Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  Rig the lamb up at the highest setting on your spit. After an hour, lower the lamb and add more fuel if the fire is burning too low. Cook for another hour or so, or until you see that the meat is cooked as described below.

  In the last 30 minutes of cooking, baste the lamb with a mixture of oil, the remaining oregano, salt and pepper, using a sprig of rosemary or oregano as a basting brush.

  The meat is ready when the skin is golden brown and has peeled well away from the flesh, and the flesh is starting to come off the bone. Check the thighs and shoulders to see if the meat is tender. When the lamb is done, use heatproof gloves or a thick towel to lift it off the stand, then place it onto a clean surface such as a bench or table covered in foil or plastic. This is a job for two people.

  Slice off pieces of meat and serve hot to the waiting masses with wedges of lemon.

  The hungry caterpillar

  He who becomes a sheep is eaten by the wolf

  Greek proverb

  ‘I’m going to flush your head down the toilet,’ she spits down at me. ‘You’re going to be sorry you ever came to this school.’

  I look up at the girl, who towers over me by more than a head. Her body reminds me of the character Bea from the television show Prisoner, solid and unmoving. Her friends stand behind her and together they push me up against the lockers. Scores of feet echo up and down the linoleum corridor, but I might as well be alone – no one can help me here.

  Debbie, a girl from my primary school class, walks past. I quickly slide away from my tormentors and fall into stride with her, looking back all the while to check that I am not being followed.

  ‘What have you got on next?’ she says. ‘I’ve got art. Isn’t this fun?’

  ‘Um, I’ve got art too. It’s very big, isn’t it?’

  We are at an orientation day at our local high school, designed to prepare us for year seven next year. The school, Collingwood Education Centre, appears massive. Dozens of rooms and offices sprawl across three floors; there is a full-sized theatre, a gymnasium and an oval. There’s a smoking area for the older kids and most of the classrooms are open plan, separated from each other by low partitions. I find it overwhelming compared to the contained rooms of Victoria Park Primary. How am I going to cope?

  Debbie and I join a few others in drawing class. Debbie effortlessly makes a beautiful Aboriginal motif using dots. I look at my own clumsy efforts to draw a face and push the paper deep down into my bag. We then make our way to the cafeteria. I am astounded by the choices: hot chips and pies and sausage rolls; salad rolls and sandwiches; chocolates and crisps. If I do get my head flushed down the toilet, at least I can turn to the cafeteria for comfort.

  The following year, when we start real classes, Bea is nowhere to be seen, but I stick with Debbie even so. We negotiate the corridors together, somehow finding our way to classrooms. There are some pleasant surprises, like the specialised art rooms where we can study textiles, woodwork and ceramics. Perhaps I can prove myself with my sewing skills, which I have honed on my mother’s machine. But I quickly realise that if I want to move up in the pecking order, sewing isn’t going to cut it. Debbie, who lives in the high-rise housing-commission flats near the school, keeps me in the loop with gossip: who stole what; who is in trouble with the police; what everyone is doing. I listen, open-mouthed. There’s a sports store down the road, and there are whispers about who has stolen the latest gear – oversized baseball shirts and high-topped runners, mimicking the rap videos I watch on Saturday mornings. No one can afford these things, but there’s so much kudos in wearing them that it’s worth risking arrest to get them.

  Debbie introduces me to the ‘club’ at the base of the flats. Here there are pool tables and a trampoline and young people everywhere, smoking, talking and laughing. They know how to do somersaults on the trampoline, play pool like pros, and break into Michael Jackson moves when the mood strikes. They carry ghetto blasters and seem not to bother with school much.

  I, on the other hand, take the pool cue clumsily, aware that there is a row of Maori boys behind me on a velour couch, sniggering when I bend over. I bounce up and down on the trampoline, my repertoire limited. All the while, I’m conscious of the time.

  ‘Debbie, I’ve got to go. My parents don’t know I’m here. I have to get home.’

  She shrugs. She’s getting used to my limited freedom. She can roam the grounds of the housing-commission estate as she pleases.

  My parents do let me go to the library on my own. It seems like everything you could ever want to know is on offer at Collingwood’s Carringbush Library. Books tantalise me from rotating displays, seduce me from metal shelves. It’s like a smorgasbord of words, and I am greedy. I chomp my way through the children’s section, catching up on all the books I’ve never read – The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Cat in the Hat, The Magic Faraway Tree – then move on to teen fiction. I read everything I can get my hands on. The librarian raises an eyebrow when I hand over a tome with a woman on all fours baring her breasts. She looks even more worried when I lie, ‘It’s for my father.’

  I spend every spare minute lying on my bed, reading. I hear my mother washing dishes and know I should get up and help, but it’s too late. I have entered a parallel universe of adventure, romance, sex and danger. I live vicariously through the characters and am sad to let them go at the end of a book. I play around The Rocks like the orphans in Playing Beatie Bow. I am swept up in forbidden passions with the heroines of The Thorn Birds. I become wicked like the fiendish characters in The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar.

  At lunchtime, Debbie often goes home to eat with her family, and sometimes I join her. After we eat, her blue-eyed, softly spoken father does the dishes. I’ve rarely seen my father wash up. Debbie’s mother has a cheeky smile and freckles on her dark skin. She smokes at the table, just like my dad, and tells me Archie Roach is her baby brother. I like the casualness of Debbie’s family, the way they chat with one another and seem to trust Debbie to do the right thing. I recognise the strong ties of my own family, without the fear.

  When Debbie comes to my house after school, my mother plies her with food.

  ‘Faye, faye, you are too skinny,’ Mum says.

  ‘Argh, Mama, don’t,’ I say. ‘

  It’s alright,’ Debbie says, obliging by eating everything put in front of her, from lemony baked potatoes to sweet little plates of syrupy preserves.

  At other times, we run across the eight lanes of Hoddle Street, zigzagging between the traffic to get fish and chips for lunch. We eat them at the park, where packs of kids are smoking furtively. I try a cigarette but gag at the taste.

  At school, although Bea is gone, there are still groups of girls out to get me. One afternoon I find myself cornered.

  ‘You’re in for it, Spiri.’

  I am head to head with Jenny. Her friends Anna and Effie stand behind her. I make a snap decision.

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll fight you. After school, in the park.’

  Jenny looks at her friends, then backs off. A new respect comes into their eyes; they are three, I am one, and yet I stood up to them. The fight doesn’t happen, but I’m prepared to follow through if it does.

  These girls aren’t the biggest threat, however. As the year goes on, the boys become our common enemy. They steal our pencil cases and push them through the down pipes from second-floor windows, tear pages from our books and tease us mercilessly. Jenny becomes the target of Jim, a diminutive boy who puts her down at every opportunity. He makes her life hell for months on end.

  One day, when the teacher has left the room, he starts mocking Jenny, then pulls her hair. She stands up, rage in her face. She turns around, and the crack of her slap against his cheek silences us all. He is so shocked, he moves slowly back to his chair, speechless. Jenny sits down, her back straight, her anger surrounding her like a force field. I doubt he will tease her again.

  The teachers do their best to control the rowdy bunch of students, who come from so m
any backgrounds and have so many needs. There are the Cambodian and Vietnamese refugees, who sit in groups and bother no one. There are the Turks, the boys prancing around, Siktir lan this and Siktir lan that: Fuck this, dude, and Fuck that, dude. Some of the Turkish girls are quiet and studious; others apply lipstick in the toilets and hitch up their skirts. I sense that their families are even stricter than mine – that they need to take what freedoms they can at school.

  We are allowed to call our teachers by their first names, and to go into the staff room at lunchtime. I love this new freedom to speak with my teachers as equals. I take pride in lining up with them in the ‘health food’ section of the canteen to order my salad roll, after the hot food has lost its lustre. I know it’s not cool to be chummy with the teachers, but they make me feel that I have something to say, that my views are important.

  I especially like my English teacher, Joy. She has red hair and wears flowing skirts and brown leather sandals. She is gentle but speaks passionately about the English language.

  ‘Today, we are going to learn about poetry. We’re going to read some poems, and then I want you to have a try at writing your own. They don’t have to rhyme. Just write what comes to you.’

  I enjoy this; the words reel off my pen and onto the page. The following week, she takes me aside. Have I done something wrong?

  She hands me back my poem. ‘This is really lovely, Spiri. You should keep writing. I’ve bought you something to help you along.’

  She gives me a journal. I open it up and find it is filled with clean, lined sheets.

  She smiles. ‘I hope you find lots of things to write in these pages.’

  I feel sure that I will. Perhaps this high-school caper won’t be so bad after all.

  Christina’s mtomatoula glyko (preserved tomato sweet)

  Preserving fruits and vegetables was once widespread in Greece, particularly in villages. It ensured that in times of plenty, enough was put aside for the leaner months. It also meant there was always something to serve people who came calling.

  This tomato sweet is traditionally made on the island of Kos. My friend Sevi was shown how to make it by her mother, Christina. Like many Greek recipes that take some time to prepare (this one needs to be left overnight and requires 2 to 3 hours’ cooking time), it tends to be made in bulk. It is also best done in company. This jewel-like dessert makes for a novel and delicious gift.

  Equipment

  2 large glass jars with lids, sterilised (or several smaller jars, if you prefer).

  Ingredients

  50 medium-sized Roma tomatoes that are not too ripe

  4 tablespoons lime powder (available from Asian groceries)

  50 whole blanched almonds

  50 whole cloves

  2 kilograms white sugar

  8 tablespoons lemon juice (the juice of approximately 2 lemons)

  2 cups water

  15 grams vanilla powder (available from Greek delicatessens)

  1 tablespoon honey

  Method

  Peel the tomatoes, taking care not to remove too thick a layer; the exterior of the flesh still needs to be firm. Place the peeled tomatoes in the basin of a clean kitchen sink, with the plug in.

  Put the lime powder into a strainer and hold this above the tomatoes. Turn on the tap so that the water runs through the powder and onto the tomatoes. When no powder remains in the strainer, let the water fill the sink until the tomatoes are completely submerged. Leave the tomatoes in the lime for 30 minutes, stirring with a spoon every 3 or 4 minutes. The lime firms the tomatoes up.

  Using a dessert spoon or fork, pierce the base of each tomato and scrape out the seeds. Wash the tomatoes thoroughly and give them one last vigorous shake to remove any seeds that might still be lodged inside.

  Insert an almond into the cavity of each tomato. Poke a clove into the stalk end of each. Put the tomatoes into a large, heavy-based pot. Add the sugar, lemon juice and two cups of water, then cover the pot and leave it overnight. The tomatoes will expel a fair bit of liquid.

  The next day, put the pot onto the stove and bring to the boil. Simmer over a low heat for 2 to 3 hours, stirring every 30 minutes, until the liquid has turned into a syrup. After 2 hours, place a little of the liquid into a small bowl and wait until it has cooled slightly. The cooled syrup should be the consistency of honey. If it is not yet ready, let it simmer for a bit longer.

  When the syrup is the right consistency, take the pot off the stove. Add the vanilla powder and the honey and stir. When the syrup has cooled, pour it into the sterilised jars, ensuring that it covers the tomatoes.

  This sweet keeps for a year if refrigerated.

  Cavafy connections

  Wonder is the beginning of wisdom

  Greek proverb

  Constantine Cavafy. Someone in the class has heard that Cavafy was gay. There’s also a rumour he was a necrophiliac. We’re paying attention now.

  We are studying Cavafy’s poem ‘Ithaka’ in our year twelve Modern Greek class. We explore the sordid details of the poet’s life (what does a necrophiliac do, exactly?). Stella, our teacher, smiles, and then deftly diverts the discussion to more literary questions. Cavafy was known for his hedonistic poems. Does anyone know what ‘hedonistic’ means? We do not. The word comes from the Ancient Greek word hédoné, which means ‘pleasure’. We perk up again.

  The poem itself feels like hard work. Stella makes us read it in Greek. She refuses to give us the translation just yet. The words are difficult; some are in Katharevousa, an educated, purist form of Greek; others are in Dimotiki – the modern, everyday language – and still others in dialect. We read that Cavafy was born in Alexandria, that Greek was not his first language. At any rate, the poem was written in 1911. What relevance can it have to my life now?

  I go back to daydreaming about the charms of George, one of the boys in the class. I stare vacantly out the window, across the park where a group of Maori boys are rap dancing, towards the flats looming up into a grey sky. I can just make out a figure sleeping on a bench, covered in an old blanket. I fantasise about George’s full lips on mine, my thighs intertwined with his. But there the fantasy stops. My father’s face looms. Ti tha pei o kosmos? What will people say?

  I’ve watched George grow from an awkward child who played cricket on our street to a bad-boy Adonis. If the rumours are true, George is juggling two girlfriends at once. I shake myself from my reverie. George is not the man for me.

  It’s confirmed beyond doubt when he leans across the table and says provocatively, ‘Why are men superior to women?’

  ‘Mmm. Why?’

  ‘Because they can piss on a wall.’

  The boys in the class snigger, the girls groan. George watches me get angry and smirks even more.

  I try to concentrate on what Stella is saying. She challenges us to get inside the poem, get under its skin. What does it mean? What do you think the author wants us to learn? What might ‘Ithaka’ stand for in this context?

  Although I don’t understand all the words, I like the shape of them, the way they roll off my tongue. There are no superfluities, no pretentions. I put my hand up.

  ‘I think the poem is about going on a journey, on life’s journey. Maybe it’s about finding out where you belong, where home is?’

  Stella nods. ‘Bravo, Spirithoula.’

  We pull the poem apart, line by line. I scribble notes beside it.

  Laistrygonians and Cyclops,

  angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:

  you’ll never find things like that on your way

  ‘Don’t let obstacles get in your way. Don’t let fear stop you from exploring things.’

  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.

  ‘You can’t just pick and choose from good and bad experiences. The biggest riches are the ones we have gained from the journey.’

  I t
hink about my own journey, about where I’m going. I want so many things. Mostly, I want more freedom to go out, to explore. I want to escape my chunky thighs and large bottom – where are the bottoms like mine in Dolly magazine? And I want to know where I belong. Am I Australian? Am I Greek? I feel that I exist in no-man’s-land – somewhere in the middle, with one foot in each camp. I want out, but I have no idea what I want into. Or how the heck I’m going to get there.

  Mum has her own ideas about what I should want. At parent–teacher night she makes straight for Stella, the only teacher who speaks Greek. ‘Is my daughter good enough to go to university?’

  I roll my eyes, embarrassed.

  Stella glances at me and says diplomatically, ‘She has great potential. If she continues to apply herself as she has, she will do well.’

  Mum is pleased; she doesn’t bother to speak to any other teachers. On the way home she tells me, ‘If you don’t go to university, you’ll turn out like me – sewing nighties for a living. We came to Australia for our children, for a better life. Make me proud, Spirithoula, make us all proud.’

  I know by ‘us’ she means not just our family, but also all the theies and theios and the neighbours too. I feel as if the whole tribe is sitting on my shoulders, and the weight of it gives me a headache.

  Luckily I too want to go to university, although for a different reason – escape. I try to apply myself to my studies. But in my regular bouts of procrastination, I take solace in my trusty companions: books. Cavafy echoes in my head … May you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars. The school library becomes my little Egyptian city, allowing me to step out of my life and into another, more exciting one. I let the words in books overrun me; I soak in them, get lost in their sensual charms.