Tribal Lores by Archimede Fusillo

Author:Archimede Fusillo [Fusillo, Archimede]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781760651978
Publisher: Walker Books Australia
Published: 2020-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

Zia Antonia, Zio Pete’s mum, was still at our house a week after the infamous Paintball Skirmish. She and her evil-eye amulets, red horns topped by hunchbacked men wearing top hats and carrying horseshoes. She wore one such charm permanently around her neck on a silver chain, another pinned to her black cardigans.

“My poor son. My poor son,” was her mantra of choice. “Someone’s put the evil-eye on him and that’s why he’s abandoned me.” As she repeated this mantra her gnarled fingers rubbed first one amulet, then the other.

Zio Pete’s mum shared the parental bed with Mum while Dad slept on the sofa. Neither Stefano or I offered up our rooms for the old lady, and neither of us was asked to do so.

For her part, Mum, who thankfully didn’t buy into the pagan notion of an evil-eye, mainly because she said it was against her religious beliefs, appeased the old lady by sitting with her and letting her seek refuge in whatever brought her comfort.

“Maybe he’s done a runner with Dad’s money,” Stefano suggested at one point. Then at another, “Maybe he’s been taken hostage by the people he owes money to.”

“And maybe you have a too-vivid imagination, little brother,” I had countered, while quietly giving some credence to both suggestions.

Dad never spoke publicly of Zio Pete’s problems – the debts, the displays of open disrespect towards those he should have known would expect him to accommodate their whims – but Stefano and I had heard enough whispers between our parents and between Mum and Zio Pete’s long-suffering mother to know that Zio Pete lived rough. Over the years Dad’s mate had been done for public nuisance, brawling in public, driving while disqualified, and sundry other fairly petty crimes – particularly when he’d first come out to Australia. The so-called evil-eye was probably the least of his problems.

The day Dad didn’t open the shop but left the house dressed in his Sunday best (on a Wednesday), I knew that trouble had yet again come calling for my honorary Zio. And yet again, my dad was stepping in to help.

“Things are being taken care of,” I heard my father say into the space between where he was standing, sipping the last of his morning espresso, and where Mum was setting plates at the table.

“By who? You again?”

“There’s no one else.”

If my father was going to add more, me and Stefano appearing in the kitchen put an end to that. The moment my father saw my brother and me, he became very preoccupied with placing his coffee cup in the sink, just so.

“You look pretty smart, Papa,” Stefano said. “Where’s Dad going?” he asked of the kitchen in general.

Our mother stepped forwards and handed first Stefano then me our morning starter: a whisked egg with a dash of Marsala-fortified wine and sugar spooned through it. Stefano took his and gulped it. I took mine and held it, but didn’t take my eyes off our father.

“You’re a bit overdressed for the customers, Papa,” I offered.

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