Brothers & Sisters - Charlotte Wood [96]
‘You think that’s something to be proud of, do you? It’s not. You should be fucking ashamed!’
Dawn’s voice was brutal and disapproving. Saverio had looked over to his brother, wanting Leo to save him from the ferocity of her contempt, but Leo had made no reply. It was a ghastly moment, one of those times when all other conversation had ceased and everyone seemed to be turned towards him. That could just be memory playing a trick, of course—probably no one else at the party really gave a damn. But he did not make up Leo’s silence. Leo had not defended him.
‘Dawn, I’ve been looking for work for ages, since completing my degree—’
She hadn’t let him finish. It was what he remembered most about Leo’s friends: the surety of their beliefs, the passion and the hostility.
‘Shell supports the apartheid state in South Africa. You want to be part of that?’
No, I want a job. They interviewed me, have given me a graduate position—I’ve been trying for months. But that wouldn’t do for Dawn and he had said nothing. She had stepped closer to him, and the vehemence in her eyes had startled him. She felt it so strongly. She wasn’t even black.
‘Don’t take the job.’
‘What?’ He had been astounded. ‘Of course I’m taking the job.’
He had thought she was going to spit on him but instead she had turned around and dismissed him with a guttural, vicious grunt of disgust.
From Leo there had been no word of congratulations, no questions about the job, what he would be doing, when he would be starting.
‘She’s right. You shouldn’t take the job.’ Then Leo had walked off to whisper and laugh and joke with his friends.
Saverio slammed his suitcase onto the bed. It had been over thirty years ago but the recollection of it still rankled, still filled him with impotent fury. He stared around the room. Every spare inch of wall seemed to be filled with canvases, and if not paintings, then photographs. Polaroids, cheap travel shots with florid colours, artistic black and white prints. Framed photos were crammed onto the bureau and bedside table. A stack of Leo’s paintings was resting against the far wall, under a framed Aboriginal Land Rights poster that Saverio remembered from the early eighties. The photographs were of Leo and his friends. Leo in Hanoi and Paris and Mexico City. Leo and Dawn in Cuba. Leo and Tom Jords wearing pink T-shirts emblazoned with a black Women’s Liberation fist at Mardi Gras. On the small table there was an old black and white photograph of their mother, when she was a young girl in Rome, her face sullen as she braved the camera. Of Saverio and their father there was nothing at all, not one snapshot. He shouldn’t have come. Leo’s true family had been the men and women now laughing and swapping reminiscences on the verandah outside.
There was a muffled, ‘Can I come in?’, and Saverio swung around. Julian was holding out a glass of wine with an apologetic smile. Saverio took it and gestured for Julian to come in.
‘You should be the one sleeping in here,’ Saverio said quietly.
Julian laughed and shook his head. ‘It’s fine. The old gang are going to sleep on mattresses and sleeping bags on the living-room floor. We’ll probably keep you awake with our drunken raves.’ Julian’s brow suddenly squashed into a frown. ‘Unless you prefer not to sleep in . . .’
‘No, no, that’s fine. Thanks—it’s kind of you.’
Saverio was not frightened of Leo’s ghost. They had that