. It had traced a line across his palm and onto his wrist. My hand was getting sore. Hot and sore. I didn't want to let go. Holding his finger tight above his head was the best thing I could think of.

Bruna crashed through the kitchen door with a glass of ice.

‘We need a bandage of some sort to wrap the ice in. Tea towel, Bruna. Clean tea towel,' I said, and she barked at her sister in Italian. Angelina almost dropped the colander. The ice and the tea towel arrived at the same time.

I spread the tea towel on the bench beside me with my free hand. ‘Put the ice in the middle. Make an icepack.'

‘How do you want me to do it, this icepack?'

‘Just . . .' I grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bench. ‘Tip the ice in the middle.'

She held the cup over the tea towel. ‘Just tip. In the middle?'

‘Yes!'

The door flung open and cracked against its hinges. Pepe led two ambulance officers into the kitchen. A man and a woman dressed in coveralls patched with reflective tape.

‘Here. Cut badly. It was an accident.'

‘G'day,' the woman said to Jiff. ‘What happened to your hand?'

He smiled. The colour had come back to his face completely. ‘I cut my finger.'

‘Cut badly,' Pepe echoed.

The ambulance officer glanced over her shoulder at Pepe.

‘How's everything in the restaurant, Pepe?' I asked.

Pepe looked at me and then at the kitchen door. ‘She's all right. I better . . . I . . . Bruna! Come!'

His wife obediently followed him through the door.

The woman ambulance officer looked at me and smiled.

She introduced herself to Jiff as she sifted through her bag of tricks. Andrea. I said hello and introduced myself. Jiff was staring at my hand. Andrea unwrapped a dressing and told me I could let go. Jiff grabbed a breath. At first my fingers wouldn't co-operate. They were sticky with Jiff's blood. It had glued me to him. Andrea held Jiff's wrist and craned to see the cut.

She wiped at Jiff's finger. I flexed my hand and washed it at the sink.

‘Get us another swab, Mick.'

Mick unwrapped another dressing and handed it to Andrea. She wiped up the blood on Jiff's palm and wrist.

‘Is he going to live?' I asked.

Andrea frowned. ‘I think so.'

She shoved Jiff's hand at Mick who moved the joints and inspected it front and back.

Andrea stared at me, deadpan. ‘Haven't you got a Bandaid?'

‘No. Bruna couldn't find the first aid . . . why?'

Andrea chucked a Bandaid on the bench and packed her gear. ‘Probably didn't need an ambulance.'

Mick took a call on the two-way attached to his belt. ‘We've got to go.'

The blood had drained from Jiff's face again. He stared at his hand, his mouth part-open.

Mick and Andrea left the kitchen. I grabbed Jiff's finger. It was clean and damp. The cut looked like a scratch. I shook my head and grabbed his other hand. There was no cut. I grabbed the middle finger of his left hand and pulled it close to my face. Just looked like a scratch.

Angelina looked on from along the bench. She crossed herself and started babbling in Italian.

‘Wait!' I yelled at the kitchen door. ‘Hang on!'

Pepe and Bruna pushed their way inside. I bolted after the ambulance officers. They were on the street, packing stuff into compartments on the side of their shiny vehicle. The lights on the roof rotated lazily and flooded the night street with red and blue.

‘He
was
cut. Serious. Where do you reckon the blood came from?'

‘Oh, he
was
cut,' Andrea said. ‘He
was
definitely cut. I think the blood came from the
scratch
on his finger.'

‘But . . .'

Andrea shook her head. ‘Don't worry about it, Madonna. You did the right thing. It could have been serious.'

I turned on one heel and shoved my way inside. I walked past a dozen staring eyes into the kitchen.

Pepe, Bruna and Angelina crowded around Jiff, who
stood beside the bench admiring his hand with a drunken sort of smile. Someone had put the Bandaid on.

‘It's a miracle, Madonna,' Pepe said, and crossed himself.

Bruna said something in Italian that ended in my name. They looked at me. Only Jiff was smiling.

‘What? I didn't do anything. You saw the whole thing. I didn't
do
anything. I held his finger for god's sake.'

Bruna mumbled. Pepe and Angelina nodded.

‘What?' I pleaded.

A man pushed gingerly through the kitchen door. ‘Excuse me, can we have some more drinks on table seven, please? When you're ready.'

Pepe gasped and assured the man that we'd be right there. He started waving his hands. ‘Work!
Pronto
! Jiff, you still working or you going home?'

Jiff shrugged. ‘I'll work. I'm fine.'

We went back to work like nothing had happened, only I heard my name whispered more than once and when Lucia arrived an hour later with lipstick smeared across her cheek, Pepe didn't seem to notice. She slipped behind the bar and began topping a large Matriciana. Pepe sidled up to her and mumbled the story in Italian.

Luce looked at me with her eyes wide. ‘Madonna the healer now, huh?'

‘You've got lipstick on your cheek.'

‘Oh moi gawd,' she gasped. She bolted to the toilet with her hand over the wrong cheek and left her half-topped pizza on the bench. I finished it for her and at eleven I told Pepe that I was going home.

He took my hand and did a silly little bow. ‘Thank you for everything, Madonna. Everything.'

Whatever, I thought. Whatever happened. Whatever I did. I saw Jiff through the window as I walked along Sydney Road. He was taking a coffee order and he waved frantically. He excused himself from the table and came to the window. He pointed to himself and then to me. He made a phone from the hand that held his pen and managed to draw on his face.

‘I'll ring you,' he mouthed.

For two whole seconds I forgot about my grungy life. For a breath I just basked in his palpatatingly gorgeous smile. His lips smiled, his cheeks smiled, his eyes shone with something vital that did funny things to my insides. My life was a confusing nightmare sometimes but one thing had become crystal clear. Jiff waved with his Bandaided finger and went back to work. My smile got so big that it broke and a funny little laugh escaped. Jiff wasn't gay.

I
missed the TV next morning. The flat seemed empty without it. Dad had gone. I put on a CD and bopped my way through breakfast at 9 am. The CD finished and I heard traffic noise out the window. It was Monday. I wondered what all the wankers would be doing at school. There were times in my life when school had been like a sliver of bamboo under my thumbnail. Like in year eight when Daniella de Bono thought that I was hot for Shane Nelson and she sent death threats through her friends and pushed me around one lunchtime. Who needs that sort of crap?

And there were times when school had been so delightfully boring and normal and predictable and brain dead. I realised that I'd never go back and at the same time I started to get an inkling of what Dad meant when he said that his school years were the best time of his life.

That weekend had been crammed with more adventure than one seventeen-year-old brain could handle. I looked at my hands and knew that my stumpy little fingers held
no miracles. People sometimes cut themselves and never know they've done it until the stickiness makes them see the blood. Maybe it happens the other way, too. Jiff wasn't cut as badly as he thought. A trick of the light. My hands washed breakfast dishes, brushed hair and folded toilet paper. Nothing miraculous in that. And Jiff didn't phone. I had to get out of the flat.

I checked I had my keys . . . again. I've never locked my keys inside or anything like that but I still pat my pocket five or six times before I go and again once the door is closed. Okay, Madonna, you've got your keys. Get going. I turned to the lift and let out a yelp. Someone moved near the steel doors. It was Red. His mouth was open but he wasn't smiling. He seemed rat-like in the watery morning light, all bones and crooked teeth. As I reached for the button near the down arrow, his hand lashed out and beat me to it. The lift whirred.

‘Good morning, Red. How are you this fine day?'

The boy stared at me.

‘You're up early. Did you wet the bed?'

He didn't blink. His eyes shifted and he looked behind me. I looked over my shoulder. The hag stood in the doorway of his flat. The skin on her face hung like something underneath had already begun to decompose. Her mouth opened and closed. Her tongue licked her rotten teeth and all the while she fixed me with a one-eyed stare. I couldn't look away. I could feel my body tightening, ready to run. The lift pinged and I jumped. My skin almost left my bones. Red slunk through the gap in the doors. He leaned against the wall with the
buttons and thumbed the G. I stood against the back wall. Eventually the doors began to close. I sighed and looked at Red.

The hag shouted as the doors slid home, ‘Soddie.'

Red blinked.

‘What did she say?' I asked.

The boy looked at his foot and scratched the reddened skin in the crease of his elbow.

‘What did she just say?'

Silence.

I crossed my arms, tutted and looked at the manhole in the roof.

The lift stopped twice on the way to the ground floor. A nervous-looking girl about my age with pupils like black holes got on at the sixth floor and a young fat guy with shower-wet hair and a goatee stepped on at the first. He stood next to the girl and rode from the first floor to the ground. One stop. The girl and the fat guy went in opposite directions. Red waited until I'd left before he moved. I walked behind the fat guy. He smelled like deodorant and his arms pumped as he walked. I would have had to jog to keep up with him. I could feel Red watching me again, feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I turned. He stood in front of the lift with his arms hanging at his sides.

‘She said sorry,' he shouted, and stepped between the closing doors.

I jumped on a tram to the city. I bummed around Melbourne Central and wished I'd arranged to meet up with Colin. Pepe's was closed on a Monday night so I didn't
even have work to look forward to. I thought about the wankers at school and sighed. They knew what they were doing. They knew where they had to go to next even if it was as boring as all shite. Their day was mapped out for them and they didn't have to rattle with loneliness and watch some kid drop his ice cream from the third floor splat onto the tiles beside the shot tower.

The lift carried me to the twelfth floor. The hallway smelled of fresh paint and as I unlocked the door, Dad hollered for me to stop.

‘Is that you, Maddie? Don't come in.'

‘Sorry,' I said, and closed the door again. I heard Rosie's voice. She was talking to Dad and suddenly my thoughts about what he might be doing weren't so innocent. Thank god I didn't just barge in. Thank god they had the decency to keep the door locked. Dad and Rosie? Up until then they were neighbours who shared nothing but a fascination for the weather. Since Evie left I couldn't help noticing her.

‘Close your eyes, Maddie,' Dad yelled from behind the door.

‘They're closed. I'm not looking.'

Things were changing at rocket pace. I didn't know what to expect and I couldn't keep my eyes closed. Dad had changed. Now Rosie was his boss and I guessed that could change the way they related. The pictures in my mind weren't from your typical employer–employee sort of interaction. Unless you were Señor Molinari from the Bullpit.

‘Close them! Give me your hand.'

I moaned and held out my hand. He led me inside. The flat was heavy with the chemical smell of paint and I knew the surprise was a little more innocent than my strained brain had pictured.

‘Right. Open them.'

I had to blink quite a few times before my eyes could convince my brain that what I was seeing was real. The flat was a riot of colour. The furniture had been shoved around and draped with bright yellow fabric. The table had found a new home beside the sliding glass door and a huge vase in the middle held a broken rainbow of flowers, their colours mirrored in the walls that shone with new paint. Our grey-brick flat had died and been reborn in gold and purple and red and blue. Each wall had been painted a different colour. The wall closest to Rosie's place was purple and it wore a matching tie-dyed sarong. The sarong wall hanging had a woven Celtic design printed on the border and, in the middle, a ring of dragons with their bodies entwined.

‘Ta daaa,' Dad sang, and pirouetted with his arms outstretched. Rosie laughed.

‘Well, what do you think, girl?'

‘It's . . . it's . . . awesome, Dad. I love it. You did all this yourself?'

‘Rosie and me. This morning, after the market.'

I dabbed a finger on the gold next to my bedroom door.

‘It's all dry. Well, most of it. Thought the place could do with a bit of a spruce up.'

I shook my head but I couldn't shake the smile.
Fantastic. Between them they'd managed to paint life into walls that I didn't even know were dead.

Rosie brought a chair over from her flat. She had dinner with us that night. We all crammed into the kitchen and learned Rosie's not-very-famous chicken curry recipe. Garnished with fresh coriander and tiny tomatoes from Rosie's fridge and served on a bed of saffron rice, our meal was as colourful as the flat. Rosie joked and laughed and didn't talk about the weather. When it came time for her to leave, she picked up her chair.

‘Nah, Rosie, leave it here. Don't worry about it,' Dad said.

She looked at Dad with a tight smile. ‘No. I'll take it with me, Tricky. It'll only get in the way here.'

‘Won't be in the way,' I said.

‘Besides, you can come and use it again soon.'

Rosie chuckled and looked at her hand resting on the chair. ‘I won't have anything to sit on in the morning.'

‘Bah. You've got another chair,' Dad said, and rested his hand on the cushion. They looked at each other and some quiet understanding passed between them. Dad took his hand off the cushion and Rosie lifted the chair and left without saying another word. The phone rang. Dad went to answer it then thought better of it. Wimp.

My guts buckled and I almost ripped the receiver clean off.

‘Hello?'

‘Hey Maddie.'

My heart was still beating in my neck but I sighed. It was Evie. ‘Hey!'

‘What you up to tonight?'

‘Me? Nothing.'

‘Do you want to come over?'

‘Nah, I'm stuffed.'

‘Come on . . . blow off some steam. Video. Pizza.'

‘I've had dinner.'

‘Well, me and Bianca will have the pizza . . . come on.'

The phone went quiet as I was led into temptation.

‘Girls' night in . . . come on.'

I crumbled. ‘Can you pick me up?'

‘Yeah, course. At home?'

‘I'll wait down the bottom.'

‘Okay. Ten minutes.'

‘Ten minutes?' I smelled the clean sweat in my armpit. ‘I've got to have a shower.'

‘You can have a shower here. Ten minutes.' She kissed into the phone and was gone.

Headlights filled the ground floor with harsh light and deep shadow. The headlights of a sports car. Bianca's BMW.

The video never made it out of the box. My invitation should have arrived via drumbeats and read ‘The time is right. Secret womyn's business. You know where.'

I'd been at Brettas Street for two glasses of wine and Bianca had convinced me to use her shower and to let her give me a hair treatment.

Evie stuck her head in the bathroom as I adjusted the water with just my hand in the shower. ‘Cute bum, sis.'

I smiled and waggled my tush at her. ‘Thanks.'

She smiled. ‘Looks like Be's going for the full makeover.
Prepare to be dazzled. There isn't a secret she doesn't know.'

I slipped into the shower and closed the glass door. ‘I thought we were going to watch a video.'

‘Maddie! You're in the hands of a guru. Stuff the video. I can guarantee you'll be amazed. You don't know how much you don't know.'

What, I thought, there's more to make-up than lip-gloss?

Bianca pushed in beside Evie. Community bathroom. Don't mind me.

‘Is your hair wet?' Bianca asked.

‘Ah, yeah, satched.'

‘Good. Turn the shower off.'

I closed the taps. The shower door folded open.

‘Shake some water off.'

I wrung my hair out and tried to hide my nakedness in the corner. Couldn't hide my bum.

‘Come over here so I can put this on your hair.'

‘What is it?'

‘Hot oil treatment. Your hair will love you forever.'

‘Sounds like medieval torture.'

Evie laughed. ‘Oh, it is.'

‘Philistines,' Bianca said.

Warm honey in my wet hair.

‘Right, rub it through.'

Evie disappeared and returned with my wine glass. ‘Get this into you, quick,' she said, and handed it to me.

‘Wha?'

‘Go! Drink,' Bianca urged. ‘You've only got a minute.'

I held the glass in my oil-slippery fingers and up-ended it down my throat.

I get it, I thought. This is some kind of ritual. An initiation.

I handed the glass back to Evie, squinted and danced as my throat and stomach bucked at the wine.

Bianca huffed a laugh. ‘Go girl. Wash it off now. Shampoo and conditioner behind you.'

Oil it up then wash it off. Right. Do I look like the bonnet of a car? They left the room but I was beyond caring. I was in safe hands. The wine and the water turned me into a wild thing. I wanted Jiff. I wanted to party. I washed and dried and was instructed to sit at the kitchen table in my bra and knickers. Evie did my hair. Bianca filed and painted my nails. Gloss Lamborghini red. I scoffed half a pizza, which had been delivered while I was in the shower. I wasn't even hungry. It was good but not as good as Pepe's.

Bianca waxed and plucked my eyebrows and asked if she should do my legs. I told her I'd shaved. Armpits? Shaved. What about my bikini line?

‘Nah, I never wear bikinis and everyone who sees me naked doesn't seem to mind.'

Evie smiled. Bianca nodded.

Bianca made up my face with all the grace of a fine artist before we staggered upstairs and raided her wardrobe. There were men's shoes and suits in there but the wardrobe smelled like old perfume. I tried on blouses and shirts and skirts and a raging deep-red dress that looked stunning in a gothic ballroom way. I settled on
some jeans and a stretchy Hard Rock Café T-shirt that hugged my boobs like a second skin. Bianca's shoes were too small so we crossed the hallway into Evie's room. We collected a pair of strappy heels that made me feel as tall as Xena warrior princess. I test-danced them and had another wine in the kitchen while Evie and Bianca dressed and painted their faces.

‘Let's party!' Bianca cried.

‘Where? It's Monday night.'

‘Maximus . . .'

They looked hot. They glowed with sex and success and as we stepped onto the night street, I realised that success was mostly an act. An attitude. A subtle way of thinking, talking, being, which I was learning, mostly without knowing it. I didn't take notes. I didn't need to. It came naturally. It felt right.

We danced and drank in a Fitzroy nightclub. Three storeys of stumping grooves and people going off. On a Monday night. The music fed the animal in me and I danced from partner to partner, women and men, until Evie grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the street.

‘God, Be, what have we done? She's turned into a party animal.'

I smiled and started dancing on the street.

Three shops down from the purple double doors of Maximus was a tattoo parlour. It must have been after midnight but the lights were on. I stepped inside. Bianca followed. Evie groaned and leaned against the wall outside. I flicked through boxes of cards. Full-colour drawings that
could be transferred onto the canvas of your body for a small fee. Or a large fee. I found a card full of Japanese symbols. There was the symbol for tree, spring, wind, love, secret, balance, hope, good luck, glory. I found the one I wanted. Freedom.