Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  I promise to make George a meal to thank him for his hospitality. It becomes apparent he is never going to leave work early enough to eat it, so I suggest I cook for him in the diner. I feel quite nervous – an interloper in the functional industrial kitchen, without the luxury of familiar ingredients. I decide to keep it simple, preparing fettuccine tossed with olive oil, feta and sun-dried tomatoes, accompanied by garlic bread and a salad. When I begin to cook, I start to feel at home. I move into that comfortable space where I can chop and simmer, improvising with base ingredients. As I serve George and Katerina, I realise I can’t avoid channelling my mother, no matter how far I travel. Even in this godforsaken place, I share her impulse to nurture with food. I briefly entertain the fantasy of working full-time in the diner, serving up utilitarian staples to the miners, the red earth of the desert perpetually under my nails, my skin burnt by the harsh sun. It’s an intriguing idea, but I know I would miss my friends, decent coffee, city bookshops. And, dare I say it, my family.

  The next day, we must leave. A few days of almost constant drinking make for a late start. We buy a very expensive bottle of aged port as a gift to thank our host. He tells us that this wasn’t necessary, and that at any rate we should have bought it from him, not his competitor. Still hung-over, I drop the port on the floor as I hand it over. I am mortified. Our goodbyes are awkward, but we promise to come again with a busload of musicians for the Greek festival the coming year.

  Our next stop, William Creek, is an easy 167 kilometres away, a mere centimetre on the map. But we don’t bargain on the unsealed road, its rocks scraping the underside of the car all the way. The edges of the road are fuzzy, the same colour as the desert sand. The going is painfully slow. We play ‘Eye Spy’ for the sheer joy of spotting something, anything – ‘e’ for endless blue sky, ‘h’ for haze, ‘r’ for rocky road. We laugh and sing and talk more about food.

  ‘I love that you enjoy food, Spiri. That eating doesn’t worry you.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’ve always loved it. Perhaps it’s even an obsession.’

  ‘Yes, I know about obsession. Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about food. And I know I use it to push down feelings that are uncomfortable.’

  I look at Katerina, and realise it’s hard for her to speak in this way. I nod, and she goes on.

  ‘When I was a kid, I used to hoard food. My hunger felt bottomless. Even now, there are times when I can’t control my eating.’

  I listen, sensing her anxiety. I see something of the vulnerable girl she must have been. It’s as if she is saying, I hope you can accept me now that you know.

  ‘Katerina, you are a funny, adventurous, clever woman. By the way, did I mention funny?’

  She looks a bit bewildered. ‘I don’t always believe that of myself.’

  ‘I believe it. I’m really enjoying your company. I am loving getting to know you more.’

  She looks relieved, as if I might have run away. But she needn’t have worried. I’m not going anywhere.

  When the odometer hits 1000 kilometres, we stop to take a photo. But we don’t dawdle, lest we get stuck out here after the sun goes down, unable to distinguish the road from the vast desert.

  Tired and thirsty, we drive into William Creek as the sun casts its final rays. The town has a pub full of people and the basics: water, food, beds and copious amounts of beer. There are more light planes parked outside the pub than cars.

  In a dormitory out the back of the pub, we drop our bags onto two single beds. Through the thin plywood walls, we hear bed springs rhythmically bouncing up and down. A walk is in order.

  Katerina goes on ahead into the darkness and I find myself wanting to call out, ‘Don’t go.’ What would I tell her family if she didn’t come back? That I lost her in the desert?

  She disappears into the black night and I wait on a wooden bench, just outside the circle of light that emanates from the pub. I look up into the mass of stars overhead. I feel very small, like a speck of dust. The endless landscape, stretching out as far as the eye can see, takes hold and doesn’t let go. Where my skin ends and the landscape begins becomes blurry. This is a place to get lost in, a place to make me forget I ever lived in a city, had a job, had a family. My smallness is both confronting and comforting. Anything is possible out here. I sieve the red earth through my toes; it is still warm from the day’s rays.

  When Katerina finally returns, I am relieved. But she looks spooked.

  ‘I heard something strange.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sound of sticks being played. You know, Aboriginal rhythm sticks.’

  Her declaration hangs in a void just beyond understanding, beyond tangible explanation. We are silent. There is nothing to do but return to the sweaty embrace of the pub.

  The next day, we make our way to the dry salt bed of Lake Eyre. We pull into a roadside café in the tiny town of Marree. ‘Greek souvlaki’ is chalked up on the board. Curious, we order one each. The owner pulls a souvlaki-shaped package out of the freezer and puts it in the microwave, wrapper and all. We laugh. Predictably, it tastes disgusting.

  We make our way to the Grampians, detouring down a rough track that has our hire car bucking and jolting. There are more pub meals: seafood cocktails smeared in cheap mayonnaise, a poor imitation of spaghetti carbonara, flour-thickened pumpkin soups. In one small town, we play pool and barely escape the advances of some over-enthusiastic local boys. I steal a butter knife from the pub and sleep with it under my pillow, in case they decide to look for us in the middle of the night.

  We imagine more shared adventures. I think about travelling around Australia, eating country food and writing stories. Yarns and Yabbies I will call it. I declare my intention to Katerina, who supports me wholeheartedly. We’ll go together, of course.

  The Priscilla soundtrack plays all the way home. We’ve learnt the lyrics to ‘I don’t care if the sun don’t shine’ by the time we hit the 2000-kilometre mark, where we stop to take another photo. When we finally reach the sobering city skyline of Melbourne, we’ve clocked up over 3000 kilometres. Before we can return the hire car, we hose off the red earth that still clings to the car’s underside and watch sadly as it washes down the drain.

  Spiri’s improvised fettuccine with olive oil, feta and sun-dried tomatoes

  Serves 4

  Ingredients

  500 grams fettuccine

  200 grams sundried tomatoes

  200 grams feta

  A drizzle of olive oil

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Cook the pasta in salted water until al dente and drain. Break up the sun-dried tomatoes and feta with your hands and toss through the pasta, along with a generous drizzle of olive oil. Season and serve immediately.

  Baring my skin

  Whoever did not walk in a moonlit night, and in the morning with the dew, did not enjoy the world

  Greek proverb

  The Big Fish is still here. It has cast off its cage and oversized boomerang, its fibreglass scales are peeling, and it’s not as big as I remember – but it’s still here, welcoming visitors to Tidy Town Tocumwal.

  When I was a kid, seeing the Big Fish was the highlight of the drive from Melbourne to Narrandera, a few hours west of Sydney, where Theio John and Theia Sophia had their fish and chip shop. When I was little, we spent holidays here. Later, my parents bought into the shop and we moved to Narrandera for the first few years of my schooling. No one bothered to change the name – ‘John’s Fish and Chips’ remained. Of course, fish and chips were the main event: thousands of plump packets wrapped in butcher’s paper passed over the counter in the shop’s heyday. But the pièces de résistance were the battered savs, pink sausages fried in batter and pierced with an ice-cream stick. Out the back, grease-stained walls were stacked high with boxes of Smith’s potato crisps and Schweppes Passiona. I remember being impressed that my cousin Kathy would sit on the counter and take orders from the customers, skipping school to hel
p while her dad blew the shop’s profits at the races. She was six.

  I think guiltily that Kathy, now in her late twenties, would have passed through Tocumwal today too. She is on her way to Narrandera for the Easter long weekend, taking a nostalgic trip through our childhood. I was supposed to join her; we have been planning it for months. The idea was to walk through Narrandera, starting at the shop, passing each of our former houses, the park and, finally, the train station, where our mothers used to treat us to raspberry icy poles and the chance to see the once-a-day train scream past. Instead, I have ditched her to go to a festival with a couple of Melbourne acquaintances. When I told her, she wasn’t happy.

  We arrive at the site of the festival, just a few kilometres from Tocumwal, and stop to pay our entry fee. I spot a man with a money belt covering his loins. When he turns around I can see his bare bottom, wrinkling into folds where cheeks meet legs. My eyes travel up to the tattoos lining his arms, the ink crudely applied, the images faded. He takes our money with a smile. ‘Welcome to ConFest.’

  We drive through a dusty expanse of land, perhaps once a grazing paddock. It is overrun with tents, fire twirlers and more dreadlocks than I’ve ever seen in one place. The smell of campfires and dope wafts on the warm breeze and makes me queasy. I can’t stop the memories of Narrandera flooding in. My aunt looked after us six kids while my mum and our dads worked in the shop. She would make us drink a cup of overheated milk when we arrived each morning. The cartoon characters on the tall, gaily coloured cups seemed to mock me. We weren’t allowed to go out and play until we had drunk it all. The smell of burnt milk still makes my stomach turn.

  I wonder what cousin Kathy would make of all these unclad bodies. She would give me a look, flick her long hair and turn on her heel: Cous, what are you doing here?

  But she’s not here. Our paths diverged at Tocumwal – mine leading to sagging scrotums, hers to memory lane. I try to shrug off these thoughts. I think of the smorgasbord of adult things I might experience this weekend. Welcome to ConFest indeed.

  We find a space overlooking the river and start to set up our tents. We heave the Esky out of the boot. Once we’ve set up, I go exploring. I sit to the side of the fire twirlers, watching their colourful bellbottoms sway as they move. I watch people swimming nude in the river and wonder if I will be brave enough to peel my layers off in public. Locals ride past on speedboats, calling out, ‘Hey, pooftas!’ and ‘Great tits!’ Maybe not just yet.

  Back at the campsite, I meet our neighbours. There’s Ruth, all soulful eyes and flowing skirts. She’s here with her friend George, a tall man eating olives. George looks at me shyly from under his woollen beanie. I can’t read his dark eyes behind his glasses, but his gaze lingers for a few moments too long.

  To hide my discomfort, I blurt out: ‘Are you Greek?’ How idiotic. He’s from Malta, it turns out. His family came out when he was two. He offers me an olive and asks what brought me to ConFest.

  ‘A friend of a friend invited me. I was supposed to be somewhere else …’ I broke up with a man eight months ago is what I don’t say. I’m finally getting over it. I am here to have fun. Re-join the world. Swim in the nude. Flirt.

  George wasn’t supposed to come either, he tells me. He tagged along with Ruth at the last minute.

  In the next half hour, I learn that he lives in Balaclava, near Melbourne’s St Kilda. He loves photography. He dances. He makes maps for a living and has a cat called Sydney. I notice his strong chin, his full lips. He is softly spoken and seems a little nervous.

  ‘In Greek, George means “tiller of the soil”.’

  He laughs. ‘I enjoy tilling the soil.’

  The olives are finished and there’s a lull as our conversation reaches its natural end. I wander off to the massage tent. A volunteer masseuse crudely runs his hands over my body. I notice that nearly all of the volunteers are men and wonder who gets the most out of the service.

  Later, George is sitting by his tent. He looks up as I approach, then quickly averts his eyes. I’m confused. How can he be so distant after our earlier conversation? I don’t worry about it for too long – there’s a flirting workshop on soon.

  At night, we sit by the fire. My friend Nick has made a delicious vegetable curry, which we eat with crusty bread and a bottle of wine. The group waxes and wanes as people wander in and out as the night progresses.

  ‘I want to fall in love,’ I say wistfully into the fire. I say it despite myself. It seems to bubble out of some deep place and surfaces without my wanting it to.

  Ruth laughs. George looks at me silently.

  Later that night, George and I follow the sound of drumbeats like kids searching for hidden treasure. We tiptoe around the campsite, edging towards the sounds as they get louder. I look at him – he is crouching like a tiger, listening intently – and I laugh. Here is a man who is even daggier than me. When we find the beats, we dance to tribal African rhythms, drumming up the dust at our feet. Magic crackles in the air.

  Over the next few days, I take myself off to singing workshops and meditation. I cower nude in the sauna tent. I immerse myself in mud under moonlight. I swim with only my undies on in the river. I push myself to bare my skin in the interests of ‘getting into it’, but I can’t quite pull off even partial nudity with as much panache as that ageing hippy. The locals screaming insults doesn’t help. Part of me understands their point of view – how ridiculous all these feral city folk must seem.

  I share meals with a passing parade of new friends. We talk about the important p’s: politics and pasta; peace and passion. We converge at the fireside to eat baked beans and porridge and lentil soups cooked in a kettle. Days pass and I find myself getting into a rhythm of simple, sensual pleasures. I sing and eat. I daydream, read and swim.

  George goes into town each morning to buy the Age, and I watch him leaf through its pages. He has nice hands. Mostly we do different things, but I look forward to seeing him at the daily choir session.

  At the end of the long weekend, I seek him out to say goodbye. I am leaving early to get back to work. He hands me a card from Zara’s restaurant in Coburg. He has written his phone number on the back.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed your company. Would you like to catch up for a coffee back in Melbourne?’

  He looks me in the eye. He’s nervous and earnest and in my hand is his premeditated act of ink on card.

  ‘Thanks. That would be nice.’

  Back in Melbourne that night, I feel lost. I crave the fire, the big sky filled with stars, the company. I call George and leave a message on his answering machine, knowing that he will still be at the festival; I imagine him sitting by the fire.

  He rings back the next day. We talk about ConFest, about what a magical time we had and what a grind it is to go back to work. We arrange to meet at Readings bookshop in Carlton in a few days’ time. Now I am nervous.

  On the day we meet, I wear my Melbourne clothes: my favourite red coat that I bought in Greece, a black skivvy, a short skirt. We make our way to Tiamo for dinner. I find myself talking more than him, divulging intimate details about my life, my thoughts, my fears. He listens generously. He gives me a whimsical children’s book, Song of the Earth: The Magic of Earth, Fire, Water and Air, as a gift. He tells me shyly that he saw ‘two full moons’ one night at ConFest – my bare bottom by the river and the full moon in the sky. I feel my face flush.

  At the end of the night, he walks me to the Valiant. Before I know it, we are kissing. I feel a hot twist of fear in my belly. I think I’m falling.

  George on preserving olives

  Equipment

  Sterilised glass jar or jars, to store

  Ingredients

  2 kilograms small fresh olives

  1½ cups salt

  2 cups vegetable oil

  10 cloves garlic

  1 handful of whole black peppercorns

  Dried oregano to taste

  1 small chilli (optional)

  1 cup white wine vi
negar

  Method

  Wash the olives and place them in the glass jar(s). Cover with cold water and salt and shake well. When the olives have settled, add 2 tablespoons oil to the top of each jar to make a thin film over the water. Store them in a cool, dark place such as a kitchen cupboard for 1 month, shaking occasionally.

  After a month, discard the brine and rinse the olives in fresh water. Return them to the cleaned and sterilised jar(s) along with the garlic, peppercorns, oregano and chilli. Add vinegar and oil, ensuring that the olives are completely covered. Stored in a cool, dark place, they will keep for over a year.

  The smitten series

  A woman and a horse want a worthy rider

  Greek proverb

  ‘Is it possible to fall in love by the third date?’ I ask tremulously.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says, his eyes bright.

  Noses touching, George and I are sitting on a couch in Fitzroy’s Night Cat. There are people dancing, smoking, but they are merely a backdrop to the small drama playing out on the couch. A first kiss. A second date. And now … I am head-over-heels, can’t-get-the-smile-off-my–face, floating-off-the-ground in love. It’s very inconvenient.

  The next day, by email:

  Dear Mr Mifsud,