The Slap

  ‘Yes,’ he called out this time. He went back to the paper.

  Thimios Karamantzis. There was no photograph. Just the age at death. Seventy-one years old. The funeral was to be held in Doncaster. He was mourned by his wife, Paraskevi, his children, Stella and John, and his grandchildren, Athena, Samuel and Timothy. Manolis laid down the paper again and made some quick mental calculations. The age seemed right; Thimios would only have been a couple of years older than he was. As for Doncaster, who the hell knew where people had ended up? They had all scattered to the far ends of this too-huge city. But of course it must be Thimios. The same family name, a wife called Paraskevi. Of course it was him. How long had it been since he had last seen him? Manolis cursed his slowing mind. Think, he berated himself. Was it Elisavet’s baptism? My God, my God, over forty years ago.

  His wife brought out the coffee and sat on the old kitchen chair that had been banished to the verandah when the children still lived at home. The vinyl back and seat had been ripped to shreds by generations of cats, the legs appeared almost gold from the rust, but he and Koula could never bring themselves to get rid of it. It had been with them since their first house in North Melbourne. She picked up the front page of Neos Kosmos and started reading it while softly blowing across the surface of her coffee. She could never bring herself to drink it hot.

  ‘What are the papers telling us, husband?’

  He grunted. ‘I was just looking through the death notices.’

  ‘Read them out to me.’

  Manolis began to read, slowly, one eye cocked towards his wife.

  She clucked sadly on hearing about the death of the thirty-two-year-old lad. Unlike Manolis she did not curse God, but proceeded to lament the inequity of fate. He read out Thimios’s name and at first her face registered nothing. He began to read out another notice when he suddenly heard her gasp. He stopped, and peered at his wife over the rim of his spectacles.

  ‘Manoli mou, do you think that could be Thimio from Ipeiros?’

  ‘I think it could be.’

  ‘The poor bastard.’

  They sat in silence, each drifting off into separate memories. Manolis and Thimios had worked together at the Ford plant, had sacrificed their youth to that job. The man was a hard worker but, much more than that, he had been a good friend. The best parties, the best nights, were always to be had at Thimios’s house, for he was a generous and exuberant host. His wife, Paraskevi, a ravishing, Slaviclooking brunette, was also full of life and she too loved to entertain. Their house always seemed full of music. Thimios played guitar and would often drag Koula up with him to sing. Manolis had never had much time for that peasant crap that Thimios and Koula enjoyed, all that wailing nonsense about eagles and shepherds and godforsaken clumps of rock, but his wife had had a thrilling voice when she was young. It was at Thimios’s house that he had first met Koula. He had not taken much notice of her at first—she was pretty enough, a little too short perhaps, not unlike so many of the young village girls who had come out to Australia back then, ship after ship after ship-load of them. He had paid her scant attention until he heard her sing. She smiled like happiness itself when she was lost in a song, and her voice was clear and galvanising: like pure mountain water dancing downstream, like the first warm rays of the summer sun.

  That following Monday on the assembly line, he had asked Thimios about her.

  ‘She’s a good girl. And she’s pretty.’

  They had to yell to hear each other above the ferocious clamour of the machines.

  ‘She’s a little short.’

  ‘What the fuck are you looking for, Manoli, a German? Koula’s pretty, and a real homemaker. Paraskevi knew her family back in Greece. She’s good stock.’

  The following weekend, Paraskevi and Thimios had organised another party. Manolis hardly spoke to Koula, but he watched her closely. She was fine looking, no Sophia Loren, but she was delightful when she smiled. She also had spirit, courage; it was obvious in her singing, as it was in the way she dared to contradict and argue with the men. At work the following week, Manolis had interrogated Thimios about her family.

  ‘What can I tell you? From what I hear they are a decent, good family, from a village outside Yiannina, just like Paraskevi. No money there, but that’s no different to any of us. She’s got no one out here except a first cousin, a good man, a damned right-winger but not one of those crazy ones. You can argue with him. Koula lives with him and his wife in Richmond.’ Thimios had then grinned slyly. ‘Are you going to take her?’

  Had he answered his friend straight away, had he answered then and there that morning in the factory? Age was the most damnable thing. There were some incidents from the distant past that he could recall with precision and clarity, that stood out more vividly than events that had occurred only a week ago. He could clearly see Koula singing, Thimios playing the guitar, he could remember the high ornate Victorian ceiling of his friend’s house. But he could not recall what his answer had been to his friend that day. Had he made up his mind by then to propose to Koula? Had it been a few days after that conversation or had it been weeks? Months? It was no good, his memory was incapable of taking him back there. It didn’t matter; sometime after that conversation, he and Thimios had walked to her cousin’s house and Manolis had asked permission to marry Koula.

  She had been lost in similar memories as well. ‘We met at Thimio and Paraskevi’s house.’

  Manolis nodded and looked across at her. Her plump cheeks were lowered, there were tears slowly falling onto the paper. He leaned over and folded her hand in his. She smiled at him, called herself a foolish old woman, but she did not let go of his hand. Getting old was a chore, a misery indeed, but it did have its concessions. Manolis doubted that there had been a day in his forties and most of his fifties that did not pass without him regretting ever marrying, without him cursing the terrible burden of having a wife and family. But age did silence dreams, did mellow desires, even the most ferocious lusts and fantasies. It was clear to him now that Koula was a good spouse. She was steadfast. How many men could say that of their wives?

  ‘We must go to the funeral.’

  Koula nodded emphatically. Her coffee was now cool enough for her to sip. ‘You could always have a good laugh with him, couldn’t you?’

  Manolis grinned. ‘He was a joker.’

  ‘It would be lovely to see Paraskevi.’

  ‘Yes, you two were like sisters.’

  Koula snorted loudly. Her face tightened into a sneer. ‘Closer than sisters. My sisters have forgotten me.’

  Manolis ignored her. He was in no mood to listen to such rubbish. Of course her family had not forgotten her. But they were all too far away, they had all passed through a thousand lifetimes, of marriage, work, children, grandchildren, death and loss, which they had been unable to share with her. Oceans, a half a world separated them. This was fate. No one was to blame.

  ‘Not one of them can be bothered to pick up the phone.’

  ‘Maria rang on Adam’s nameday.’

  Koula snorted again. ‘Don’t talk to me about that one. She rang me to tell me all about her holiday in Turkey and Bulgaria. She just wanted to show off, tell me how European and cultured she now was.’ Koula drained the last of her coffee and banged down the cup into the saucer. ‘They can all go to hell.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time we went back for a visit.’

  ‘Again? Husband, you’re crazy. They can visit us for once. I’ve been in this godforsaken country for over forty years and not one of those bastards has bothered to come to see me. Not one of them bothered to come to bury their brother here. Why should we go? Why should we bother?’ Koula shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Manoli, I’m staying put. Who’s going to look after the grandchildren?’

  He felt his irritation rising. He looked over to the garden. It was time to plant the broad beans. Thinking of soil and nature calmed his mind.

  But Koula was too intoxicated by her wounded pride and self-righteousness t
o let the topic go. ‘Who’s going to look after the little ones?’ she repeated.

  ‘Their parents.’ His tone was gruff, angry, and he was glad when the phone suddenly rang. He was in no mood for an argument. Koula rushed to answer and Manolis grabbed the opportunity to work in the garden. He groaned as he rose from his seat. You damn legs, he swore, you are betraying me. He bent over with difficulty and started digging to make a bed for the beans.

  Before long Koula reappeared, standing in the doorway. ‘It’s too early to plant them.’

  Manolis kept digging away at the earth, sinking in handfuls of dry broad beans into the earth.

  ‘That was Ecttora. I told him about Thimio. He says he can’t remember him.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Manolis gritted his teeth and slowly straightened his back. He banged his hands together, flicking off the soil and grit. ‘Hector was five, six, when we left North Melbourne.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But remember how Thimio would always play with him, swing him up to the ceiling so Ecttora could bang it with his fist? He loved that.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He’s bringing the kids over tonight for a meal. The Indian has to work late again.’

  His son had been married to Aisha for nearly fifteen years and still Koula could rarely bring herself to utter her daughter-in-law’s name.

  ‘That woman cares more about her work than she does her family.’

  And you’re a jealous sow. ‘What do you want her to do? She has responsibilities, she’s a professional. She has her business.’

  ‘It’s Hector’s business as well.’

  Manolis turned away from her and a jolt of pain rushed up his left leg. He grimaced and swore. ‘It isn’t Hector’s business—it’s hers. Our son is a public servant, his wife is the business woman. They’re both good workers. They are both fortunate. Stop your complaining.’

  Koula’s mouth tightened. Manolis walked past her. At the verandah he took off his gardening slippers and banged them against the concrete. Specks of earth and stone flew into the air.

  ‘She’s refusing to go to Harry’s party.’

  Manolis sat on the edge of the verandah and rubbed his foot. He looked up at the sky. Dark oppressive clouds were slowly rolling in from the north. It was weeks since they had had rain. God willing, there would be some soon.

  ‘She’s an idiot,’ Koula announced. ‘An ungrateful idiot. Why does she have to shame us, why does she have to shame poor Ecttora?’

  He did not answer her. He looked around for the cat. He had kept some fishheads from last night’s meal for her. He started calling out for her. ‘Penelope, Penelope, Pssh pssh.’

  Koula raised her voice. ‘Why couldn’t he have married a Greek girl?’

  It was not a question. It was a lamentation that he knew he was cursed to hear till the end of his days on earth. He’d ignore her, he would not be dragged into an argument. But he glanced up and Koula’s petulant face disgusted him. Sometimes, sometimes a woman’s foolishness was just too much to bear.

  ‘Marrying a Greek did nothing for our daughter, did it? Marrying a Greek messed up our daughter’s life.’

  ‘Go to hell.’ Koula, vexed, raised a contemptuous fist to him before stepping back inside the house. ‘You’re always defending the Indian,’ she cursed him, before slamming the door shut.

  Blessed peace. A couple of doves cooed, and he heard a scramble across the back fence. Penelope jumped into the garden and then rushed straight to him. She purred as he rubbed her back.

  ‘How’s my pretty girl,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t listen to that idiot inside. She’s gone crazy.’

  The cat purred. Ignoring the clutch of pain as he rose, Manolis walked into the kitchen. Koula was banging plates together, preparing lunch.

  ‘Where did you put the fishheads?’

  No answer.

  ‘Koula, where did you put the fish from last night?’

  ‘I threw them out.’

  ‘For God’s sake, wife, I told you I wanted to feed them to the cat.’

  ‘I’m sick of that cat. I want to get rid of her. The kids keep touching her. They’ll get a disease.’

  ‘That cat’s cleaner than they are.’

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ? You think more of that cat than you do about your grandchildren.’ Koula shook her head in disbelief, chopping at a cucumber with fury. ‘You are not a man. I’ll say it till the day I die. You are not a man.’

  You’ll never die. You’re a witch who will live forever. Manolis searched through the fridge and found the fishheads rolled up in aluminium foil. He took a deep breath and kicked shut the fridge door.

  ‘Koula,’ he started calmly. ‘You know that I don’t defend her over this stupid trouble with Harry and Sandi. I want her to go to Harry’s party.’

  ‘Then talk to her. She listens to you, God knows why.’ Koula was not yet ready to make peace.

  The Devil take you. ‘Make me a coffee.’

  ‘I’m getting lunch ready.’

  ‘I want another coffee.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to her?’

  Manolis looked around the kitchen. Koula had studded the walls with pictures of the grandchildren. Adam, just born, Melissa at the zoo, Sava and Angeliki at the village in Greece, school photos, Christmas photos, the kids all sitting on Father Christmas’s knee. Why couldn’t they remain children? They grew up and they became selfish. It happened to all of them, without an exception. He was weary; man lived too long but clung desperately, foolishly, onto life. If he was a dog someone would have taken him out already and put a bullet in his head.

  ‘Are you going to talk to her?’

  Again. This was going to be a battle.

  ‘Make me a damn coffee.’ Manolis rubbed at his calf.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘When are you going to talk to her?’

  The unpleasant harsh odour of fish. Thimios had taught him how to fish. On Sunday mornings they would rise at dawn, throw their gear into the back of the station wagon and head straight to Port Melbourne. They were young then, the country was new, and the laws were different. They’d drive with a bottle of beer between their legs, smoking cigarettes, no seatbelts, free men, singing, arguing, telling dirty stories.

  ‘I’m going to my friend’s funeral,’ he announced, walking out to the verandah. ‘My friend has died. Hector, Aisha, Harry, Sandi, the whole damn lot of them can wait. I’ll bury my friend and then I’ll talk to her. And make me a damn coffee.’

  Penelope was clawing at his trouser leg. He smiled down at her and dropped the fishheads on the concrete. He sat back in the old armchair and watched the cat eat.

  His initial thought was that they’d made a mistake in attending the funeral. He was unfamiliar with the church and they had got lost in the backstreets of Doncaster. He was driving and Koula was navigating and at one point, fed up with his shouting, she had slammed the Melways shut and refused to answer him. It was a mild winter’s morning, chilly, frost on the lawn, but the sun peeked out intermittently from the bank of dark grey cloud and he was hot in his suit. It was years since he’d worn it and it no longer fitted him, he had to clutch in his stomach to slide into the pants. This had made Manolis smile. You are never going to lose this fat now, friend, he’d whispered into the bathroom mirror. He was sweating as they climbed the steps into the church.

  The service had begun and he and Koula crossed themselves, kissed the icons and moved into the back of the congregation. The church was full, mostly old people like themselves. A woman, clothed in heavy, shapeless black, was weeping quietly in the front pew, supported by a straight-backed young woman also dressed in black. That must be Paraskevi and her daughter. He craned his neck to look at them but he could not see clearly past the rows of people. He looked around, trying to see if he could recognise a face. His memory seemed to fail him. There was a bent-over old man, his hair completely white, who seemed familiar. But he w
as not sure. He realised that Koula had begun a quiet, dignified sobbing. Manolis reminded himself that he was here to bury a friend, and a good man at that, and he lowered his head. He closed his eyes and pushed back into his memory until he recalled the smiling face of his friend, the laughter they’d shared. When he opened his eyes again the tears fell effortlessly.

  He was shivering by the time the service approached its end. Before the altar sat the heavy wooden casket that contained his old friend’s body. It was open; he would have to look at Thimios. The congregation shuffled slowly towards the altar. Manolis was worried that he might faint. He slipped off his jacket and carried it over his arm. He looked up at the forbidding saints painted on the walls. You pricks, he thought to himself, you liars, there is no Heaven, there is only this earth, this one unjust earth. Ahead of him a woman lifted up a young boy to look down into the coffin. The boy was clearly terrified. What madness, what foolishness these rituals were. The bereaved family had formed a line and begun to accept people’s commiserations. He tried to see Paraskevi’s face but it was shrouded by a black veil. Her body seemed tiny, thin. The woman with the child stepped away from the casket. Manolis took a deep breath and looked down into the coffin.

  He did not recognise the impassive dead face. Thimios had gone bald, fat, an old man in a shiny brown polyester suit. Manolis felt nothing looking down at this stranger. He made the appropriate sounds, shed a tear, and then walked to where the immediate family were lined up along the altar. He was anxious about having to speak, to possibly have to introduce himself. Would they wonder who he was, why he was there? He waited for Koula to reach him. His wife came up next to him and he looked up at the line. At that moment, the widow turned and looked at them.

  And Paraskevi struggled to her feet and fell into their arms. Through the fine mesh lace of the veil, Manolis could see that her eyes were the same as he remembered. She was old, she looked as though her back could no longer support her, her hair had thinned, her face was a mass of wrinkles, but her eyes were the same. She clutched Manolis’s arm tight and though she was unable to say a word, the ferocious desperation of her grip said all that needed to be said. My sister, my sister, she managed to whisper in Koula’s ear and then fell into long, anguished moans. He could see members of the family along the line looking at them, wondering who these strangers were to have such an effect on their mother, their grandmother. Manolis, crying like a child now, choked out a strangled ‘I’m sorry’ and Paraskevi released her hold on him.