Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  Dedication

  For Chrysoula, Panayioti and Katerina

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I: The seed

  Ithaka

  Tomato sandwiches

  Horiatiko kotopoulo

  Coffee cup connections

  Mine is bigger than yours

  The good grape

  Pubs and pedals

  Heidelberg hiatus

  Sweetbreads and other tidbits

  Inky squid sandwiches

  The sacrificial lamb

  The hungry caterpillar

  Cavafy connections

  The rebellious vegetarian

  Rembetika for the soul

  Traversing difference

  Part II: The sapling

  Athens adventures

  To Mati

  Beyond the iron gate

  Sinaisthisi

  Naple’s finest

  Warragul adventures

  My language on homer’s shores

  Cafeneion laments

  The road trip

  Baring my skin

  The smitten series

  This one is better looking

  Part III: The fruit

  The wedding dance

  Growing a watermelon

  The king of the beefsteak tomato

  The spring garden

  Where the wild things grow

  The forest sighs

  The arrival

  Stathi’s souvlaki

  Psaria, freska psaria!

  Psarosoupa

  The festival of the queue

  Laying down bricks and mortar

  Epilogue

  The village that grew the book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ITHAKA

  As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery.

  Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body.

  Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

  Constantine Cavafy

  Tomato sandwiches

  He who is hungry dreams of bread loaves

  Greek proverb

  Yiayia’s knotty brown hands pummel the dough, punching it in, bringing it together and pushing it out, over and over. What was flour and water and a scrap of old dough a few moments ago is now like a living, breathing being beneath her hands. My grandmother’s floral apron, the one Mum sent her from Australia, strains against her belly. A wisp of wavy hair escapes from beneath her brown headscarf. Her forehead is wet with sweat and I catch a whiff on her skin of the goat that’s tethered in the back yard.

  ‘Yiayia, can I try?’

  She pulls off a small piece of dough and passes it to me.

  I stand up beside her and try to copy her. I like the elastic, floury feel of the dough in my hands, but my movements are clumsy. Maybe if I had a bigger piece …? But I know not to ask. We mustn’t waste any.

  ‘You make it look so easy,’ I say, envious.

  ‘I’ve baked bread every week since I was little.’

  ‘In Australia, we mostly buy ours at the supermarket. It’s sliced.’ I don’t know how to say ‘sliced’ in Greek, so I make cutting movements with my hands.

  Yiayia shrugs. Australia is so far away, so strange. She says, ‘Your mum used to be in charge of the baking when she lived here.’ She stops, a sad look in her eyes. ‘We need to let the dough rise. We’ll come back later.’

  She puts her big lump into a huge bowl and places my little one beside it. She covers them with a sheet and a goat-hair blanket to keep the dough warm and make it rise more quickly. While we’ve been in the village, I’ve been sleeping under similar blankets. I hate the prickly feel of them against my chin at night but they are warm. I think the bread will be happy.

  I run outside to find Pappou, my grandfather. I know he will be in the baxe, the orchard where he dries grapes and figs. Mum tells me to be careful, as there are things that can trip me up: stones embedded in the soil and unexpected holes near the creek that runs along the end of the yard. When she was little, she fell on a large rock and split her forehead. She points to the scar near her hairline in warning.

  I hold my nose as I walk past the toilet. Its walls are made of the very stones that are strewn around the yard. Inside, there is a hole in the ground like a black, toothless mouth. The smell is horrendous, but it’s the shadowy presence of weeks and months and years of poo that makes my stomach turn. Every time I need to go, I worry that I will fall in. I grip the walls with my hands. This leaves me nothing with which to block my nose. Yiayia and Pappou use newspaper to wipe their bottoms, but Mum bought toilet paper on the first day we were here after my brother and I complained about the scratchy newspaper. Dad said he used to use rocks to wipe his bottom in his village, and we should count ourselves lucky. I don’t know if he was joking. Mum bought the toilet paper anyway, even though it cost a lot. She likes to make everyone happy.

  I pass the prickly pear tree with its fleshy leaves covered in spikes and look hopefully to the egg-shaped fruit, but it hasn’t yet turned orange to show that it’s ready to eat. In Melbourne, Mum and I pick prickly pears from plants that grow beside the rail lines. Mum usually carries a paper bag and tongs to wedge the fruit off so that the prickles don’t pierce her skin. Back in our yard in Collingwood, we place the pears on a newspaper and Mum slits the tight skin with the tip of a knife while she holds the fruit with the tongs. Inside, the flesh glistens like a jewel – sometimes ruby red, sometimes orange, depending on the variety. Each time, I am surprised anew that such a fierce-looking plant can make such beautiful fruit. By the time the fruit on the tree here is ready, we will have gone home to Melbourne.

  I walk past Yiayia’s vegetable patch, with its tomato plants towering over me and long cucumbers that curl in on themselves. Alongside the black, round eggplants and dark-green zucchinis, string beans climb up sticks of cane. Mum is picking beans and zucchini for our dinner tonight. I lean down beside her and smell the damp earth, cradling the eggplant in my hands. It’s like a baby. I want to wrap it in a blanket and hold it to my chest, but I’m too old to do things like that. I’m seven and I know that the eggplant is for eating, not playing with.

  Pappou is at the end of the garden, bent over piles of small green sultana grapes. He is laying these out on a plastic sheet to dry. The morning sun is already hot. I never knew that the little brown shrivelled sultanas, which we buy in packets from the supermarket back home, came from grapes. Pappou stops what he is doing to smile at me. He reaches into his worn pants and pulls out an ouzo sweet.

  ‘What are you doing, Pappou?’ I ask through a mouth full of lolly.

  ‘I’m drying the grapes. Then we’ll take them off the stems and sort them. Your mum and aunts used to do that when they lived here.’

  ‘There’s a lot. Will you eat them all?’

  ‘No, we’ll send them off to town to be cleaned and then sell most of them.’

  He turns to go back to work. I try to help but I soon get bored. There’s nothing to do here – no television and no other kids in the house, except my brother, Dennis. He doesn’t really count. I make my way to the front yard down the side of the house, past Yiayia, who is putting wood in the outdoor oven, and out onto the road. I can just see the sea winking at me down below. I look at it longingly before walking back into the kitchen.

  ‘Maaa, when can we go to the beach
?’

  ‘Later, Spirithoula. Later. Now, just sit still.’

  I look in the fridge. There’s a plate of feta cheese, some eggs and the bowl of string beans that Mum has just picked.

  ‘There’s nothing to eat here. Why does Yiayia even have a fridge if there’s nothing in it?’

  Mum rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘It’s new. I think she bought it with the money I sent her. Because we were coming.’

  She points to a small chest.

  ‘When I was little, in the summer we would buy ice and put it in here. Not that we had much to keep cold then. If we had meat from the pig, we usually cured it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to eat, nothing to do. I miss home.’

  ‘We’ll be home in a few months. Now come and look at this.’

  She lifts the covers. The dough has risen; it looks like a plump, sleeping baby. I poke it and my finger sinks in, leaving an indent on the smooth surface.

  ‘Yiayia would have had my head if I’d done that when I was a girl. God, to think how many curses she threw at me and my sisters when we did even the smallest thing wrong.’

  ‘What sort of curses?’

  ‘May you go where the sun is hot enough to bake bread and dry salt.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘May you be thrust far away from here – into the desert.’

  Mum looks doubtful, like she regrets telling me. She doesn’t want to say anything that will make Yiayia look bad. ‘Yiayia’s life was hard. I can’t blame her.’

  I can never imagine my own mother cursing me like that, willing me to be far from her.

  ‘Now, the bread is ready to knock back.’

  Mum takes the dough and cuts it into seven pieces, one loaf for each day. She kneads each of these and returns them to their sleeping place.

  I go into the bedroom next to the kitchen, which I’m sharing with my brother. He is playing with his Matchbox cars on the floor and doesn’t look up when I come in. I flop onto the bed and look at the pictures in the one book I have – my Greek school reader. The familiar characters, Anna and Mimi, play with their topi, their ball. They go to church with their family, visit their relatives. The things that Anna and Mimi’s family do are familiar to me because our family does them too. Now that we have been in Greece for a few weeks, I recognise that the book is about life here. The words get harder as the book goes on and in the end, I just look at the pictures.

  Outside, the wood that Yiayia fed into the oven has turned to ash. She sweeps it to the back of the oven and wipes down the floor with a damp sheet tied to a wooden pole. Mum and I carry the bread out to Yiayia, who feeds the loaves into the mouth of the oven. Finally, she pushes a heavy piece of metal across the entrance and wedges this shut with a broomstick to keep the heat in.

  Mum takes us for a walk to the vrissi, the freshwater tap down at the beach that runs from a deep well in the ground. She tells us that her uncle funded the building of the wall that holds the tap. He went to the United States, made some money, then came back to set up a café on the beach and educate his daughters. Building the wall was his way of giving back to the village. We drink the cold, clear water and fill an earthenware jug to take back to the house. When we pass the square, Mum gives in to our whining and buys us a small packet of yaridakia, puffy savouries. I crunch them, relishing the salty crispness on my tongue.

  When we get back to the house, Yiayia is taking the seven golden orbs out of the oven. I move the things on the table to one side – the bottle of red wine, the bottle of olive oil, the salt and pepper shakers – and lay down a rough cotton sheet. Yiayia turns the bread onto the covered table. I feel giddy with hunger and want to sink my face into it, but I have to wait a little longer for it to cool. Finally, Mum takes the serrated knife and cuts me a wedge. She tears a tomato apart with her hands and mashes it along the bread, then drizzles the bread with olive oil, crumbles a wedge of feta over it, and sprinkles some of Yiayia’s dried oregano on top. She hands it to me on a plate.

  I bite into the warm bread. It’s chewy and dense, wet with the juice of Yiayia’s tomato and the green olive oil. The briny, creamy taste of the feta and the bitter aftertaste of the oregano are better than anything I have ever eaten back home. Flies buzz around me, wanting to share my sandwich. I shoo them away. I’ve waited a long time for this. It’s mine.

  Chrysoula’s tomato, feta, olive oil and oregano sandwich

  Serves 1

  Ingredients

  1 thick wedge of dense, good quality bread (to make your own, see here)

  1 ripe tomato (to grow your own, see here), halved

  1 small piece of feta (or, if you are feeling brave, fig-sap ricotta – to make your own, see here)

  A drizzle of olive oil

  A pinch of dried oregano (to dry your own, see here)

  Method

  Place the bread onto a large plate. Rub the seeded side of the tomato against the bread so that the juice seeps out. Break up the remaining tomato and place it on the bread. Crumble the feta over the top, drizzle with oil and sprinkle with dried oregano.

  Horiatiko kotopoulo

  It’s the old chicken that makes good broth

  Greek proverb

  Yiayia Spirithoula and Pappou Dionysios are waiting at the gate when our taxi pulls up. They squint into the sunshine, looking a little bewildered. When we pile out, I kiss their leathery brown cheeks and taste the dust from the road, mixed with their tears and laughter and high-pitched voices. Theio Spiro, Dad’s brother, helps the taxi driver pull our heavy suitcases from the boot of the car. We make our way up the stone steps to the inside of the house where it’s cool and quiet.

  Now that we are here in Vanada, the village where Dad grew up, I don’t know what to do with myself. Yiayia takes charge – first, we need to choose where to sleep. Our cousins will be arriving next week to stay too, and while there are lots of blankets piled up against one wall, there is not much room. Some of the kids will have to sleep on the floor. I don’t mind; I like it when Mum lays out blankets that span the whole room when my cousins sleep over back in Melbourne.

  ‘Ela, come, our new daughter-in-law, you must be hungry. How was the trip from Petalidi? How are your parents? We met them at a feast day a few years back.’

  Yiayia looks Mum straight in the eye, appraises her. Mum looks down. Although they have spoken many times on the phone, this is the first time Mum has met Dad’s parents.

  ‘Yes, my parents are well. It was hard to leave them. It was like leaving for Australia all over again.’

  ‘Yes, I know how it feels to say goodbye,’ Yiayia clucks and looks away.

  ‘We slaughtered a chicken yesterday. I bet you haven’t had a horiatiko kotopoulo, a village chicken, for a while,’ Pappou says to Dad with a laugh. I think he’s trying to make things lighter again.

  We wash our hands in the kitchen basin with its blue and white tiles, and sit down to the meal. The chicken tastes strong. The cheese on the pasta smells like goat, but I’m getting used to strange smells, and I’m hungry. I eat everything on my plate and wipe the sauce with the bread.

  ‘After we rest, we can go down to the cafeneion and you can see everyone.’

  Dad nods. For the second time today, he blinks away tears. Until today, I’d never seen Dad cry.

  Mum helps Yiayia clear up and make the beds, and we all lie down for a rest. The blankets are scratchy and I can’t sleep. We’ve been in Greece a month now, but I can’t get used to the afternoon sleeps. My limbs are too jittery; I’m too excited to sit still.

  Later, we open the suitcase with the presents. Mum pulls out the things she has brought for everybody – thermal underwear and sheepskin slippers, nighties and warm socks. I can tell my grandparents like this new daughter-in-law of theirs.

  Mum makes us put on our best clothes and we walk down to the cafeneion. Pappou’s brother, Fotis, and his wife, Fotena, ‘she who belongs to Fotis’, come out from their house and embrace Dad. They pick my brother and
me up and kiss Mum on both cheeks, touching her arms as if she is a chicken they are testing for plumpness. She laughs, embarrassed.

  ‘Oohh, Nephew, we never thought we would see the day. Perimene mas. Eimeis kername.’ Wait up for us. It’s our shout.

  Our little group walks along the dirt road. Pappou points out the church, and the rooms at the back of it that serve as school and mayor’s office. Pappou is the mayor of the town, and I feel myself puff up with pride to be walking with him. He has an important-looking moustache that tickles when he holds me close.

  It takes us half an hour to get to the cafenieon, even though it’s only 200 metres from Pappou’s house. Nearly every door of every house along the way opens. The same cry is repeated. Tsintziras’s son has returned.

  The cafenieon is a large room, piled high with boxes of soft-drink bottles, coffee and tinned milk. At the end of the room, a man is making coffee in an oversized briki, an Ottoman-style coffee pot. Everyone stops talking as soon as we come in. Suddenly, they are up, hugging my father, tousling our hair, appraising my mother. I have no idea who all these people are, but Dad knows everyone. He’s crying again. A priest in a tall hat is smoking. I gather he is the father of my brother’s godfather, who lives back in Melbourne. Everyone is talking at once, wanting to know how their families are in the xenitia, the foreign land. We are treated to Fanta and small packets of yaridakia. There’s talking and drinking and more tears and we don’t go home until late.

  When we get back to the house, Yiayia brings out pork pieces pickled in fat, and olives, cheese, tomatoes, bread. More is brought out as people drop in, and the men drink wine and beer and little shots of ouzo. I am sleepy, but I daren’t go to bed; I might miss something. Pappou brings out a rifle from under his bed and we all go outside to watch him shoot it into the night air. His eldest son has come back from abroad, and it calls for celebration. It’s been such a big day; when Mum leads me to the scratchy goat’s hair blankets laid out on the floor, my eyes finally close.