‘Never heard of the bloody place.’ Dan shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve been all over this country and no one ever told me about this place.’
‘Let’s get you ready for bed, old man.’ Barney puts a gentle hand on his father’s shoulder.
Dan yawns an agreement. The video images falter, the screen goes black and disintegrates into static.
As he gets up, Dan turns a wrinkled, mischievous face towards us. ‘I saw the first part of the video. Afraid I did not find it very erotic.’ He laughs as he shuffles towards his bedroom. For the first time in a long time I see Barney blush.
•
The days rush by but I am conscious of every passing minute. Between them Dan and Barney are making decisions, tying up loose ends. Dan does not own very much but what he has is going to his son. It’s the music that matters most. To both of them.
Barney reacquaints himself with his old hometown as he completes chores, paying his father’s final rent, organising the funeral. He remains warm and considerate of me, especially when we are alone, but his concentration is fully on his father. I understand — or rather, I try to understand — and step to the sidelines. On the eve of his father’s death, Barney has a sleepless night, sitting very still on the balcony, watching the moon. I wake up four or five times during the night and each time see that he is lost in a place so unimaginably far away that I cannot be there with him. I fall quickly back to sleep. In my dreams I hear him praying.
From early morning the small house fills up with people. Men and women, some young, but mostly around Dan’s age, come and go, bidding him farewell. The whole day Dan is beaming, drinking whisky and, for the first time since his immune system started to collapse, smoking the odd cigarette. Barney gets drunk quickly but he remains attentive to Dan; his main task is to keep the turntable spinning. A cornucopia of music is played this day. I keep registering favourite songs, and I recognise tunes and melodies I can’t put a name to.
I am introduced to dozens of people but I am only aware of Barney. I watch him all day, watch how he interacts with Dan. Sheila arrives in the afternoon and she pours drink after drink for me. From time to time she breaks down and cries, and someone close will put their arm around her. The conversation is lively, many stories are exchanged about Dan, and every new arrival brings more to drink. At one point Dan puts the Bonegilla video on and I face the embarrassment of a roomful of strangers watching me ejaculate when he rewinds back too far. There are squeals of laughter. As the camp footage begins, Barney comes over and takes my hand. He is trembling. After it is over, people come up and ask about Bonegilla. I’m drunk enough to make it up as I go.
Dan catches me at it and hugs me spontaneously. ‘You Greeks are like the friggin’ Irish,’ he raves loudly. ‘Born bullshitters.’ He drops his arm awkwardly then whispers close to my ear, so Barney can’t hear: ‘Look after my son. He’s got too much of me and not enough of his mum in him.’
At night’s fall the guests leave. All except for Sheila, Stanley and Katerina. Sheila and I cook a light dinner for everyone, and we eat our green salad and nachos sitting around in a circle. I want to remember a certain moment: Barney lying across Sheila’s lap, his leg entwined in mine, Dan nodding along as Katerina plays African music on the stereo.
‘I never did get to Soweto.’ Dan taps his fingers to the music. Barney and I sit silent as the older people talk about the past, about what Surry Hills was like before the yuppies and the gays took over.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Stanley,’ Dan says quickly, but looking over at me, ‘there were always poofters around here, but they didn’t used to have money.’
Katerina talks about coming to Australia, about the dullness of the conservative fashions, and how odd it seemed that people did not go out at night. Sheila nods and then moves the conversation on to Whitlam. Labor in government. Feminism. Dan butts in and soon there is a heated argument. Sheila calls him an irresponsible bludger and he calls her an ideologue. They curse expertly at each other, but again there is the weird absence of bitterness or anger. Tonight I can imagine them having once been in love.
After a break in conversation filled only by the bass-enhanced tribal rhythms bouncing from the speakers, Barney asks Dan to name his desert island discs.
Dan leans forward. ‘How many can I choose?’
‘Five.’
‘Individual songs or albums?’
‘Either.’
There is a pause. ‘This is it, Danny Boy, the final list,’ says Stanley quietly.
‘The White Album.’ This is said firmly. I find myself waiting eagerly for his next words.
‘“Good Year for the Roses”, the George Jones version.’
‘Of course,’ groans Sheila.
‘Highway 61 Revisited.’
‘Sixties child,’ Barney teases.
‘And proud of it,’ responds Sheila.
‘Shh,’ interrupts Stanley. ‘Go on, Dan.’
‘“Runaround Sue”, “Sweet Jane”, the Street Hassle album, “God Bless the Child”, “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long”, “Solsbury Hill”.’ A whole chain of songs is rattled off. ‘And that one rap song I like; you used to have it, Barney.’ Dan starts chanting the rap.
‘“The Message”.’ Barney shakes his head. ‘Dad, you can only have five.’
‘Never was good with limits,’ chuckles Dan.
‘How about films?’ I interject. ‘What about your desert island films?’ All eyes are on me.
‘That’s easy. The Godfather, Medium Cool, Paths of Glory, The Wild Bunch and Rosemary’s Baby.’
Barney laughs. ‘Dad, that list hasn’t changed for over twenty years.’
Dan yawns and the room goes very quiet. Stanley stands up and from his jacket pulls out a small paper bundle. An elastic band is folded around a paper bag and its contents. He leaves the bundle on the table. Katerina rises as well. She is crying. So is Sheila. Barney is looking down at his feet but I can tell he is frightened. So am I. Dan walks Stanley and Katerina out to the front verandah. The night has exhausted him: they both support him. Sheila opens the package on the table. There is a syringe and a small plastic bag of powder. Sheila lights a candle and begins to prepare a solution of the powder. I am holding my breath.
‘You don’t have to do that.’ Dan stands in the doorway; Stanley has a thick arm around him. Dan looks tiny. He looks frightened as well. And — maybe because of the fear — he looks years younger.
Sheila smiles sadly. ‘I don’t mind. I can’t believe I can still remember how to do this.’ She looks up at Stanley.
‘Best friend.’ His voice cracks, falls into a sob.
Sheila has mixed the solution in a small glass bowl and she holds it over the candle a few moments. She pulls back the plunger and fills the syringe.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Her tone is surprisingly matter-of-fact.
Dan nods his head.
She looks down at her son. ‘Are you ready, baby?’ she asks softly.
Barney gets to his feet. Dan hugs me, kisses me on the lips, and I watch the four of them walk down the corridor to Dan’s bedroom. I remain standing in the doorway. The bedroom door shuts. The night is humming wildly in my ears. Time is suspended.
When the door finally opens again, Barney rushes out sobbing and falls on me. I hold him tight. It is not as if he is crying exactly; rather, sorrow is pouring out of him, from every heaving breath, from every lacerating tear. The warm lounge room is suddenly freezing and the only heat comes from the place where our bodies touch. I strengthen my hold on him. I’m scared that if I let go, not only the room, not only this city, but the whole world will go cold forever.