1966, Sydney.
A Greek restaurant on a Saturday night in downtown Sydney. Two tables on the small patio out the back of the restaurant. The patio is dim, lit only by a weak bare bulb mounted on the wooden wall of the restaurant, and a candle in a bottle on each table. The patio is hemmed by high walls, recently white-washed. The paint smells of fresh chalky concrete. One wall is adorned with tumbling plants, the others with blue and white ceramic plates. One table is empty. A couple occupies the other table.
She is in a tight green dress, the hemline well above her knees. Her skin is not yet tanned. Freckles dot about her bare arms. Her hands flutter around her face. Her eyelashes and her lips have been thickened for the occasion. She is leaning back on her wooden chair. Every few minutes the weeping cactus plant on the shelf behind her head tangles in her hair and she pulls away, laughing. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. She’s not sure what the right thing is. She is waiting.
He is in a blue-checked short-sleeved shirt. His trousers are not worth describing. He may be wearing sandals. If he is, it will feel more agreeable. His dabs at his brow with a cotton handkerchief are rhythmic and methodical. His face is pink, a malady brought on by the heat and the alcohol. It’s difficult to hide a pink face. He looks like he’s trying.
His glass is nearly empty, hers is almost full. The thick pine scent of the retsina is sticky sweet. It reminds her of treading barefoot through the forests back in Scotland. The pale brown spindles jabbing at her toes.
A small black (hand glazed?) bowl swanks large green glistering olives. The bowl’s white partner is empty. The man gestures to the bowl. For pips, he says. It’s not easy to eat an unpipped olive in a decorous manner. The woman, trying olives for the first time, takes her cue from him. She punctures the soft flesh of the fruit with a wooden cocktail stick. Pops it into her mouth fast before the olive drops off the end. Chews the pulp around the stone. Holds the stone in her mouth for longer than is comfortable. Spits it into a cupped hand and drops it into the white bowl. She waves away his signal for her to eat another.
Is there anything you don’t eat, he asks her, running a finger down the menu. She shakes her head. She is too shy to say. He knows the chef, he says. Anatoli. He’ll cook us the best of the best. The waiter, bursting through the plastic string door curtain with a smiling flourish, brings them a small tray of warm pita breads and a plate of dolmades. They look like babies. A row of babies tucked in tight in viridian swaddling. Stuffed with grape leaves, he says to her. They’re divine.
He picks one up with his fingers. Come here, he says. And open your mouth. She hesitates. She is not sure about the leaves. Come on, he says. She leans forward. He twists the dolmade into two pieces. She closes her eyes. The mixture of leaf and rice is soft, sensuous on her tongue. Delicious, she says. He wipes a line of brine from under her lip with a finger. She can’t believe she said delicious. What a ridiculous word. He puts the other half in his mouth and chews. Another, he asks. She nods. Of course, she says.
The waiter returns with his note pad. Scrawls the order down with a chewed down pen. The woman understands none of it. She trusts the man to do the right thing. The waiter leaves and the man calls after him. Georgios, could we have some music? Greek music for the princess here. He called her princess. She blushes. The music starts a minute later. (If you’re reading this aloud, stop and find a version of Zorba on Youtube. Crank up the volume as the tempo increases. Tap your foot. Click your fingers..That smile you have? That’s the woman’s smile, too.)
I love it, she says. I knew you would, he replies. She dances her fingers on the table. He reaches across and touches her hand. It’s nice, he says, being with you. She doesn’t reply. She looks down at her plate. She grins. He likes her. He really likes her. It’s been hard, you know, he says, these last couple of years in Oz. Took me ages to fit in. But now you’re here. And it’s home from home. He dabs at his brow.
The waiter bursts through the door curtain with a tray. A long red strand of plastic wraps around his neck. He flicks it the way he always flicks it. He’s a flicking expert. Madam, he says, kolokythokeftedes, compliments of the chef. Anatoli’s special. He puts the plate of courgette balls down on the table. Eat those and I’ll be back with the moussaka and the souvlaki. Aren’t you lucky, the man says. He’s never done that for me. The woman blushes. This, she is sure, is the happiest night of her life.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 