Beneath the Southern Cross (55 page)

That was when Artie had interrupted. ‘Excuse me,' he said, ‘you've given the lady the wrong change.'

The shop was fairly crowded and Artie had stood at the back, the man had not even seen him.

Another dago, the butcher thought, and he gave a dismissive shrug to the Australian customers, most of whom were thinking the same thing. They all looked at Maria and Artie. ‘Wog.' It was written on their faces. ‘Dago.' ‘Go home to your own country,' their eyes were saying.

Without a word of apology, the butcher handed over the correct change, and Maria, flushed with embarrassment, fled from the shop.

She wished Artie hadn't done that. She'd always hated going to the butcher's shop, and for a long time now she had suspected him of giving her the wrong change. She never counted her money in public, it took too long and people would know that she had trouble with Australian money. But when she got home, she
meticulously counted every penny of her housekeeping allowance, and always she found less than she had expected. She was sure it wouldn't be the Italian shopkeepers, it had to be the butcher who was robbing her, but she would rather die than draw attention to herself by pointing out any error. Now Artie had done so, and she could never go back to the butcher's shop again. What would she do? Where would she buy their meat? What would she tell Luigi? She eventually solved the problem by finding another butcher's shop, seven blocks away.

‘You must learn English,' Artie continued to urge. ‘I will teach you.'

She tried. As hard as she could. But the lessons were stressful, she did not have a natural ear, and English was such a difficult language.

Although her progress was slow, one major benefit resulted from Maria's weekly English lessons with Artie. She talked to him. Finally, she had a confidant.

It had been so bad at one time, she said, that she'd contemplated ending it all. ‘An accident,' she told him, ‘just an accident, God couldn't blame me for that. I could trip in the street, and I could fall under a tram, it could happen to anyone. I knew deep down that of course God would know, but my husband would not. Nor his friends. He could hold his head high at my funeral, he could grieve with dignity if it was an accident.'

‘Why didn't you do it?'

‘I thought I might be with child,' she said. ‘They examine you when you are dead and, even if it was an accident, Luigi would hate me for killing his child. And he would be right to do so. He brings me to this country to be his wife and to give him children, and I do something terrible like that. Oh no,' she shuddered, ‘Luigi would never forgive me. And neither would God.'

Artie tried to broach the subject with Luigi. He knew he was interfering, but he couldn't help himself.

‘I think Maria is lonely,' he said one night at the Cafe Francatelli over a glass of wine. He rarely accepted Luigi's invitations to join him at the Cafe Francatelli, one of the older, more well-established Italian haunts where an illicitdrink could always be bought. A favourite meeting place for bachelors, young men gathered outside the cafe doors to ogle and make gestures at the women passing in the street.
They meant no harm, Artie knew, but it was the sort of behaviour which gave Italians a bad name. And the cafe itself he found claustrophobic. Too many Italians trying to create their own little Italy, he thought. But tonight he wanted to talk about Maria's problem and Luigi's home was not the right place, there he was too much a king in his castle. For a subject as delicate as Maria's loneliness, Artie needed surroundings which were a little more impersonal.

‘Lonely?' Luigi scoffed. ‘No, no, she enjoys her own company, she tells me so.'

‘She's saying what she thinks you want to hear, Luigi.' Artie knew he was treading on dangerous ground. ‘She needs help.'

Artie was right. It was dangerous ground.

‘She needs help? Hah!' Luigi scoffed. ‘Maria has it easy, believe me my friend. And if she does not wish to help herself, so be it. She can stay at home and be a good wife and mother.'

Luigi tossed back the remnants of his red wine and picked up the bottle to pour himself another glass. The flash of irritation he'd felt at Artie's interference had passed in an instant. Arturo knew no better, he told himself. Arturo was ignorant. He had been in Sydney for how many months?

‘Arturo,' he said, filling his glass and topping up Artie's. ‘I have been in this city for more than fifteen years. I have nothing when I come here. No family, no friends, no home, I speak no English. Maria, she has everything. Ahome, a husband, a family, more money than she would ever have known back in her village.'

Artie knew that he'd overstepped the mark. Luigi had taken his comments as a criticism upon his marriage and such a criticism to a man like Luigi was inexcusable. Fortunately, however, the man's basic good nature had won over. Artie was being forgiven on the grounds of his youth and ignorance, he realised. Wisely, he kept quiet and listened.

‘I will tell you a story, Arturo,' Luigi said. He took a large swig of his wine and settled back in his chair. ‘I was interned during the war. They were hard times for Italians in Sydney, the Government, they think we are all Fascists. Or Nazis. Or Communists. Or all of these things together. I appeal against this imprisonment. Me and many of my friends appeal, and at the Aliens Tribunal hearings we are all cross-examined by lawyers. Smart men, you know?

‘One of my friends, Gaetano, a shopkeeper, he have some
pamphlets from the Fascist Club. He is not a Fascist himself, but his brother-in-law is, and he keeps sending Gaetano these pamphlets. They are addressed to him “Caro Camarata”. Gaetano is not interested, he throws them away or they lie around in his shop, who cares? And when his brother-in-law visits and they have coffee in his shop, Gaetano tells him “we don't talk about politics, I am not interested”. So they don't.

‘But the smart men, the lawyers, they don't believe this. “You are a member of the Fascist Party,” they tell him, “you are a ‘comrade'. ‘Caro Camarata', this mean ‘Dear Comrade',” they say. Gaetano, he tells them that it means “Dear Brother”.

“‘He address the pamphlets to me ‘Dear Brother',” Gaetano says. “He is my brother-in-law. My family”.

“‘If you do not agree with his politics,” the smart lawyers say, “why do you have coffee with him in your shop?”

“‘Because he is my brother-in-law,” Gaetano says. “He is my family.”

‘The Australians do not understand, you see?' Luigi gave an expressive shrug. ‘They do not understand about family. They do not understand our tradition, that family is important above all else. So Gaetano goes back to the camp for the rest of the war. It is not fair.'

Artie agreed.

‘Maria, she has the most important thing in the world, right here in Sydney, Arturo,' Luigi said. ‘She has family. She has tradition.'

Artie couldn't disagree with that. They toasted to ‘famiglia' and finished the bottle, and Artie never broached the subject again.

But he thought a great deal about it over the ensuing months. The unarguable values of family and tradition aside, the Italians were going about things the wrong way. As were the Australians. Both sides must make allowances. Luigi and his ilk were deceiving themselves by adhering so strictly to tradition, by trying to recreate their village lifestyle in a country so foreign. And the Australians were being unrealistic in expecting the Italians to cast aside their customs and attitudes, their language and culture, indeed their very heritage in order to ‘assimilate'.

Artie left his job at Luigi's pastry shop in early 1952 to work for
La Fiamma
, the Italian newspaper whose headquarters were in Leichhardt, and he shifted into a small inner-city bachelor flat,
catching the tram to work each morning. His parting with Luigi was most amicable and he promised to visit them often.

‘You must keep up your English lessons, Maria,' he said as he embraced her. She nodded, but he knew it was unlikely that she would.

After several of his articles on Italian integration were published by
La Fiamma
, Artie's typesetting and editing duties soon included regular reportage, and in July he was sent to Bonegilla for two days to cover the riot there.

Two thousand Italians had rioted against the camp conditions, the lack of work, and most importantly, the lack of assistance in finding it. Artie was proud of his fellow countrymen for standing up for their rights in this new country, but he feared that such an approach would not find much favour with the Australians.

Whilst he worked hard to enlighten migrants about their rights, in his private life Artiedistanced himself from the closed community of Italians. He enrolled in an advanced English course at night school and, during his free hours, frequented Australian pubs and cafes.

At first he sat quietly, not wishing to be noticed, just absorbing the atmosphere. Sometimes he was aware of animosity, and could even hear the odd mutterings. ‘What's he doing here? Why doesn't he go to one of the dago hangouts?' Occasionally, however, he found the Australians surprisingly welcoming. One night he was at the Hero of Waterloo, a tough pub in the Rocks where they were accustomed to foreigners. Many sailors drank at the Hero of Waterloo. Four Aussies were clustered at the end of the bar. ‘Come and have a beer, mate,' one of them said.

‘Thank you.' Artie joined them.

‘Bob's the name,' his new friend said, offering his hand.

‘Artie.'

‘Work on the site, do you, Artie?' Bob asked. The bloke didn't look like a labourer, but there were a lot of dagos working on the nearby building site, maybe he was one of the bosses.

‘No, I work for
La Fiamma
.'

‘Oh.'

‘It is an Italian newspaper.'

‘Right.' It didn't create much interest, and the four Australians talked amongst themselves, Artie trying to follow the conversation without success. It was mainly about horse racing and football.

Another beer was placed in front of him.

‘Thank you,' he said.

Then, ten minutes later, another. When a fourth arrived, Artie shook his head.

‘Come on, mate, drink up,' the man insisted. Apparently it was impolite not to, so Artie did, sipping slowly, the taste now sour on his tongue.

Fifteen minutes went by. There was a lull in the conversation it seemed, although Artie had given up trying to follow it.

Then, ‘Your shout, mate,' one of the Aussies said.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Another beer, mate,' the man tapped his empty glass on the bar. ‘It's your shout.' All four empty glasses sat tellingly on the bar, but Artie didn't get the point.

‘No, thank you,' he said. He had to go home, he wasn't feeling very well.

‘It's your bloody shout, you dago bludger,' the man said belligerently, squaring up to Artie.

Artie stared at him blankly. Something was expected of him, but what?

It was starting to look ugly when Bob stepped in. ‘Give him a break, Knocker, he doesn't understand.'

Bob explained the situation to Artie. ‘We go by rounds here, mate. It's your shout, see? Your turn to buy.'

Embarrassed, Artie bought a round of beers and left ten minutes later, but it had been an education. There were many lessons to be learned, particularly of Australian men and their drinking habits.

Over time, Artie gradually discovered the places where the conversation was at its most stimulating and where he would be accepted. Indeed, where anyone could be accepted. He discovered the bohemian circle of Sydney.

Amongst the eclectic mixture of artists, down-and-out writers, actors, journalists and general layabouts, there were two principal groups. The Push—colourfully garbed and outrageous, the Push drank heavily, played musical instruments, discussed literature and read each other's poetry—and the Libertarians. More drab of dress and less aesthetically inclined than the Push, the Libertarians were more intense and, for the most part, politically motivated.

Artie wasn't sure as to the true value of either; there seemed to
be a lot of talk and very little action. Their conversation, however, was stimulating and, better still, no-one cared that he was Italian. They were only too happy to listen to his views, to discuss, argue and endlessly debate with him. Artie liked that.

There was another thing the Push and the Libertarians had in common—they were sexually promiscuous. In fact, sexual promiscuity seemed a prerequisite.

Artie loved women, and it had been a long time. He'd visited a brothel on his arrival in Sydney, but he didn't like brothels. In brothels, conversation was limited and, to Artie, conversation with a good-looking woman was part of the lovemaking process. Now, amongst the women of the Push and the Libertarians, Artie was offered a smorgasbord of conversation and sex, and he was only too happy to participate in both.

He found it a little disconcerting, however, that the women appeared interested only in one-night stands. Some even preferred to remainnameless, which seemed to Artie a very clinical and detached method of engaging in a practice as intimate as love making. But it was the women's standard approach that he found most unsettling of all.

‘Let's fuck,' a woman would say after they'd engaged in passionate discussion for an hour or so. ‘Your place or mine?'

It always came as a shock to Artie. Not only the obscenity, but the usurping of his masculine prerogative. Couldn't the woman have waited for him to seduce her?

And when, after they'd made love, he'd try to arrange to meet her the following day, she'd become evasive. And when he saw her again at one of the regular hangouts, she'd be in earnest discussion with her next conquest. The pattern became somewhat predictable and Artie found itdisappointing, but he supposed he shouldn't complain, not whilst conversation and sex were so plentiful.