Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  George and I take off on our own, travelling around the Peloponnese for a month. We play noughts and crosses on the paper tablecloth at a railway-station café somewhere between Diakofto and Kalavryta, eating fish and fried potatoes and horta. We buy a candili, a votive lamp, in the fortified mediaeval town of Monemvasia. We swim in the sea at Nafplion and climb the 999 steps to the castle above. We stop off at Gytheio and eat grilled octopus at a seaside taverna. George basks in the glory of every ruin, every castle, every historical landmark. I bask in the translucent Mediterranean waters, in not having any responsibilities and in being in love. I think back to Cavafy’s ‘Ithaka’ and revel in this journey with George, rejoicing that this is just the beginning.

  Gracie’s qargha baghli mimli bil-laham (marrow stuffed with meat)

  Serves 4

  Ingredients

  4 large marrows or long zucchini

  Olive oil, for frying

  1 large onion, diced

  1 clove garlic, sliced

  500 grams mince meat

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  2 eggs

  3 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese

  1 handful of chopped parsley

  Salt and pepper

  1 kilogram potatoes, sliced

  Method

  Cut the tops off the marrows and set them aside. Using a small knife or teaspoon, scoop out the flesh from each marrow and chop it up. Set the marrow skins aside. In a heavy-based pot, heat a little oil and fry the onion and garlic. Add the mince meat and tomato paste and cook until the meat is browned. Add the marrow pulp and cook for a few minutes. Remove from the heat and allow to cool, then add the eggs, cheese, parsley and seasoning.

  Preheat the oven to 180°C. Fill the marrow skins with the mince-meat mixture and put the marrow tops back on. Arrange the sliced potatoes in the bottom of a shallow baking dish. Place the stuffed marrows on top and drizzle them with olive oil. Bake for 1 to 1½ hours or until the marrows are browned and cooked through. If they appear too dry, pour a little hot water into the sides of the pan. Season to taste and serve.

  Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

  Arriving there is what you are destined for.

  But do not hurry the journey at all.

  Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

  Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

  Without her you would not have set out.

  She has nothing left to give you now.

  And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

  Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

  Constantine Cavafy

  The wedding dance

  If you join the dance-circle, you must dance.

  Greek proverb

  ‘What makes a successful marriage?’ I ask George’s mum on her fortieth wedding anniversary.

  She answers without hesitating: ‘Patience.’

  Not long after that, George and I are sitting at the formal dining table, facing my own parents. Our hands are held tightly on the table. ‘We’re getting married.’

  ‘When?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Next year. In February.’

  ‘That’s too late.’

  I can feel my excitement draining away – as usual, I can’t seem to please him.

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘You’re practically living together. What are you waiting for?’

  To do it when we choose.

  ‘We can have a small engagement party if you like in the meantime.’

  He seems placated by this. On to the next point of order.

  ‘Where will you get married?’

  By this he means, Will you get married in the Greek Orthodox church?

  At least we’re prepared for this one. George and I had this discussion early on: the children would get their names from his side of the family, and we would get married in the Greek church.

  ‘We’d like to go to the church in Red Hill.’

  Red Hill is a small bayside village south of Melbourne on the Mornington Peninsula. The grounds of the church are beautiful. There’s a big tin shed where they make lamb on the spit. I fantasise about dancing amongst the pines and olive groves that the priest has planted during his long tenure.

  ‘That’s too far. What if people get drunk – how will they get home? They might have an accident.’

  It takes all my willpower to hold back tears.

  ‘George and I will talk about it.’ I get up from the table. This was not the response I was hoping for.

  George and I considered getting married while we were overseas, at the church where Dad was baptised, with a feast in the village square afterwards. When we hinted at this plan to our respective parents, they made it clear that they would not come. My parents had not been to Greece since our trip as a family in the ’70s. And my soon-to-be in-laws had never been back to Malta. It’s too far. Too hard. And what about our family and friends? Most of them are here.

  Now, we are being asked to compromise again. Part of me wants to rebel. But my parents are, as always, practical. And, in the end, George and I want to make a commitment to each other – the finer details do not matter so much.

  We decide to have the ceremony at the Holy Monastery of Axion Esti in Northcote, on the rambling grounds that also house the Little Sisters of the Poor St Joseph’s home – a symbolic melding of Orthodox and Catholic faiths, we like to think. I feel drawn to the church rituals that were such a big part of my childhood. I won’t feel properly married unless I exchange rings with George and don the stephana, two crowns linked together by a ribbon. We have asked Katerina to be the koumbara, our maiden of honour, and a long-time friend of George’s, Hugo, to be our best man.

  I shop with Katerina for wedding dresses. In the fitting rooms, we giggle at the expanses of taffeta and tulle and silk I am offered to try on. I’m wearing the wrong shoes and we have altogether the wrong attitude, the shop assistant’s glare seems to say. I am horrified by the huge, outrageously expensive gowns. Attending bridal fairs and poring over wedding magazines doesn’t interest me in the least. In the end, I head down to a tiny fabric shop on Brunswick’s Sydney Road and buy myself a length of fabric whose sheen doesn’t hurt my eyes. As a concession to my mother, I order some organza for a veil. I deliver the fabric to a dressmaker, along with instructions for a simple gown. A friend loans me a necklace. George and I breathe a sigh of relief as each wedding task is ticked off our list; now we can go back to making our home in Preston, where we have been living together these past few months.

  The day before the wedding, I say goodbye to George and head back to Mum and Dad’s house. A group of girlfriends joins me and we paint our nails, give each other massages. Mum brings out an oversized platter of fried eggplant in rich tomato sauce, along with bread and cheese. Dad sits at the head of the table and we dig in. The conversation turns to my decision not to change my surname. My name is part of my identity, my cultural heritage – I’ve had it my whole life and I don’t want to let it go.

  ‘Do you think you will be able to do what you want when you get married? Things will change, Spirithoula,’ Dad says.

  His warning is sobering. Will I still go out with my girlfriends, still do things I enjoy? I know some things will change, but I tell myself that marriage isn’t the same as it was in my parents’ day, in the village. I shrug off Dad’s polemic and turn to the eggplant, which is rich and almost meaty in its thick sauce. I put slippery pieces of it onto a thick wedge of bread and bite into it. Take that, Dad.

  Family and friends drop in for cognac and nibbles on the morning of the wedding. We form a circle and dance around the living room in a kalamtiano, a folk dance from Kalamata. I start the dance, holding my dress so that it doesn’t drag on the ground. Dad takes my hand and looks at me proudly. Afterwards, he takes the lead and does so
me fiyoures, fancy moves: turning and squatting and jumping. He holds the hanky that distinguishes the leader from the followers, and my uncles lift him up. There is a sense of continuity. I have danced this dance with my family since I was a child. It’s been around for a long time; my parents danced it in their villages. Dad once told me that Homer, in the Iliad, describes similar dances around the spear of Achilles. Here we are in our suburban home, continuing the circle.

  I get dressed and then Mum comes into the bedroom; she holds me and cries. Even though I no longer live at home, this is a symbolic parting – her daughter is leaving the family home to start her life as a married woman.

  We leave for the church in a convoy, cousins and uncles and friends. At the door of the church, Dad clutches my elbow tightly. He is nervous; the corners of his mouth are turned down.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. It’s going to be alright.’

  ‘Hrrmmmpp.’

  We wait for a long time for the signal to go forth. An usher finally comes and apologises: the priest has been caught up in traffic following a funeral at another church. It’s another twenty minutes before he arrives, his robes ballooning out behind him. We can start.

  I walk slowly up the aisle. George looks strapping in his suit, smiling nervously. I take his hand. The priest starts chanting, wielding the censer filled with incense. Soon, Katerina is given the go-ahead to switch the stephana back and forth three times. This represents the joining of two souls, and our commitment to creating our own ‘kingdom’. Then the priest leads us around the altar in the dance of Isaiah, which symbolises the eternity of marriage, with no beginning and no end. Before long, we find ourselves signing the paperwork and it’s done. I am elated. We made it.

  Outside, the music has already begun. My male cousins throw koufeta, sugar almonds, which land hard on George’s head. Katerina’s brother Zois has taken up his toumbeleki; his mates yield a clarinet and trumpet. They are playing a traditional song, ‘Na eixa ta niata mou thio fores’ – ‘If only I could be young twice’. People start dancing. Someone pours whisky and port into tiny plastic cups for a toast. Theia Georgia is handing out thiples – thin, sweet pastry, fried and dipped in honey syrup and sprinkled with walnuts. She knows thiples are my childhood favourite and has made more than 200 for the wedding. The sun is glorious and the only thing missing from my fantasy village wedding are a few lambs on spits.

  Ecstatic, I eat more than my fair share of thiples. I don’t know it yet, but baby is hungry too.

  Chrysoula’s eggplant in tomato sauce

  Serves 4 to 6

  Mum often makes this dish when friends and family gather together, particularly when eggplants are in season. It is rich and comforting – perfect for pre-wedding nerves. It can be served as an appetiser or a side dish.

  Ingredients

  4 large eggplants

  Olive or vegetable oil for frying

  2 large onions, diced

  1 clove garlic, peeled and sliced

  375 millilitres passata or 1 can diced tomatoes

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Slice the eggplants longways into thick pieces and salt liberally. Set them aside for 30 minutes, then rinse them and pat them dry with kitchen paper. Heat a little oil in a frying pan and fry the eggplant in batches, setting each piece aside to drain once it is golden on the outside and soft in the middle. In a separate pan, fry the onions and garlic for a few minutes, then add the passata. Simmer for 15 minutes or until the liquid has reduced. Add the fried eggplant to the sauce and simmer for 5 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.

  Growing a watermelon

  The hungry bear doesn’t dance

  Greek proverb

  ‘I need watermelon. Go and buy me some watermelon, George.’

  ‘It’s late, Spiri. And it’s the middle of winter. Where am I going to find watermelon?’ ‘I don’t care where you get it. Just get it now, please.’

  George gets up from the movie he is watching and slips out of his flannelette pajamas. He puts on his jeans, a jumper and a jacket, and goes outside to heat up the Camira. It’s been raining, and I know there will be water puddled at his feet, where the rain gets in through the rust. We really are going to have to get a newer car; something safe for baby. I feel sorry for George as I wave him off into the night, but a craving is a craving.

  He brings me a whole, out-of-season watermelon from Preston’s Safeway. I almost berate him for the expense – a good-sized wedge would have been fine – but stop myself. Hormones can only excuse so much. George watches me as I eat like a woman possessed. The watery sweetness sates me, at least for now.

  After the first few weeks of pregnancy, when I craved pasta and potato chips – in fact anything high in fat and sugar – my appetite goes. I vomit each morning as soon as I get up, in gutters on the way to work and in the toilets when I get there. Most days, all I’m able to keep down is watermelon and Vegemite toast. The vomiting continues for five months, all day and every day. As my belly grows, a tight drum in front of my body, the rest of me thins out. It’s as if the stored fat in my bottom and thighs is finally being put to good use growing baby.

  George wants to track the pregnancy with his camera, but every time he suggests a photo, I resist. I’m nauseous and irritable. When I do sit for him, he marks the baby’s growth with things we find in the garden: a turnip at twelve weeks; a pomegranate at eighteen weeks; a quince at twenty-four weeks. He tempers my ill mood with patient good humour. Even in my hormonal state, I know I have married the right man.

  At times, I imagine I am growing a watermelon, I have eaten so many of them during this pregnancy. But the first scan proves that we are indeed having a baby, with all its fingers and toes. As the foetus moves in a swishing sea of fluid, George and I hold hands, marvelling at what we have created. When baby kicks inside my belly, it’s confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt: I’m growing a life.

  As the time for the birth draws closer, our families rally around to offer the things baby will need. Mum and Dad give us money for a cot, and my in-laws for a wardrobe; my brother pays for a sturdy, old-fashioned pram; and my cousin lends us the basinet that both her children slept in.

  It’s overwhelming what one can purchase for a baby, but our two-bedroom home won’t allow for excesses. We clear out the detritus from the spare room and create a nursery. For the first time in my life, I get obsessive about cleaning, sweeping aside cobwebs from corners and dusting every surface.

  This is the first grandchild on both sides and all four grandparents-to-be are delighted. One day, after lunch at my in-laws’ house, they call us into one of the bedrooms. They present me with a suitcase they brought with them from Malta in the ’60s. Inside are tiny singlets, cloth nappies, body suits, hand-knitted booties and woollen jackets, all knitted by an elderly neighbour to my mother-in-law’s instructions. There are woollen blankets and a sheet set. Everything is neatly folded and wrapped in tissue paper. The smell of baby soap wafts up. I burst into tears, overwhelmed by their love and generosity.

  I am not particularly worried about the birth. I feel my body will do its thing, as women’s bodies have been doing for thousands of years. For once, I am grateful for my generous hips. I am keen to give birth with as little intervention as possible, and feel sure I won’t need pain relief after dealing with chronic migraines all my life. I am reassured by the fact that my mother reported easy births. We have booked into a hospital birth centre with paisley bedspreads and mood lighting. At our birth classes, we sit on our bean bags and titter at the earnestness of some of the younger participants.

  I am more worried about bringing baby home. Will I be able to decipher its cries? Will my maternal instinct kick in? It is barely two years since George and I were nuzzling at the Night Cat; am I ready to be a parent? But we are as ready as we will ever be: the pram is in the hallway, all the tiny clothes have been washed and ironed, and I am unable to sleep for the bulk in front of me. This is a baby we have both wishe
d for and dreamt about, a baby we created together. Soon we will be able to bring the egg cup down from the high cupboard.

  Early one morning, I feel water gush down my leg and onto the mattress. I go to the toilet and my undies are drenched. I wake George.

  ‘I think my waters have broken.’

  George jumps out of bed, tells me to lie down, checks that everything is in the overnight bag in the hallway and hops into the shower. Within ten minutes, he is ready for action. We ring the hospital.

  ‘Any contractions yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you don’t get any, come in this afternoon and we’ll see what’s going on.’

  The contractions don’t come. We go into hospital, clutching our bag. There, the nurses are kind but firm.

  ‘You can do a number of things to bring the contractions on. Walk up and down stairs. Have curry. Go for a walk around the block.’

  I get up from the examination table, disappointed. I was hoping my body would do its thing by itself.

  Over the next day and a half, we do as we are told, but I only get a few fluttery contractions. We are admitted, and after a few hours, it is suggested I be induced to avoid infection. We are transferred from the birth centre to a grim room downstairs. Gone is my fantasy of massage oils and music. I am strapped to a machine and injected with oxytocin. Within minutes, my contractions start properly, waves of excruciating pain that rocket through my body. I forget to breathe, start to panic. I wonder how long I can take this pain; I pull at the gas mask like a drowning woman, sucking desperately for air.

  Before long, George and I get into a rhythm: every time I have a contraction, I breathe and push down, my arms braced firmly around his neck. The pattern is comforting; my body has taken over. George’s eyes, his voice, the gas mask are all that matter. The nurse checks in every now and then. She looks at the monitor but doesn’t interrupt us. Have I been here minutes or days, I want to know.