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Authors: Christos Tsiolkas
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maybe not. Part of me gets angry at his dismissal of me, at the line of boys looking at me with their arms crossed. Part of mesympathises with him. Why would he want to go out to a Greek club? I say goodbye and walk out to Joeâs car. I hear laughter behind me and I give them the finger. My ears are burning.
âWhatâs your sister doing with that jerk? Joe starts the car, does a u-turn and we head back to Sydney Road. Where did she meet him?
âSome party. I donât want to talk about it with Joe. He doesnât push it, instead we drive in silence and he parks his car behind the town hall. Anyone around? he asks me. I get out of the car and take a look. Further back in the car park a group of Turkish boys are smoking a joint, talking in their own language.
âItâs cool, I answer Joe.
âHave you got any speed left? he asks me. I hand him a packet of powder and stay out while he fixes himself a small line. The moon is nearly full, the night is warm. A light breeze. A gentle night. The sound of traffic on Sydney Road, the faint murmur of the bouzouki can be heard. I light a cigarette and wait for Joe to finish. He puts a safety lock on the wheel, hands me the drugs wrapped in a twenty and a ten. Too much, I tell him, and give him back the ten. He refuses it. You need it, dole bludger. I call him a wanker. Donât tell Dina, he orders me, I told her Iâve cut out all drugs except dope. Sure, I answer.
Two drunk Greek men are standing at the entrance to the pub engaged in an argument. The younger man, in a white shirt and thin black tie, is arguing about politics. The older man, in a black jumper, is disagreeing with everything the younger man is saying. He keeps pointing his finger at the younger man, digging it into his chest. The sounds of music, of shouting, of conversation come out into the street. I follow Joe through the door and the room we enter is crowded with people, smoke is everywhere. Large crowds are seated around circular tables, eating, drinking and smoking. Every available space is taken up with peoplestanding around shouting to be heard above the music. Greek folk songs, the unmistakable sounds of the clarino and the bouzouki. The band are performing on a raised platform at the back of the pub. Theyâre all young Greek men except for a dark-haired woman banging listlessly on the tambourine. Occasionally she sings. A circle of young women are dancing on the dance floor, holding hands and performing a sirto .
I canât take in everything at once. Familiar faces pop out of the crowd, wink or smile at me. I smile back but continue to follow Joe, keeping my eyes on his broad back. The noise and the motion of the crowd in the small pub is too much for me, and I want to take Joeâs hand, let him lead me through the mass of people and noise. But of course I donât take his hand, he wouldnât let me.
Dina and the others have secured a small table near the band. Joe takes the seat Dina has saved for him and I stand at the edge of the table. Does anyone want a drink? I ask. They all shake their heads except Joe. Get me a pot, he yells above the music.
The old men are congregated around the bar, drinking whisky, ouzo, or pot after pot of beer. Young men and women push their way around the bulky bodies of the old-timers, trying to find a space to order a drink from the barman. The barman is fat with thin grey hair made wet from sweat. A cigarette on his lips. His first priority is the old men. When they are all satisfied, he turns to the young people and asks them what they want. No particular order, it is whoever he notices first, not who has been waiting the longest. I squeeze against a huge man with a beard and wait my turn. Someone taps me on the shoulder. Itâs Spiro, a good guy, a friend of my brotherâs. I shake his hand warmly.
âYour brotherâs here, he tells me. We exchange banalities. Howâs study? I ask. The same, he replies.
âWhatâs your sister doing with that jerk? Joe starts the car, does a u-turn and we head back to Sydney Road. Where did she meet him?
âSome party. I donât want to talk about it with Joe. He doesnât push it, instead we drive in silence and he parks his car behind the town hall. Anyone around? he asks me. I get out of the car and take a look. Further back in the car park a group of Turkish boys are smoking a joint, talking in their own language.
âItâs cool, I answer Joe.
âHave you got any speed left? he asks me. I hand him a packet of powder and stay out while he fixes himself a small line. The moon is nearly full, the night is warm. A light breeze. A gentle night. The sound of traffic on Sydney Road, the faint murmur of the bouzouki can be heard. I light a cigarette and wait for Joe to finish. He puts a safety lock on the wheel, hands me the drugs wrapped in a twenty and a ten. Too much, I tell him, and give him back the ten. He refuses it. You need it, dole bludger. I call him a wanker. Donât tell Dina, he orders me, I told her Iâve cut out all drugs except dope. Sure, I answer.
Two drunk Greek men are standing at the entrance to the pub engaged in an argument. The younger man, in a white shirt and thin black tie, is arguing about politics. The older man, in a black jumper, is disagreeing with everything the younger man is saying. He keeps pointing his finger at the younger man, digging it into his chest. The sounds of music, of shouting, of conversation come out into the street. I follow Joe through the door and the room we enter is crowded with people, smoke is everywhere. Large crowds are seated around circular tables, eating, drinking and smoking. Every available space is taken up with peoplestanding around shouting to be heard above the music. Greek folk songs, the unmistakable sounds of the clarino and the bouzouki. The band are performing on a raised platform at the back of the pub. Theyâre all young Greek men except for a dark-haired woman banging listlessly on the tambourine. Occasionally she sings. A circle of young women are dancing on the dance floor, holding hands and performing a sirto .
I canât take in everything at once. Familiar faces pop out of the crowd, wink or smile at me. I smile back but continue to follow Joe, keeping my eyes on his broad back. The noise and the motion of the crowd in the small pub is too much for me, and I want to take Joeâs hand, let him lead me through the mass of people and noise. But of course I donât take his hand, he wouldnât let me.
Dina and the others have secured a small table near the band. Joe takes the seat Dina has saved for him and I stand at the edge of the table. Does anyone want a drink? I ask. They all shake their heads except Joe. Get me a pot, he yells above the music.
The old men are congregated around the bar, drinking whisky, ouzo, or pot after pot of beer. Young men and women push their way around the bulky bodies of the old-timers, trying to find a space to order a drink from the barman. The barman is fat with thin grey hair made wet from sweat. A cigarette on his lips. His first priority is the old men. When they are all satisfied, he turns to the young people and asks them what they want. No particular order, it is whoever he notices first, not who has been waiting the longest. I squeeze against a huge man with a beard and wait my turn. Someone taps me on the shoulder. Itâs Spiro, a good guy, a friend of my brotherâs. I shake his hand warmly.
âYour brotherâs here, he tells me. We exchange banalities. Howâs study? I ask. The same, he replies.
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