Scraps of Heaven by Arnold Zable

and yet another pub as it curves into Lygon Street. Australia is a land of corner banks and pubs, muses Romek. They rise above the surrounding houses like neighbourhood temples constructed of stone, fashioned by master builders and expert masons, built to impress and last.
    He is on the homeward run. Between the bars of the cemetery he glimpses crucifixes and headstones. On the opposite side of the tram the black widow is dozing. Drooping from the seat, the chickens’ limp heads rock from side to side. Their combs are a startling red; their eyes are open, suspended in permanent surprise. The seats are emptying. Stop sixteen is drawing close. Romek steps off and retreats on Fenwick Street, shoulders slumped, a spent man with a tchemodan.
    Romek is too tired to stop and talk, too tired to even glance at his son. He passes Josh in the kitchen, and makes his way to the front room. His steps quicken as he enters the passage. One last effort and he is through the bedroom door. He kicks off his shoes. This final delay as he undresses is an agony. He peels back the covers with one sharp tug, and slips into bed.
    It is heaven, this moment of giving way on a Saturday afternoon. His face is cooled by the bed linen. The bedroom is a palatial suite and he, a king living it up with his harem of blankets, pillows and sheets. Within minutes he is asleep. Josh tiptoes by the closed door, and again he hurries from the house out into the streets.
    Valerio Bianchi emerges from his uncle’s house jogging. He clutches a soccer ball to his chest. He drops the ball on the verandah, opens the gate, and dribbles it onto Canning Street.
    Dressed in tight-fitting white shorts, black-sleeved skivvy, and white runners, he is a neatly packaged man, aged about twenty-five. His tight cropped hair and muscular body are offset by a refinement in movement that strikes Josh as odd. He leans his bicycle against a poplar and notes the bow in Valerio’s legs. Valerio prances rather than runs. He juggles the ball on his right boot, traps it on his toes, and sends it spiralling overhead. He pirouettes, catches it on the heel of his boot, and brings it to ground on the median strip. It is an impressive debut.
    â€˜My nephew!’ exclaims old Bianchi from the verandah.
    â€˜He is a campione. He play for Napoli.’
    Valerio weaves a space between the growing band of onlookers and aims a full-blooded drive at the trunk of the poplar. He regains the ball with a subtle feint on the rebound. No one has seen such movements on the block. He points at Josh’s bicycle. ‘Plis,’ he says. ‘I can have?’ He mounts the bike and cycles in widening circles.
    As the bicycle gains a momentum of its own, Valerio begins his ascent. His bottom leads the way. His bloodless fingers grip the bar. The fully bent wrists take the weight. His arms are at full stretch, his elbows locked. His feet rise skyward, in one body-length thrust. For five seconds he manages to balance until the bike begins to wobble, and he dismounts just in time.
    Valerio is not yet done. He returns to the verandah, dons a pair of boxing gloves, and jabs at imaginary rivals as he darts about. Valerio is showing off, exhibiting his skills. He is a young man fresh from Napoli, signalling his arrival, stamping his presence upon alien turf. His suitcases can still be seen in the hallway where they had been left the previous night.
    â€˜Bravo artista!’ exclaims old Bianchi.
    â€˜Bullshit artista ,’ sniggers Big Al, who has joined the crowd.
    But Josh is impressed. He has never seen such bow-legged elegance, a body so finely tuned. Yes, Valerio is a true artista . A bit odd perhaps, but he has successfully pleaded his case. With one last flurry of punches he turns, and vanishes into the house as abruptly as he had stepped out.
    The vacant lot is a paddock of long grass dying in the sun, a mess of broken clocks, disembowelled mattresses, shredded bedsheets and