Lisdalia by Brian Caswell

1
    THINGS ITALIAN …
    Dad was playing his music again.
    Opera.
    Who else’s dad would be caught dead playing that kind of stuff? Okay, so Terry Dickson’s dad loved Country and Western and always had it thumping full-blast when he picked poor Terry up in the ute every afternoon, embarrassing the hell out of the poor kid. And Maddie’s family played this weird Chinese music that sounded like someone strangling a cat — and failing. But opera ?
    Dad bought a whole series of The World’s Greatest Operas, one a week from the newsagent. It took him six months to get them all. Each cassette came with a glossy magazine which fitted into an impressive black-and-gold vinyl binder and explained all about the opera and its composer and a whole pile of other deep and meaningful stuff — none of which he ever read. But they still had pride of place in the little bookcase next to the stereo cabinet.
    My father has always believed in culture.
    And besides, most operas are sung in Italian.
    Even though he lined up in the early seventies with Mum and all the other New Australians to get “the Citizenship”, which hangs on the wall of the family room, he’s still fiercely patriotic when it comes to all things Italian. Cars, soccer. And old fifties vintage movies, without sub-titles, that he brings home from the video shop and makes us all sit through.
    Even the pictures on the walls in our house are all prints of Italian masters; we have the Last Supper in the dining-room and a big gold-framed Mona Lisa over the leather lounge in the formal room, the one no one’s allowed to sit on. We even have an imitation marble copy of Michelangelo’s David in the bathroom — with a fig-leaf covering the rude bit.
    Well, they might have written the operas in Italian, but I’ll let you into a little secret. Even though I understand Italian, I can’t make out half of what they’re screeching about. But what was the point in making a scene that afternoon? It was Saturday, and for once Dad didn’t have a job on. He deserved a chance to relax.
    There were plenty of things I couldn’t stand about my father, but he did work incredibly hard. If he had a big job on, he would be up before dawn and often not get back before dark. He made great money; there’s always work for a good concreter. But I watched him sometimes — when he thought no one could see — and he looked almost old.
    He would massage the palms of his hands and you could sense the pain he was feeling. It seemed impossible for those hands to feel pain; they were so … hard. Concrete isn’t kind to your skin, and his was like rough leather.
    He was sitting there, eyes closed, in his favourite chair, with a glass of wine on the floor next to his foot. At first I thought he was sleeping, but then I saw the movement of his finger on the arm of the chair. He was tapping in time to the music.
    I couldn’t help it. I walked over to him and kissed him on the top of his head. He opened his eyes and smiled, but he didn’t say a word.
    â€œAnything I can get you?”
    He just shook his head. He had his music, he was relaxing: he didn’t need anything else.
    â€œWell, I’m just going over to Michael’s for a while. We have some schoolwork to do.” He nodded and closed his eyes again.
    As I opened the front door, there was a quiet point in the music. His voice drifted out to me.
    â€œLisdalia! Non essere tardi.”
    Don't be late.
    â€œI won’t be.” As usual. I replied in English. My language.
    I shut the door gently behind me.

2
    SPITTING INTO THE WIND
    â€œWhat’s got two legs and bleeds a lot?”
    I knew I’d regret it, but it really didn’t make any difference. When Tanja decides to tell you one of her sick jokes, it doesn’t matter if you answer or not, she’ll tell you anyway. I played along.
    â€œI don’t know. What’s got two legs and