Scraps of Heaven (20 page)

Zofia allows him in and fills a bowl with water, and a second bowl with sesame seeds. The pigeon hops in circles, bobs its head, and swoops on the seeds as Zofia walks to the dining room, to the upright wireless. She switches it on to her favourite program, the community singalong on radio station 3DB, with John Stuart and Dick Cranbourne and their singalong choir. She joins in, and sings with them, ‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling', then returns to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

The pigeon has made itself at home, feathers rustling, expanding, as it preens, pink beak pecking, eyes alert, intelligent eyes that scan the room. And the pipes, the pipes are still calling, ‘From glen to glen and down the mountainside', as it flies towards the light globe. The cord sways as it momentarily perches, before swooping down to the mantelpiece, and up to the top of the kitchen door. Zofia follows its flight; then allows it to settle on her shoulders, and accompany her as she completes her chores.

And four blocks distant, Josh is walking home from school. He cuts through the back lane, from O'Grady Street to Curtain Square, where the Terrier and his gang are on their beat and, before he can run, they are upon him, pushing and elbowing and wrestling him to the ground. Josh smells the damp earth and crushed grass. He watches ants lugging booty to their queen. One ant is struggling with its heavy load, and Josh is absorbed by its capacity to work, while the three boys are holding his head to the dirt. ‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”,' they chant.

Josh punches and kicks, but his elementary boxing skills are of no use. All he can do is hold his breath as the boys rub his face into the dirt. ‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”.' He gazes at minute grains of disturbed earth. He keeps his eyes on the ants that have been sent scurrying in all directions by this rude interruption to their work. He squirms and bucks, and when he finally twists himself onto his back he looks up at trees, through their bare branches, and desolate twigs, at an infinity of skies.

‘Kiss the ground and say “I killed Jesus”…' The chant fades, and even though his body is pinned to the ground, for a moment, Josh's mind takes flight, and he returns to the fray with restored vigour and claws and elbows his way to his knees, onto his feet, and wrenches himself free. The sun disappears, the skies vanish beneath a veil of greys, and as he runs he rejoices in his speed.

But the fear is greater, and he races from the square to Fenwick Street where he dodges Waislitz, the walking windmill, who is returning home from Posner's. And he continues his run past the corner pub where the girls are chanting ‘You owe me a penny, when will you pay me'. And he veers into the back lane, flings open the back gate, and enters breathless into the kitchen where Cranbourne and Stuart are singing ‘Farewell to old England forever'.

Zofia observes the bruise on his forehead, the tear in his trousers, the whiteness of his face; and understands.

She turns off the stove, switches off the radio, grabs his hand, and stalks out to do battle. ‘
Ikh bin a kempfer
, I am a fighter,' she says. A pre-war youth delegate to the Seamstress Union, a veteran of May Day processions through the streets of Krakow, she strides along Canning Street, shoulders erect, head held high, two blocks west to the Terrier's house, with Josh reluctantly in tow. She flings the gate open, climbs the steps, clasps the doorknocker and brings it down with a resounding crash.

The door shudders. Josh cringes. ‘I can take care of myself,' he says. But Zofia brings the knocker down again and again until the door is cautiously opened and a wary face peers out.

‘Your boy called my boy a killer of Christ.' Zofia comes straight to the point.

‘What are you talkin' about?' says Mrs Lewis.

‘Your boy shouldn't do this.'

‘How d'you know my boy did it?'

‘He shouldn't do it,' Zofia repeats.

‘I don't know what you're bloody talkin' about,' says Mrs Lewis.

Josh tries to pull Zofia away, but she stands her ground.

‘We had enough of this in Poland.'

‘What's Poland got to do with me?'

‘Your boy and his friends are hoodlums,' says Zofia.

‘Mind your own bloody business,' snaps Mrs Lewis.

‘Tell your boy to stay away from mine,' says Zofia.

‘Your boy should take bloody care of himself,' retorts Mrs Lewis, and she slams the door.

Zofia lifts the knocker; her lips are pursed, her teeth gritted. Again Josh tugs at her arm. ‘Next time, fight back,' she tells him as she lets go. ‘
Azoi iz es umetum
. That is how it is everywhere. Even here, in all our black years.' Her eyes are angry, mistrustful, and Josh breaks away. He runs to Sutton Street, cuts through the vacant lot, over a muddy path between sodden grass, and glances up at the palm. Its fronds are billowing in the rising winds and, as he pushes open the gate to the gym, the rain that has been threatening all day breaks out.

The drops gather speed, and soon they are hurtling down. They fill the drains and the potholes. They wipe away the stain of bird dung, the chalked boundaries of hopscotch courts. The drains are overflowing, the gutter procession is well under way: a froth of cigarette butts and twigs, shreds of newspaper, poplar leaves, and the dislodged refuse of choked eaves, conveyed upon a foaming stream.

And Bloomfield slinks through the streets with his rainwalk gait. His body is low, bent at the knees. His shoulders are pulled in tight. He unfurls an umbrella, but his socks remain damp. The rain is slanted by a westerly wind. It spatters his face, but Bloomfield does not care. He is intent on listening. He knows the symphony well. He discerns the individual tones of rain upon tin, timber and tiles, slate and galvanised iron. He knows the slap of rain against roof and lawn, bitumen and stone, and he detects an unfamiliar tone. He follows the sound to its source, and sees a sheet of glass leaning beside a front door. The rain is a staccato rattle against the pane, and Bloomfield continues his circling through familiar streets and lanes.

He pauses to watch passengers alight from the Lygon Street tram. Among them is Romek, who steps off where he had stepped on twelve hours earlier, clutching his
tchemodan
. The rain is a spray of gold in the reflected light of streetlamps. The gutter streams continue to rise, the Rathdowne Street bus swishes by, and the spray splashes his
tchemodan
. The six o'clock crowds are spilling out of the pub. Romek forges a path through the stumbling drinkers and turns into the back lane. Even now, another couplet is forming: From back lane, back to back lane / The water lies stagnant against a blocked drain.

Romek cannot help but allow his nagging Muses full rein.

And one block south, as the crow flies, up one flight of stairs, through a trapdoor, and into an upper room, Josh jabs and hooks, rips and uppercuts, and daydreams epic battles in which he takes on the Terrier's gang. He dispatches them, one by one. They sprawl on the ground gripping their heads, clutching their jaws. The rain is pouring, and droplets are dripping through chinks in the slate. They slide along the ceiling beams, as Josh punches to the rhythm of the drip-drip-drip upon the canvas floor.

Logan moves to his side. ‘Slow down. Take it easy. You're punching blind.' He senses Josh's anger, as he senses it in many of his boys. ‘You have to be willing to work,' he says. ‘Boxing is ninety per cent conditioning. It's no good knowing anything unless you're fit. Yeah. If you don't run an' skip you may as well give up. It takes a lot to get up there,' he says, pointing to the ring. ‘You need dedication to be a fighter, an' a lot of nerve.

‘Copy me an' I'll take you through the basic moves. The legs are as important as the hands. Footwork an' handwork, in tandem, that's the key to success. Get in the right position, only then you are ready to punch. Yeah. Now move in close, throw a straight left, a right cross. Move back, then come in close for body rips, a right hook. Now try these moves out on the punching bag, but before you begin, get your feet in position. Get the foundation right.'

Josh adjusts his stance, and boxes with greater thought. He names each punch as it lands. ‘Uppercut. Right cross. Right hook. Straight left.' The bag shudders with each blow, its leather is cool when he clutches it to his chest. His body feels light and loose. He glances at Logan, who keeps an eye on him as he prepares to lock up. All is reduced to the thwack, thwack of Josh's fists, the squeak of his runners on the boards, the clatter of rain upon the roof.

‘That's it for tonight,' says Logan, interrupting Josh, mid-flight. ‘We're finishing early. I've got tickets for the Bracken– Carlos title fight. It's a full fifteen-rounder. You'll learn more about boxing in an hour than in many weeks of useless pounding. I have a pass to the dressing rooms. We can call in on Kid Young an' see Bracken before the fight.'

The stadium stands on the city's western flanks, where night is a shade darker, and the streets a shade more in disrepair
.
It sprawls an entire block, bound by red brick warehouses, low-slung buildings, railyards and bridges. Logan and Josh are trotting towards it, along with the excited crowd. They hurry from trains and trams, taxis and limousines, or foot-slog it from parked cars. There are big shots in fedoras and working men in shabby suits, celebrities and jockeys, politicians and undertakers, old-timers in step with migrants, the creme de la creme alongside back lane punters, descending on the cavernous barn.

The tickets booths are closed, all 7000 seats have been sold, and scalpers are preying upon those who had missed out. They are besieged by desperate patrons waving bundles of notes. Logan ushers Josh into the hall. Punters are climbing up to the bleachers, others are settling back in the stalls, or positioning themselves against far walls. Josh is impressed by the vastness, the vaulting girders and raw wood floors. His gaze is drawn to the ceiling lights that pour down upon a raised platform, enclosed by steel posts and ropes. The preliminary fights are on. The boxers' faces are a ghostly white. Even from a distance Josh can see the dry blood under the eye of a fighter in the glare of ring-lights. He follows Logan down a flight of stairs into a warren of brick tunnels to the dressing rooms.

Bracken's hands are being taped. Reporters are sniffing out seconds, scavenging pre-fight gossip, last-minute tips. Kid Young greets Logan with a familiar nod, but Young is too preoccupied to stop and chat. Bracken is now up and jogging, weaving and feinting, jabbing taped fists at mirrors, shadow-boxing. Josh is overwhelmed by the heat and excited talk, by men who jostle and joke. The talk is spiralling louder, cigarette smoke curling higher, and Kid Young abruptly orders all hangers-on out.

Logan and Josh take their privileged seats, half a dozen rows back from the ring, among a fraternity of boxers and trainers, and those with a passport to ringside by virtue of their wealth. Money has got them a seat by the bullpit, alongside comperes at their radio mikes, reporters at their notepads, and a sprinkling of perfumed women squired by celebrity mates. Logan is shaking hands with long-time companions, catching up on the latest news, the illness of a colleague, a hot tip about a future champ. Josh catches snippets of heated exchanges, predictions, a discordant chorus of claims and counterclaims, accompanied by the incessant patter of rain.

‘This should be a great fight,' says Logan, as they settle back. ‘Bracken's got more venom in his punch, but Carlos is smarter; and he's got the better defence. Watch out for his rapier left, though he lacks a steadying right. He didn't need it last year when he beat Bracken on points, but Bracken's improved since then. Yeah. He's got more ring sense now, an' a five-inch reach advantage. When you weigh it up, the boys are evenly matched.'

To prove his point, he unfolds a page of the
Sporting Globe
where the charts are laid out with measurements of comparative height and weight, the width of forearms, necks, biceps and wrists, chests and waists, thighs, ankles and calves. Pound for pound, flesh against flesh, meat pitted against meat, the two fighters could be twins, except that Bracken is a blackfella and Carlos lily-white.

The fighters are making their way to the ring. They thread their way through separate aisles, draped in dressing gowns and towels. ‘This is where a fighter feels the fear,' says Logan. ‘This is when the nerves get 'em. They know there is no going back. I've seen kids train for years, but as soon as it's time to fight, they disappear. An' I've seen the boasters. Yeah. As soon as it's their first real bout, they forget everything they've been taught. It takes a lot of nerve for a kid to fight.'

Logan's eyes narrow. ‘You have to blot everything out,' he continues. ‘All your doubts, your debts, last night's blue with the wife. You only think of one thing, “I'm going to win.” This is what the best of them feel. They transform their nerves into power. Yeah. That's all a boxer should feel. You have to keep moving to tame the fear. You listen to the instructions of the trainers, but you can hardly hear 'em. In the ring there is no confusion. It's all marked out. You can only run as far as the ropes. It's simple. All it comes down to is just one thought, “I'm going to win. Nothing and no one can stop me. I'm going to win.”'

The boxers return to their corners, Carlos to the red, Bracken to the white. They sit back on their stools for final instructions, quick rubdowns. Their corners are cleared. All eyes are upon them, from the far-flung reaches of the barn, from the bleachers, the stage, the balcony and stalls, focused in the semi-darkness upon a circle of light, perfectly placed.

Logan leans forward. He is neatly dressed, cleanly shaven. His thinning hair is brylcreemed, brushed back. He takes out his comb to smooth it. Away from the gym Josh sees him with renewed clarity. His movements are crisp, self-contained. He exudes vitality and muscular presence. The codes he lives by are clearly defined. He has strength of mind, tautness of body. He moves through his known territories with ease. He is native born, fully grounded, not an emigre from remote lands. And he loves a good fight.