Behind the Moon (28 page)

When Tien reflected on her marriage to Stan, she couldn’t help feeling that it was doomed from the start. It didn’t last because the Gibsons and Cheongs were absent. They had been so much a part of her life, so much a part of her, that huge chunks were missing from her marriage. Stan wasn’t blameless by any means, but neither was she. When she went to the United States, she thought she was finally making that journey over the rainbow. She would be happy at last. Then she discovered that she hadn’t landed in Oz after all because she didn’t have the Scarecrow and Tinman and Cowardly Lion with her, and what use was Oz without her friends?

She was still trying to drum up the courage to return to Sydney to face the disapproval of her relatives over her failed marriage when she received a call from her mother just after the new year. Justin had been bashed up at Tamarama Beach and was in hospital requiring twentyfour hour care. Tien wrote a brief letter to Stan explaining what had happened, slipped it into an envelope together with all the outstanding bills, packed her life into a suitcase and caught the first available flight back to Sydney.

A Craving for Potatoes

He said: ‘Your heart cares not for what I feel— so long you’ve let love’s fire burn to cold ash.

Sorrow and yearning I have felt by turns . . .’

Nguyen Du,
The Tale of Kieu

After the Dead Diana Dinner Justin dyed his hair blond, honed his six-pack and tanned himself in solariums. The urge to reinvent himself was irresistible. He wanted to wipe away the first twenty-one years of his life and start afresh. He became a Europhile. He learned to make his own pasta and cooked it to al dente perfection. He went to the opera and ballet with Dirk and started basic German classes at the Goethe Institute.

He did not realise it, but he was like Tien in his desire to migrate away from the west. He wanted to move upwards into the casual cool of inner-city cosmopolitan life. He longed to inhabit the sphere of the cultural elites so sneered at and damned by talkback shock jocks and right-wing newspaper whingers. Here was safety, security, the selfassured articulation of opinions and the ability to fight back with words. Here was the subtle exercise of social power and prestige—defending not only himself, but advancing the various causes of the less fortunate; and yes, he suddenly realised they were out there. Here, ultimately, was the possibility of happiness. He need never feel uneasily inferior again if only he could truly belong in trendy Balmain.

He realised that Jordie was a mistake. He wanted to shake himself free from all Asians. He could still hear the loud-voiced condemnation of his uncles and aunts at the last Chinese new year lunch at Auntie Isabelle’s when he’d defiantly announced that he was gay. His father looked away, ashamed.

‘
Hi-yah
!’ his mother exclaimed. ‘Why you have to go and tell everybody?’

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Isabelle, his mother’s older sister, warned. ‘You spoil my lunch, I cong you on the head! Then you know.’

But his relatives were not to be so easily quelled. Curiosity spurred them on. They discussed him with scant regard for his feelings.

‘What do you mean he is homosexual? Cannot be
lah
! He never act sissy or walk like a woman.’

‘Jay, get up and show us how you walk,
lor
.’

‘Maybe he is the boy and not the girl? Jay, do they have boys and girls in the relationship?’

‘How can you be a homo with so many nice Chinese girls around? You never look properly.’

‘I tell you, some girl jilt him, that’s why. True or not, hah? Jay?’

‘Don’t talk such rubbish,’ one of his cousins said. ‘If he’s gay, then obviously he’s not attracted to girls in the first place. And that’s perfectly fine with me. That’s cool. Just leave him alone, why can’t you?’

‘Tek, you didn’t bring him up properly, I’m telling you!’ another aunt squawked. ‘You let him drop out of Chinese school. You let him run around with all the Australians and now you see what happen! You shouldn’t have given up your Singaporean citizenship. Then you can send him for NS. The army can make a man out of him.’

‘Ee-yer! I don’t think the Singapore army want all these homos training with all the other boys. So
gilly
one!’

‘Does he hang around Kings Cross? I hope he’s not a drug addict.’

‘
Hi-yah
! Just because he is gay it doesn’t mean he’s also into drugs. But I’m telling you, you better draw the line if he wants to change his sex.’

‘I don’t think you can get it on Medicare, can you?’

‘In Australia, anything is possible.’

‘How come he wants to change his sex if he doesn’t like girls?’

‘I don’t,’ Justin said angrily. ‘I can’t believe you guys. I just—’

‘Better send him for HIV test, Annabelle.’

Some of the aunties looked alarmed. They stared pointedly at the dishes on the lazy Susan and then at their own rice bowls. Someone muttered, ‘Did he use his chopsticks to help himself? Is it safe to eat?’

‘All of you talk such rubbish,’ Tek’s eldest brother interjected violently. ‘I tell you what. If he was my son I would give him one tight slap on the right cheek and one tight slap on the left and then he will know.’

Justin pushed his chair back. He shot one look across the table at his father who still would not meet his eyes, and then he left. His Auntie Isabelle hurried after him and caught up with him down the street. ‘Don’t take it too hard, darling,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they all very funny one
lah
.’

‘They’re a bunch of fucking self-righteous homophobes.’

‘Yes, but I tell you something, Jay darling. You too picky about girls, that’s why you go for boys. You know, there was this young man and he go for a walk in the forest. Then he think to himself, there might be some dangerous animal in the forest. I better pick up a stick so I can defend myself. He see a stick and pick it up, but he say to himself, it’s only a twig. So he throw it away and he walk, walk, walk. Then he find another stick, but it’s too skinny so he throw it away also. Then he walk, walk, walk and find another stick, but it’s the wrong shape so he throw that away. Eventually he come to the end of the forest and still—no stick! So you see!’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t meet any dangerous animals either, so he didn’t need a stick,’ Justin pointed out. His aunt ignored him.

‘We better look out for a girlfriend for you. Cannot be so fussy, you know. Cannot be gay. Must get married soon and give Mummy and Daddy grandchildren.’

‘What if I don’t want kids?’ Justin said.

‘Must want. Cannot don’t want. Remember the stick!’

He took refuge in scornful superiority. He extrapolated homophobia from his extended family and learned to despise Asianness. It was clear to him that there could be no return to his traditional Asian roots via Malaysian students, only a forward movement via Dirk into an empowering white multiculturalism. Strolling down Darling Street each day, sniffing the yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread, peeping into boutique shops selling exotic homewares, scented soaps and candles, clothes, shoes, bags, world music and ethnic cuisine, his dreams and desires congealed into something tangible and acquired a price tag. Consumerism was the price of belonging; his relationship with Dirk was the currency he gladly paid.

He strolled through his new life with a smug sense of triumph. Finally, he was with someone who overlooked his Asian oddness and offered him unlimited sex, emotional understanding and financial security. He felt his life was vindicated because at last he was loved by a white man. He became confident in his gayness. He preened in front of his handful of gay friends. He dragged Dirk to dinner parties, pubs, bars and clubs, just to show him off. He wanted people to see that he was coupled. He was sexy. He was desired.

Then one night, while Dirk was attending Peter’s school production of
Oklahoma!
, Justin dropped in at his usual haunt and seated himself at the bar. André Chai, who’d been nominated Young Australian of the Year while he was still in high school and who’d been hitting on him for months, sauntered up and draped himself over a bar stool.

‘Justin! What are you doing at this Asian takeaway by your lonesome? Darling, don’t tell me you’ve finally dumped your old Rice Queen and are now auditioning for Chinatown night? You’d better take me on, gorgeous. I may not be your rice bowl but at least I’m young. You’ll only end up with a fat old saggy fag if you insist on sticking to a diet of potatoes. Young white hunks our age aren’t interested in cracking open fortune cookies, sweetie.’

Justin found he was no longer contained in his own skin. He seeped out into his surroundings and viewed himself from other people’s perspectives. What did they think when they looked at him? Was his own particular Asianness distinct from all other Asians? Did they realise the solid middle-class affluence of his background? Did they see a successful cultured architect whose design briefs had won favourable comment from the industry? Did they
know
he wasn’t like other Asians? Or did they simply see a boat person filling his rice bowl from his Rice Queen? Did they disdain him for a Rose Hancock looking for an Australian passport and a wealthy mining magnate in a wheelchair?

He became embarrassed, and then angry, whenever Dirk tried to hold his hand in public. He glanced around quickly to see if other young white gays had noticed, whether they were smirking at him. ‘Don’t paw at me like that,’ he snapped, shaking off Dirk’s light handclasp. ‘I’m not a dog, you know.’

He felt ashamed when he saw the hurt in Dirk’s eyes. Sometimes he would feel contrition and do his utmost to make up for his nastiness. He tried to be especially nice towards Dirk. He booked a table for two at a restaurant listed in the
Good Food Guide
, took pains to be as attentive and perfect as possible, then returned to the Balmain cottage to love him gently. He lay awake beside Dirk, listened to his soft snores and wondered why he could not accept what he had. Dirk loved him, he told himself, and his life was not so crowded with people who were fond of him that he could afford to kick away love in whatever form it took.

Most of the time, however, he simmered in guiltinduced anger instead. He told himself that Dirk could be a pain in the arse, always wanting to do mentally or culturally improving things. He didn’t know how to relax and go with the flow. Dirk was old and he was dull. He didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. He wanted to have quiet dinner parties at home with a couple of friends who would discuss all kinds of intense things that nobody gave a shit about. He wanted to teach Justin how to cook
sauerbraten
mit klo
ße.a sour roast with potato dumplings—the way it was done in Germany. ‘I’m not your Asian houseboy learning to make the master’s favourite dishes,’ Justin said cruelly, annoyed with Dirk and furious with himself. Dirk’s kids were a pain because they lost two weekends every month doing things the kids would like. For chrissakes, Justin was only twenty-three—way too young to be playing uncle to a couple of teenagers. He was too young to spend Saturday nights at home.

‘Do you want to break up?’ Dirk said. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘I don’t know,’ Justin said. ‘Perhaps I should move out and give us both space. We can still date.’

‘Is that what you really want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you don’t know what you want, how can anyone make you happy?’

. . .

‘You need to purge your system, darling.’ André blew a stream of smoke past Justin’s shoulder and returned the cigarette to his lips.

‘What do you mean?’ Justin said.

‘Gorge yourself on baked potatoes till you puke. Then you’ll realise that eating rice is healthier.’ He smiled and moved closer, running a flirtatious finger down Justin’s arm. ‘I used to be like you. We Asians who grow up here can’t help it. We just want potatoes because all the magazines, all the videos flaunt these gorgeous white beefcakes. Young, blue eyes, blond hair, muscle-bound in white Tshirts and tight jeans, dancing at the clubs and shopping at Ikea. How we long for them! Oooh!’ He closed his eyes and shuddered with mock desire. Then he opened them wide and stared at Justin and his eyes were hard. ‘But they don’t yearn for us in the same way. If they fantasise, they dream of big black cocks, not skinny Asian noodles. They don’t want us unless they want a submissive foot-bound bitch.’

‘That’s utterly revolting. You’re the most racist man I know,’ Justin said. ‘I don’t know why I even bother to meet you for drinks.’

‘That’s because you’re secretly attracted to sticky rice like me but you’re just stubborn. Anyway, don’t blame me, sweetie. I’m telling it like it is. I’ve pranced around the block a lot longer and a lot more times than you. I know what I’m talking about. In fact, I’m just trying to help you. You want fresh potatoes, I’ll lead you to the chip shop.’

Justin went with André to the private clubs, backroom saunas and fuckhouses where he endured endless loops of Kylie Minogue. More often than not he was told to fuck off but occasionally he came across a gym-toned underthirty who was a closet rice eater. He carried around slips of paper with his mobile phone number printed on it but nobody ever called him back. Worse, when he next met them on the street or in a bar, they looked right through him and turned away like he was dirt, scum. Like he was just nobody. In one post-sauna session, he stood naked under the steaming shower, propped his arm against the tiles and dropped his head down onto his arm. His tears were washed away by the cascade of water gushing over his face. He straightened up to soap and scrub himself but he felt that he would never be clean. ‘You dirty boy,’ he could hear Annabelle saying reproachfully. ‘Didn’t Mummy teach you better than to play in the toilet!’

Inevitably, Dirk found out and asked him to leave. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you anymore,’ he said sadly. ‘But I have to think about what is best for Peter and Anna.’

‘You’re a good father,’ Justin said. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’ He raised his head and looked Dirk in the eye. ‘
I
was lucky to have you. I know I didn’t appreciate you and I was a real bastard, but I can’t imagine my life without you in it somewhere.’

‘Still you don’t know what it is you want,’ Dirk said. He drew Justin into his arms and for a moment they curled into each other like a Klimt Kiss. Then he released the young man and stepped back. ‘Perhaps you don’t know who you are. Who can help you in your confusion?’

In the end love was too complicated for him, desire the hollow drumbeat of his heart. He heard the thunderclap of sound and felt its reverberation shudder through his whirling world. And then its echo died away, leaving nothing but silence and brittle skin stretched taut and dry across the void.

One evening, as dusk leaped into darkness, he stepped out of a toilet block near the beach. In the aftermath of satiation he teetered on a tightrope over an abyss of loneliness and despair. Why did he imagine he could find love in a toilet? Why did he think it was worth the effort of a blindly groping search? It was a comforting lie he told himself; the cheating promise of the pot of gold that nobody ever found at the rainbow’s end. The closer he got, the further away it danced, those particles of white light refracted in a weeping sky.