Brothers & Sisters - Charlotte Wood [94]
He started at a tap on the window. Julian’s cheery tanned face was smiling down at him—some grey stubble on the chin, the buzz-cut hair speckled salt-white at the temples, but his skin still smooth and his shining eyes still youthful. Julian opened the door and the two men hugged awkwardly. Saverio couldn’t help thinking, What are we to each other? Not really friends—ex in-laws? Was there a new language, as yet undiscovered by himself and Rachel, that covered such relationships? He was relieved when Julian stepped back.
Within the first half hour Saverio deeply regretted that he had come. He was sure he wasn’t imagining the suspicion and disapproval directed towards him. He wished only Julian was there—he alone seemed to bear him no ill-will. The others he had not seen for decades. Hannah Wiszler, who used to wear workers’ overalls and shave her head, was now a journalist at the ABC; Siobhan F, who had dropped a surname in the late seventies when she was sixteen and was playing electric guitar in a three-piece called Penis Envy, was now a doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières. Dimitri Alexandropoulos he knew of, a playwright and scriptwriter; Ben Franks was a noted visual artist; Dawn Sallford was a parliamentary secretary, and Tom Jords was still a poet and still a drunk. They all had to be reminded of his name and none of them were the slightest bit interested in him or his life. Saverio took the wine offered to him by Julian and sat on the top step of the verandah listening in to them, their reminiscences of Leo. Leo at university, Leo at protests, Leo as an artist, Leo’s jokes, Leo’s witticisms, Leo’s insults. ‘Wasn’t he fabulous?’ That was Dawn Sallford, her voice raspy from the cigarettes she still chain-smoked. You’ll be dead soon as well, Saverio couldn’t help thinking. He hated himself for descending into the pettiness of the past, instantly transforming back into the unconfident, awkward older brother who never knew the right books to read, the right films to quote, the right music to have in his collection. They had all been so erudite, so opinionated, so intelligent. Even their father, who had detested the effeminacy and pretentiousness of Leo’s university friends, had reluctantly granted them that: ‘They’re smart,’ he used to spit out. ‘That’s all they are.’
Dawn was launching into another story about Leo, some political meeting which had bored them both and in which she had dared him to strip naked. It seemed that Leo had taken the dare, had stood up in the middle of the room and begun to undress. Dawn was elaborating on the story, the rollie in her hand swinging wildly as the tale unfolded.
‘And I’m going, Dah-dah-DAH dah-dah-DAH Dah-dah-dah-DAH—you know, that frigging strippers’ music—and Leo is down to his jocks and he pulls them off and throws them at the facilitator, who was this dumb-fuck po-faced Stalinist who bored you shitless with quotes from Lenin and deadshits like that.’ Except for Saverio, everyone was laughing, Dawn so hard that she couldn’t continue.
‘And then? What else happened?’ Julian’s face was eager, expectant. For Christ’s sake, Saverio thought, he must have heard this story, must have been bored by it a hundred times already. But no, he was like a child anticipating his favourite moment from a well-loved storybook. He was so young compared to them all, at least ten years younger than Leo.
‘Come on, Dawn,’ said Julian, ‘tell us. What was so funny?’
Dawn straightened up, sniffed,