Whole Wild World (4 page)

I didn't know we owned the flat where Ineska lived with her parents Rudy and Eva and sister Mary, who was Šime's age. I thought what a great guy my dad was, fixing their bathroom and front screen door. They were like us but different. Rudy called my dad ‘Jozo' rather than Joso, the only person who did that. They spoke the same language with my parents but among themselves used words I'd never heard. They were Slovenian.

Ineska didn't say much and I hogged the talk-space. In my head, we were kind of married, or the serious stage before that – there were teddies, dolls and dinkies in our union. I took charge, given I was about a head taller and good at making up games. But like a lot of couples we didn't sleep in the same bed.

Our flat was tight, even by the modest standards of the day. I slept in a cot in my parents' bedroom, while Å ime and Teta had single beds in the other room. The only decent space to play in was in the front entrance, a sunroom that had been filled in and modified. It was inside but could be closed off from the main house. Ineska and I made toys, painted, looked at books and had tea parties. Å ime and Mary were at school, and Mama looked after both of us for a time while Eva, blonde and kind of glamorous in my reckoning, worked.

Rudy had a wild look in his eyes, what I'd now call hypnotic, like Rasputin's. I was both mesmerised by and frightened of him. Compared to my dad, Rudy was small. He was better than Tata at fixing things such as broken toys. Rudy would come home at dinnertime, speaking loudly and angrily. He would sway and shout at Eva, who would shout back at him. It was tricky leaving their flat on those occasions. I was scared and didn't want to be there, but I didn't know how to leave either; I just wanted to be invisible so he wouldn't be angry with me as well. I don't know if he ever hit the girls, but I remember them crying and clinging to their mother, thinking they should come and stay with us even though we didn't have spare beds. I'd tell my parents what I'd
seen and was able to mimic the way Rudy stumbled around and how his words came out sounding funny.

‘Show us how Rudy walks,' my mother would say and I'd stiff-leg it around the lounge-room. They'd laugh and so I'd do it over and over.

We were generally healthy but I often had to go to the eye doctor. From birth I had a turn in my right eye, which was progressively becoming more pronounced. I was examined by a variety of doctors and there were many tests to get through. By the time I was three, it was decided corrective measures were needed; an operation would be a last resort.

For a time I wore a pinkish, skin-coloured eye patch over my left eye. Pirates were not generally idolised then. The patch was green-black on the inside, but if you looked closely it had a pattern of tiny perforations that could let in the teeniest bit of light. I'd get eye drops put in and when I saw myself in photos or in the mirror, my eyes looked like I'd been crying. I'd bump into furniture and knock over items I was trying to reach, and get into trouble for breaking things I didn't mean to, which made my dad cranky.

It felt like Tata got angry a lot, even more than Rudy, and I was often relieved when he went to work after lunch at the cornflakes factory as it meant I could be alone with Mama. A little later, Teta would be home, usually in a bad mood. Danica means ‘morning star', not that I knew it then, but for me she was a little black-mood cloud of castigation and threat. Teta was almost ten years older than Mama and was bossy with her as well. She was short, unlike anyone else in our family. Before I started school I was up to her bosom.

The best time of day was when we went to pick up Å ime and Mary from school. Ineska and I would hold hands. We'd see other preschool kids while we waited for the bell to ring. On the walk home we'd often stop for cakes. I'd always choose
a meringue, coloured white, blue, pink or yellow. Although I'd heard the baker say to another customer they all tasted the same, I was convinced pink was best. Meringues defied nature, yet their colour, texture and lightness formed an alluring harmony. Biting into one was like crunching compacted air.

I pestered Å ime about what was happening at school, looked at his books and learnt new words. He'd patiently listen as I went through the TV shows I'd watched that morning and what I'd learned, especially on
Owly's School
, hosted by a puppet that seemed pretty real to me.

Romper Room
was my favourite show, overseen by Miss Patricia, firm but fun, who I was hoping would be my teacher when I started school. I tried to get Mama to join in the games but she was usually busy with housework. My mum was fantastic with the ‘posture baskets', the segment when you had to balance a basket – a tin or plastic bowl at our place – on your head and walk around; she could do the housework and not drop the basket.

In the parlance of the show, Ineska and I were good ‘Do-Bees', marching around the lounge-room, doing dress-ups, having milk and a snack at the same time as the six or seven kids who were on the show that day.

‘Oh, come with us and gallop, and gallop, and gallop,' Miss Patricia would sing as we circled the lounge-room riding a broom or mop.

There was the ‘Bend and Stretch' song to get you loose all over. ‘Bend and stretch, reach for the stars, there goes Jupiter, here comes Mars.'

There was time to rest your head and listen to a story. This was how we learned English, by hearing it said. But my first thoughts were still in Croatian. ‘
Zašto
' came more naturally than ‘why'.

At the end of the program, Miss Patricia looked into a Magic Mirror: ‘Magic Mirror, tell me today, have all my friends had fun at play?'

Yes, yes, we'd reply.

Then the picture changed in a trippy sequence and she'd be looking straight at us.

‘I can see Jason and Kylie, Sharon and Kevin. Jane, Sally, Jennifer and Peter, too. I can see all my friends …'

Much as I craved it, Tomislav was never going to be called, but even Tommy and Thomas were rare. Ineska was like me, an outsider floating out there in space with Jupiter and Mars. We were made for each other. Pre-literate, a heart settled, my mind turned over a new phrase I'd picked up: Ineska was my best friend in the whole wild world.

My father and I were slugging it out, hot-headed daily skirmishes in a long, slow war. Not only did he infuriate me with his attitude to reasonable
zašto
questions, he'd tease me with ditties, rhyming couplets sung in exactly the same way, as if he were a troubadour summing up the drama for those who hadn't been paying attention.

‘Tom just asked his Mama for a lolly, he can go to bed and suck his dolly,' he'd sing in Croatian, the unromantic language of astonishing insults. The last word would resonate, just out of reach, to snatch shut like a tenor's sneaky top note.

On this occasion, it wasn't completely his fault. This was the era of my failed
Ja idem
,
Ja idem
exit: I was hooked on lollies and could carry on if denied. But I had learned from the prison troublemaker how to niggle and goad.

My insolence was now a travelling show, gaining notice, even from tough critics. Our family friend Mrs Lovoković told my parents I had poked my tongue out at her. From a safe distance, I'd add, not in a threatening manner or likely to spread germs. Being exposed and getting attention, however, only made me want to do it more often.

One of the rituals the adults had was writing letters to Croatia and reading ones sent from there, which would arrive every few days given we had three active letter-writers, particularly Mama. It was the only time she stopped working. She took her time and had luxurious handwriting. I thought she must be writing several at once but she spent hours on each, fitting in as much detail as possible, getting the words just right.

‘What do you write about, Mama?'

‘I tell them about you and Šime and Tata, what's happening here with our relatives and I ask questions about their lives.'

‘Do they know me and Šime in Croatia?'

‘Of course they do. They know about all the things you say and get up to.'

All the things.

I had developed a refined taste for stamps. Not licking, but looking at them, especially ones with sporting themes. Australian stamps were better than the foreign ones that came to our place. I remember going with Tata to the post office and first seeing stamps with Aztec symbols and the five rings, which I understood were about running; they were commemorating the 1968 Mexico City Olympics.

Even as a preschooler I knew Croatia was a state of mind rather than an actual country on a map. Or rather, I knew how much that upset my father. Letters came from Jugoslavija. Like Queen Elizabeth on our stamps and money, there was one man whose head was on all the letters that came with a blue Par Avion sticker: President Josip Broz ‘Tito'. He was the devil incarnate in our house.

One time, when Tata upset me, I knew exactly how to strike back. There he was, on the soft, grey couch, head in the paper. It must be said he looked tranquil (even better for my purposes), his head on a cushion with the Sydney Harbour Bridge embroidered into black velour. There must be something wonderful
about the
Sun
– other than the Opera House lottery results, row after row of tiny numbers, which he checked every few days – and the weekly Croatian newspaper
Spremnost
to keep him so absorbed.

Getting Tata's attention, I waved around a letter that had arrived that day. I backed away a little and pointed to the stamp.

‘I love Ti-Ti …'

This was a premeditated thought crime, for I'd already unlocked the front door, making sure there was clear room to run.

I said it again. ‘I love Ti-Ti …'

Just in case he nabbed me I left off the last syllable; it would stand up in court. I took a breath and let fly ‘I love Tito', lifting the stamp to my lips, giving the old dictator a kiss and making a dash for the door.

My dad even dropped the newspaper and put a foot on the floor to heighten the excitement. It was thrilling, electric, my heart leapt out of my chest. I'd touched the devil with my lips and lived to tell the tale. Rather than repercussions, Tata added this to his repertoire of ‘things my son has done'.

Watching my parents' daily routine, I identified the best bits and set my ambition. When I grow up, I declared, I'd lie on the couch all day and read newspapers. I'd look after the kids, too, inexplicably countering centuries of Dušević patriarchy by tapping into the burgeoning women's movement of the time. It gave my parents joy to hear me tell other adults about my plans.

‘But who'd look after your kids?' an incredulous aunt asked.

‘I would.'

‘And what would your wife do?'

‘Oh, Ineska, she'll work in the factory.'

Å ime and I shared a tricycle. It had been his for a long time but I'd taken possession. That's the law between brothers. Although it was too small for both of us, it was all we had. We'd run it around the paths that circled the property, on the driveways in front of the back garage where it was safe and around the hedge and backyard toilet. Å ime was good at sharing, except for one time when his turn went on for a lot, lot longer than it should have. I begged him to let me have a turn but he ignored me, caught up in the fun. When Å ime was at school earlier in the day I had come across junk my parents were throwing out. There were bits of wood, tins of paint, and a couple of long fluorescent tubes. This was a decade before
Star Wars
, but it was obvious to me a light tube could be used as a sword by a knight.

I took one in both hands and waited for Šime to ride around a corner, my heart racing, wicked little hands sweaty on the tube. As soon as he came into sight – he may have been smiling and singing defiantly, poor fool – I swung with all my might. The dinky lost control in the explosion of glass fragments. Šime hit the ground hard, amid a gush of blood and gut-churning wailing. This was no time to stand around. Šime was hurt and bleeding. I had to run before he got up or the police arrived.