Scraps of Heaven (14 page)

There is a chill in the air, but Valerio is tough, a man with soccer-player calves and thighs. He takes pride in their strength and hardness; and thinks of himself as hard. He plays the game in a crouch, eyes hooded, with a bend in the knee that puts his body close to the turf. His posture is defensive, informed by instinct. It allows him to sidestep an attacking opponent with guile and finesse.

But it is Saturday night, and he is on the way to La Cumparsita dance hall, and there is no need to be on alert. There is time enough to idle by the square, to light a cigarette. Besides, he is well groomed for his night out. To be dressed well is to be at ease with oneself. His overcoat is tailormade, measured and cut by Mr Sgro, the Calabrese maestro. Sgro had whistled in appreciation when Valerio brought the fabric into his Lygon Street shop. ‘My uncle sent it from Napoli,' Valerio had boasted. ‘Pure
Zegna
, the finest wool.'

Valerio smooths his hand on the overcoat, draws on his cigarette, and exhales into the dark. The stranger who is walking towards him flits like a shadow. He slinks, head buried in the shoulders, hands tucked in his trouser pockets. And in one glance he sees it all: Valerio's posture, the oiled hair, his two-tone shoes, damn him, his cool contentment and stylish clothes. The stranger spits. The saliva settles on Valerio's left shoe. ‘You fuck'n Spag,' he snarls. ‘You're stealing our jobs. Go back to where you fuck'n come from.'

Valerio has been caught off-guard. It takes him a moment to react, and by then it is too late. He is about to go after him, but the stranger vanishes into the park.

‘Vaffanculo,'
Valerio curses. He knows that later he will discuss it with friends at La Cumparsita's. ‘Australians have no taste,' he will say. ‘They do not even know how to dress.
Ignoranti
. Our peasants have more style.'

He stubs out his cigarette, shrugs his shoulders and walks on past the state school, so small in his adult eyes, it looks like a doll's house. He glances at the slate turret of the Dan O'Connell Hotel, and glides a hand over the green tiles on the pub wall.

As he nears the dance hall he joins the throng pulling up in taxis and private cars. Others are strolling from nearby homes. The women are dressed in ankle-length gowns and fake-fur stoles. The younger women are chaperoned by mothers and brothers. Among those entering the dance hall are
le australiane
, Australian girls drawn to an exotic world. Most of the patrons are single men. They outnumber the women five to one. They file into the foyer scented with Old Spice and cologne.

Bloomfield too is on the streets. He is drawn to the
festa
, but he knows how to keep out of the way while remaining within reach. It is a well-practised skill. He stands by the bluestone cottages and observes the crowd moving in. These are workman cottages, the smallest homes in Canning Street. Their front doors are set back a half-metre from the footpath.

Valerio removes his overcoat in the foyer and hands it to the cloak attendant before entering the hall. The Orchestra Mokambo is playing ‘La Cucaracha', the cockroach cha-cha-cha. Maestro Ugo Ceresoli, the bandleader,
fisarmonica
virtuoso extraordinaire, stands centre-stage, button accordion at full stretch. He wears black trousers, a white jacket and black bow tie. His pocket kerchief is black, as too, almost, is his accordion. Its 120 black bass buttons range in diagonal rows upon a background of white. The name Ceresoli is embossed in mother-of-pearl, and the body of the accordion is an enamelled red. It gleams under the chandelier lights. Red, white and black: raw colours, redolent of blood, communion dresses and volcanic earth.

Behind Ceresoli,
i ragazzi del Mokambo
are lined up, six abreast. They stand behind the speakers, instruments in hand, saxophone, trombone, violin, Spanish guitar, percussion and double bass. The boys of the Mokambo are hard at work. The women are seated on wooden benches beside their chaperones. The men are hesitant in their approach. Only the
le australiane
are unattended. Valerio circles the hall and approaches the benches. He is about to ask another stranger to dance, but hesitates. He does not wish to be turned down.

The lights are lowered. The tempo slows. A spotlight shines on the band. Ceresoli croons ‘Terra Straniera', In a Foreign Land; and ‘Vola Colomba Bianca, Vola'. He is singing to his
compaesani
, compatriots who long for their childhood homes:

Fly my white dove,
Fly across the seas.
Spread your white wings,
Fly my loved one back to me.

Just as the nostalgia threatens to take hold, Ceresoli switches to the opening chords of a tarantella. The tempo lifts, the chandeliers blaze back to life. The guests are returning to the dance floor, and before long the boys of the Mokambo have reverted to their beloved mambos and rumbas, cha-chas and sambas, the Latin favourites of the day.

Outside, Bloomfield stamps his feet to ward off the chill. He prefers waltzes. Tangos. Dances in a minor key, melodies that contain within them the promise of romance. But it can never last. Somewhere, sometime, the promise will be tainted. Yet by listening to this music, out here, in the streets of a new world, Bloomfield feels warmed.

In the lane behind Posner the barber's the boys are playing two-up
:
Schneider, Goodman, Aronson and Hirst. One name is all they use. They are on the cusp of adulthood, young men on the move. At weddings and bar mitzvahs they don tuxedos and sing for their supper, but in the streets they wear T-shirts, stovepipe trousers and pointy shoes.

Josh knows where to find them. Joel Goodman is his cousin, Uncle Yossel's son, and his passport to an adult game. Joel prefers the lanes of Carlton to the family
palatz
near the Yarra banks. Josh leans against a timber fence. He is a spectator. That is all they allow him to be. He follows the toss of the coins and cranes his neck to observe their flight. Posner watches them from an upper room.
‘Leidikgeyers,'
he mutters. ‘Good-for-nothings. Lazy boys who have learnt only to flick a coin. Heads. Tails. Win. Lose. Yes, Lose. That is where it will all end, deep in the ground.'

The boys are crowding around fallen coins and Aronson is whistling. The police are coming. The boys are running. Their socks are a flash of lurid oranges and greens. No one knows the lanes like they do—the drains, the alcoves, the cul-de-sacs, or the four-leafed clover they had discovered the day before where the coin had rolled and fallen, stuck indecisively between heads and tails.

A corrugated fence is their goal. Aronson's backyard lies within reach. Just one foot in the latch-hole and, one by one, they are over. They laugh as they hit the ground. Hirst emits a triumphant belch, Goodman a defiant fart. They dust off their trousers and adjust their belts. Their mirth increases as they approach the back door. Aronson fumbles with his key. The coast is clear. Aronson's parents are at the regular Saturday night card game with their circle of friends. He is host for the night. He pours the drinks: red wine for Schneider, vodka for Hirst, a brandy ‘on the rocks, if you don't mind', for Goodman, and a plain beer for himself.

A hi-fi player presides over the loungeroom. Its speakers peer from each corner in readiness for the deluge. Aronson sets the turntable in motion. He lowers the needle, guides it into the groove, and Charlie ‘Bird' Parker bursts into the room.

‘Listen carefully, Josh,' advises his cousin, ‘your life will never be the same.'

‘He's too young to understand such music,' says Schneider.

‘Young. Shmung,' responds Aronson ‘You don't have to be a genius to understand.'

‘Listen to the bass! Just listen to the bass!' exclaims Goodman. ‘Jazz is nothing without a bass.'

‘Rubbish,' retorts Schneider, ‘Parker's saxophone can stand alone.'

‘Why don't you all shut up,' cries Hirst.

They lie on the carpet, four limp bodies, a head here, a leg there, an arm under a table, a hand supporting a neck, a band of exhausted two-up players taking their well-earned rest. Parker hands the baton to Dizzy Gillespie who gives way to Miles Davis and John Coltrane.

The boys return to the kitchen, each in their own time, and head for the fridge. Aronson's mother's brisket is a quick bite made in heaven. They tear off strips, dip them in tomato sauce, and return to the lounge chewing in time to the music, feet jiggling, heads nodding, fingers clicking. They are drawn to the bent rhythms of contemporary jazz. It mirrors their anarchic desires. They want to break out, roam the streets, find a way through their byways and lanes. They imagine themselves in the speakeasies of New York, in its smoke-filled cellars and bars. They conjure images of a city where the avenues are broad and neon-lit, the mythical metropolis of bebop and jazz.

The hours are passing, the fridge is emptying. Billie Holiday sings ‘Strange Fruit'. They dream of convertibles and white-lined roads curving into the night. Holiday lures them into a reverie. Her voice is sultry, serene. Yet her words are frightening: ‘Blood on the leaves. Blood at the root.' Josh observes the scattering of ashtrays and their gathering dregs. He is drawn to the company, to their easy ways. He senses the longing in the music, the way it unites them, yet drives them apart into separate thoughts, private worlds.

Aronson changes the vinyl at a rapid rate. The boys are equally attracted to the ballads of Holiday, the scatting of Ella Fitzgerald, to doo-wop and bebop, and the mathematical precision of modern jazz. The Big Bopper is now growling, ‘Chantilly lace and a pretty face'. And the boys are back on their feet, Schneider, Goodman, Aronson and Hirst, arm-in-arm, they mimic the Big Bopper, four boys in a row, ‘With a wiggle in their walk, and a giggle in their talk', they harmonise as they experiment with new steps.

And they are still there, practising, after Josh has left. Not even the thought of Zofia and her prospective anger at his absence can undermine his exhilaration. He has sensed other rhythms, other worlds. He runs to the imagined beat of the music he has just heard. As he cuts across Curtain Square, he hears people shouting in the distance, several blocks to the south. He runs past the darkened classrooms of the state school and weaves between the traffic on Princes Street. He pauses to catch his breath by Dan O'Connell's, and jogs the final stretch past the bluestone cottages to the scene of the fight. The men are spilling out of the ballroom. It is a dispute over a girl, of course.

Bloomfield has withdrawn to the opposite side of the street. He knows the nuances, the perennial rivalry between Italy's north and south, knows that the
terrone
are the southerners, people of the earth, and that
terrone
is a term of abuse. He knows that the southerners, Sicilians and Calabrians, hurl insults of their own, and mock the northerners as
polentoni
, those who feed on polenta, a common food.

Josh sees Valerio in the crowd circling the fighters. Before Josh can greet him he has turned his face back to the action. It is a one-on-one contest between seemingly mismatched boys.
‘Ehi Terroni!
Ehi vieni qua!'
Miro, the Venetian, goads his Calabrian adversary on. ‘Eh, peasant. Come here.
Ti faccio vedere io.
I'll show you something.'

Miro's fists are raised. He is prancing around. His opponent is a head shorter. One of the spectators steps in and tries to prise them apart. ‘Keep it quiet. We're all
poveri cristi
, poor bastards,' he says. ‘It's hard enough for us without the police seeing us fight.' The combatants stalk each other, trade light punches, until abruptly, with one sharp right, Miro is knocked out.

‘Come, Josh,' says Valerio as the crowd disperses. ‘We walk home together, eh? Tomorrow I play for Juventus. Real football,' he says with a wink. ‘I need good sleep. And I do not find a girl tonight.
Mannaggia la miseria
,' he laughs. ‘What misery. Maybe next week I have more luck. One day we will both find beautiful woman. Aah,
le belle ragazze
. This, my good friend, is what we live for.'

Zofia is in the passage. Josh can hear her undress. He lies in bed, and listens as she discards her clothes upon the linoleum floor.

Josh diverts his thoughts to the Swedish Girl; he imagines her undressing, each item dropping, one by one. He does not know her name. She is still a new presence on the block. She walks through the streets, aloof. Her remoteness heightens her allure. Josh is not the only boy whose adolescent desire has been stirred. She inspires talk of conquests, is the object of idle boasts. Josh embraces his pillow, and pretends it is her.

He drifts off to sleep to the echoes of Bird Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, the Big Bopper, John Coltrane. He dreams of Aronson, Schneider, Goodman and Hirst. They are lying on the floor in a tangle of legs and arms, ears pressed against the speakers, slabs of brisket in hand. And the Swedish Girl is moving towards them ‘with a wiggle in her walk', discarding her clothes, beckoning and smiling with the promise of mysterious pleasures.

Bloomfield dresses quickly and steps into the passage
.
The raw floorboards creak beneath his feet
.
He takes care over each step. It is Sunday morning, and his co-tenants are still asleep. He does not wish to offend. He wants to retain his fragile place in the scheme of things: his single room in the welfare house, his daily walks, his sojourns in the neighbourhood park.

The house is located on the northern end of Drummond Street, in sight of the railway tracks. The line marks the divide between Carlton and Brunswick, residential and industrial zones. In the other rooms off the passage live the Feinbergs from Warsaw, the Pareiras from Cairo, the Einhorns from Lodz, and in the back room, behind the communal kitchen, the Schillers from Budapest.

The Drummond Street house is one of six Jewish welfare homes scattered about the city, sustained by donations. They are clearing houses for the dispossessed. As soon as one family moves on, newer arrivals take their place. Of the first wave of immigrants only Bloomfield has remained. He had been allowed to stay on even as the numbers of Displaced Persons declined. And he was still there when the house refilled, post-1956, after the Polish repression, the Hungarian revolution, the Suez crisis. Each calamity spawns its displaced offspring.