What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? Read online

  THE SOUNDS THAT night: Barry White was back, Mulla and Jimmy noticed it more’n the uthas who hadn’t been away as long as they had; deep, dragging along gravel voice, in driving rhythm, the bass reaching right into their (little) brains, their truly emotional hearts — if a li’l on the fucked side — in lyrics, Practise What You Preach, which had the whole house — two of ‘em side by side, State-owned, the walls were knocked through — laughing, in stoned stitches at what they got from the song title, and big Barry White’s voice, a star from anutha era come again, a rezz-erection! someone laughed. And they gestured with pointing fingers as they sang the lyrics — the men at either their girlfriends or the wife or the girl in their mildly scolding minds, with mildly scolding meaning, it was jus’ bein’ part of the act they was enjoying, and showing each in mirror form how they were with Big Barry White’s impeccable timing (so’m I and we, man. So … are-we.) Tha’s what the bein’ stoned did and the, uh, potential it never failed to bring part out like a li’l shy nose poking from a dark hole, but never a black one.

  When Barry White sang the cool aksing question to the woman he was tellin’ to get off his case: real-ly? everyone raised a finger and sang with him: REAL-LY? At a female half-whispering chorus the sheilas took it over and so did a cupla the fullas with (beautifully) clear falsettoes. All ofem taken along on the clipclop horse ride on big bad Barry White’s horse through a ’Merican ghetto fulla gangstas (like us).

  Mulla in particular looking at the changes (of how much I keep missing out on, even in here, this place where nuthin’ much changes only the music: they are right up with the music, man), of everyone drinking cans and not the quart bottles he used to like taking the top off with his teeth, and Sadie Palmer who could play a broken-off bottle top like a sax, now it was cans, an’ cans don’t play music, and when they were drunk the crush pop and crack of ’em bein’ squashed in aggressive hands, violent hands, hands’t craved their whole time and lives — for action, to do serious damage to other physical existences, it wrote the same story on near every members face — but a man, Mulla Rota, was happy. Oh how he was happy.

  What hadn’t changed was the range of emotions the music, combined with the piss and especially the dope, took them through in near unison. Mulla aksed Loopy Davis who was that they had on the stereo — anutha change there, too, compact discs when it was LPs when he was las’ out. Oh, an’ he had an ever eye on Bad Horse, it was habit, and now with Jimmy pissed and stoned and already, he’d boasted earlier to Mulla, fucked, that one over there, in the smoky brown shades you c’n see her (lovely) eyes through, Mulla imagining Jimmy’s sperm running out of her (lovely) twat, hurtin’ at how come a woman wasn’t arranged for him but refusing to think about it, the implications; jus’ keepin’ his distance from Jimmy case he brought up the Apeman incident: you know, of knowing he’d been outsmarted — and when he looked at Loopy’s face answering, it was like a revelation was coming. So Mulla quickly gulped down half a can, first saying, holdit, holdit, tell me in a sec.

  He burped. Wiped his smoothly shaven face, or his mouth, of the beer. Now, gimme a toke firs’. So he an’ Loopy hadda toke together. Mm-uh! As if they weren’t already stoned. Now, he looked at Loopy, his eyes not quite aligned but his mind as sharp as it would ever be, so he truly believed. Who’s that you got on? Hearing his own voice speaking so crystal clear, with the li’l whisper at the end of each word like a back echo, of the smoke reminding it was doin’ good things to a man. But Loopy lifted a finger, waita minute. Went over to the CD player, mus’ be a stolen job, pushed a button, came back, swaying as the music started up on a new number behind him. Volume right up. RIGHT up. Same as everyone’s — but everyone’s — heads came up. So did fingers in instant clicking, and bodies bobbing and swaying, eyes closing. And mouths started to move, to sing. Not loudly. Not yet. Mulla saw Jimmy’s gesture to Sadie who’d taken his years of spunk, not counting the arses he fucked in jail, to turn the volume up even louder. She did so, gave him a slow, sexy smile while she was at it, iner tight, navy-blue leggings hugging and stating her body specially her box bulge to Jimmy in a certain promise he c’d have more of it and her, twat and whatever kinda woman she was with it — if Jimmy was bothered to try and know — lader. (Lader, baby.)

  Out Jimmy came, all bad rhythm thinking it was sumpthin’ else. But it did the trick. Everyone stepped out, which was the centre of the floor anyway cleared to act as a dance floor or a meeting room or somewhere to kick someone around the room, whatever. They were arms going and eye-closed postures of a kind of released ecstasy that had nothing to do with their two members’ prison release; this was something else altogether. And they took their harmonies like they had rehearsed and rehearsed it, this number, a Negro blasting ask (aks) of Where Do U Want Me To Put It? Hips going, arms like swaying stems of brown leather and brown tattooed arm in an easy breeze, staying with it all the way to the faded las’. ’Bout thirty-five of the total company, the males, having every man’s secret question aksed on CD for him. The females, not all members, mainly associates, not minding in the least bein’ part of the same harmonised question. Fullas like Mulla knew the question was bigger than that, of simple crudity, of basic sexual anatomy. Mulla knew it was in the arms, how they were raised and swaying and flowing in perfect time, it was in the voices, not knowing how far they could go, even in their stoned, drunk state, even as they understood jus’ what this musical expression was about: the question wasn’t what it stated to be — Oh, this’s Solo, bro, Loopy finally answered the question. Groupa bl — ebony fullas name a Solo, bro. Ya like ’em? (Do I like ’em?) Mulla ran a hand down Loopy’s tattooed face, Do I loooove ’em, ya mean. Loving Loopy while he was at it, for the song, for picking it jus’ right, and for love itself. Yet total though the song felt and with it Mulla knowing who the group singing it was — Solo — the question wasn’t answered. Cos it wasn’t aksed.

  The question was about place. These people’s place. That they didn’t have and’d never have. Not even a traditional flow, a musical river full of tragedy and freshwater equivalent of sharks, beaten (nigger) bodies floating down it, of desperate ebony dudes clutching to objects to float to (fucken straws more like it), to the last of air they were gulping — some of ‘em survived — a Mississippi, a mighty muddy flow bobbing with heads enough to form something, sumpthin’ good; BIG things, better things, musical creations from all the suffering, the drowning, gasping, gurgling cries. Something to grab onto. Like those they were listening to and getting off on: something good’d come of it when here, in this place, it hadn’t, not even potential. That was the question. The (fucken) answer, too.

  Mulla gave Loopy one of his crooked, most meaningful smiles: To have or not to have. Right, Loop? Yeah, righ’, man. Righ’, Loopy outiv it now, not knowing what he was agreeing to, it coulda been someone’s death sentence. Someone put on something else; the range moved on. Mulla saw it.

  SEVEN

  FUCKIT, JAKE’D HEARD enough about Monte Cassino and Germans and Kiwi soldiers dyin’ in a war — he couldn’t understand why they were involved when even he knew the closest country to New Zealand was Aussie and that was what, ’bout a thousand miles or more away, and far as he knew there’d never been any trouble with them so why’d this whole country go to war against Germany? And yet they fought in Italy and one of the old codger fullas had been a prisoner of war in Austria, and they spoke of fighting in Egypt, too, and another place Ethiopia, he was gonna go to another pub. Didn’t know where, though when he stepped out onto the street and saw it was with stars this Friday evening, and nice ’n’ warm to justify his tight-fitting teeshirt, he thought he’d try somewhere that wouldn’t be so, you know, rough.

  Wasn’t in the place long, at this table that only had one fulla at it, though the place was quite full and looked just about what he (the doctor)’d ordered, when the fulla spoke. Name’s Kohi, bud. Stuck out his hand. Jake didn’t like being called bud; and been a long time since a man’d looked atim with such smart
arse confidence and got away with it. But then again he was grateful for someone, maybe — he hoped — to talk to (long as he don’t ’spect me to do all the work). They shook hands; each with but a glance at each other, though this Kohi’s glance had that ole familiar glistening linger in it; both then with eyes out at the human landscape, drinking, pretty happy-looking spread of mostly men from their corner, elbow-lean table view Jake liked a corner table when in the ole days he’d liked his own table smack middle line of the bar, and his place at it side-on so no one could come at him from behind without having to go past his vision, and he would’ve spotted a likely fool or the chance fighter trying that, would Jake The Muss; the middle line at now no more McClutchy’s, but up nearer the toilets (so I didn’t have so far to walk to have a fight). Now, he was a corner man, which was a shame because the teeshirt he had was the best fluke-fitting buy he’d ever had; his chest muscles stuck out, from being on the shovel and a man did try and keep up his daily dose of a hundred-and-fifty press-ups, missing just the odd day, and he’d always had good arms and what with the gut hardly having any fat on it, a man felt he might’ve been bedda off closer to the centre so people could see him. Ah, but then again, what if they knew? Or, rather, thought they knew.

  It did occur to him that he’d not been to many pubs, not when he stood here thinking about it seein’ as this Kohi fulla wasn’t following up on introducing himself, just a big arm leaned there on the table — he mus’ weigh seventeen stone — it occurred to him that he’d kept his pub life simple. He didn’t think of it even remotely like a fear of anything new or unfamiliar; just that a man’d stuck to who and what he knew.

  Then this Kohi’s saying to him, Spose you think I’m gonna buy you a beer — what’d you say your name was again? Jake. Oh yeah. Jake. Tha’s right. And who said I was wanting you to buy me a beer? Jake taking offence. But Kohi grinned and said, You got that look, Jake. The water in your eyes like the alkies get, brother, an’ how they lick their lips. The reference to the alkies stunned him, he’d had a time right after Grace left that damn(ing) letter when the only company he could find who’d havim was the corner of alcoholics. He’d even moved in with them, the house they shared, till he found out he hated the sherry they started each day off with (man, I liked my booze, but not that early in the day and not sherry), and besides, he was used to the company of men, fighter men, men who’d stood their ground in their lives even if they weren’t such, you know, achieving lives, there’s such a thing as a minimum of manhood a man’s gotta have and these alkies didn’t, so he moved out, ended up in the park, sleeping rough (but I made me a little house with my own two hands, first thing I ever made like that. Felt like a tree hut, ’cept it was on the ground), and there he’d met Cody and made friends (I never worked so hard to make someone my friend as that kid), so what the fuck was this Kohi saying? It’s hope, Jake. I call it hope, is what he added.

  Hope for what, man? Kohi came up, stood himself up straight, looked at Jake: don’t call me man, bruth-ah. Not in that tone a voice. But immediately followed with, Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right: hope. It’s hope for a free beer seein’s all other hopes’ve gone, how’s that for an answer, Jake? When Jake never knew this man from shit that he could be so familiar — dismissive — with him.

  But I gotta rule, Jake, I don’t buy no one a beer who’s not gonna buy me two back! Then he laughed. Jake copped the spit from it exploding on his nose. So. So Jake Heke thought about hauling one off on this Kohi’s nose — a punch, not smartarse laughing spit drops. And he straightened up his posture. And he sees Kohi glance somewhere else. Next this utha fulla comes over and he’s not fucken small neither. Jake, meet Gary. My brother. I’m the good lookin’ one in the family, of thirteen. Laughing again. Jake noticing the cunt hadda thick neck, too, so he’d be able to take a punch. Have to be square on his chin to takim out one hit, if a man was gonna throw it, which he wasn’t so sure he was. Not now there were two of them, when normally he’d’ve thrown it if there wassa fucken hundred of ’em, how he got when he was ready to fight: blind with wanting to cut loose. Blind with hurt that someone should want his blood, his reputation, or whatever it was they wanted of him.

  Kohi laughing and pointing out into the crowd, An’ there’s another brother, Jake. Tha’s …? He frowned a look at his brother Gary. Which one’s that, Ga? Hepa or Haki? Turned to Jake, We got so many we can’t ’member who’s who. This Gary was half turned to Jake (like he don’t give two fucks about me. But he will if I get any wilder) and, without so much as a glance at Jake, drawled, It’s Hep. There’s Hak over there, chatting up the one in the shades. Asking his brother, Why she wear shades inside, man? Jake picking up on the word man, and how it was alright for Gary to use it yet when Jake’d said it this Kohi fulla threatened.

  Who cares, Kohi shrugged as he kept looking around. She mighta escaped from the Blind Institute. (Or covering a black eye) Jake thinking with just a tadge of guilt. Oh, there’s another brother, tha’s Jason. And Jake could see he was big, too. The whole fucken lot of ’em were. The two fullas with Jayse’re our cousins. And they weren’t small neither. Kohi turned full on to Jake Heke: You gotta big family, too, Jake? The question not unexpected. Yet it was: seemed to Jake this Kohi guy was telling a man he was all alone in the world even though Jake had yet to answer the question. That Two Lakes was a bigger place than Jake’d always thought and it was even lonelier if you didn’t have family like these fullas, no madda how tough you were as, like, an individual man. That jus’ didn’t matter, not against five brothers and the two cousins just to start with, all about your own size and, funny thing, just as confident. In fact, more so.

  So Jake shifted his weight from one running-shoe foot to the other. Not that he went running in them. Yeah, I gotta big family, Jake said not quite truthfully. Not here, like, living in Two Lakes, no. No, Gary piped up, with meaning. Which they both knew, he and Jake. Where then? Gary wanted to know — Auckland? Chuckling. And Jake didn’t know why. Nah, Murupara, Jake more or less told the truth; they were from east of Murupara actually, a li’l rathole of a place. If they still existed since he’d not set eyes on a one ofem for over twenty years. Half ofem’d be dead at leas’.

  For some reason that made Gary lean back and look funny at his brother, who was really the ugly one in the family as Jake could see of the five brothers represented. They exchanged eye signals and tiny little facial muscle signals that Jake in his heightened state picked up on, from being family he figured, in his mind (family I never had family. Not close like this and with the supporting numbers and, yeah, the, uh, love. Sure, love. Why not love? What families do isn’t it, is love each other?) Murupara, eh? Kohi chewing on nothing Jake’d seen him put into his mouth. Looked at his brother again, We done a bitta hunting in that area, Murupara. Haven’t we, Gary?

  Gary finally shows he’s got a whole face and not half a one as he’s showing since he came up. Don’t think Jake here’s done much hunting, Ko’i. Hey? Jake had to stop himself from bunching a fist, just who’d this Gary think he was making a — he didn’t know the word — well, thinking Jake’d never hunted? He had. A long time ago, when he was about twelve, thirteen, but leas’ he’d been. And got pig — you gotta stab it in the throat, right where I was told to by my uncle: Inis throat, boy, and wiggle it till you feel the heart — as well shot a deer, jus’ the one. Who says I haven’t — you? Jake’d just about had enough. But this Gary don’t bat an eyelid, not one blink. I’m guessing, Jake. I’m guessing, not much.

  Yeah, well, never said it was much. But I been. Yeah, Gary nodded like one a them wise old men too smart for his own fucken good, I thought it wouldn’t a been much. Then he let out a sigh. Trouble is, Jake, hunting’s the sorta thing you lie about you get found out. Jake went right back at him: Same’s a lotta things you lie about. (Take that.) Yeah, yeah, Gary rubbing his chin, none a this hunter with the bristles stuff either, smooth as a baby’s bum. And quite smartly dressed. Come to think of it, the shirt he was wearing
bein’ white suggested he might’ve been wearing a tie. (Must be in his pocket.) You’d be right on that one, Jake. Then the brother Kohi comes back in.

  Jake The Muss they used to callim, Ga’. So inside, Jake’s heart flooded with a kind of relief that at last they knew who he was and what, it didn’t take much figuring, what he was (and still am — I think). That right? Even Gary looked impressed by that; so from a little inner flood of pride it became a bigger flow, sweet — come to think of it, like shooting, like when a man spunked his balls off into a woman, that’s how good it felt to be acknowledged like this. So he got a brief thought of Beth (oh Bethy) but quickly threw it out in thinking of her with another man, even though he’d had years to get used to the fact. Anyrate, he was right now in a good state. All any man wants is to be acknowledged, a word he did know, though from whence or where he’d got it he didn’t remember.