The Slap

  Koula beamed in triumpth. ‘See. Your son is smarter than you. Harry should have belted that little Devil. What kind of child is that? He’s a monster.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Koula raised her hands in disbelief. ‘Then what is the point?’

  ‘He hit a child.’

  ‘He was going to hit Rocco.’

  ‘But he didn’t.’

  ‘No, because your cousin had the sense to stop him.’

  ‘Well, she’s not coming. Hector told me.’

  Koula looked over at Manolis, who shrugged. He could not understand it either. He was surprised that Aisha would be so petty. Harry had been a fool to hit a child, but the little brat had deserved it and it had not been anything, just a slap. That was all it was. All the money wasted on lawyers, the courts, all that rubbish. They were mad, his children’s generation. Was it that they had so much money they didn’t know what to do with it? Was it his generation’s fault for spoiling them? Had they spoiled them?

  Koula voiced his thoughts. ‘And to go to the police. What a disgusting low act.’ She shook her head slowly.

  ‘Why not? He hit a small boy.’

  Manolis tightened his mouth. He should not speak. But what foolishness was his daughter talking? The fucking police, the fucking pigs? Over a slap.

  Koula tapped the table. ‘I’ve hit Sava.’ She crossed her arms, daring her daughter. ‘Are you going to call the police on me?’

  ‘You shouldn’t hit him.’

  ‘Not when he swears at me, not when he hits his sister?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘You’ve hit him.’

  Elisavet’s eyes darted from her mother to her father. ‘I’m not going to talk about it. Aish is right. No one has the right to hit a child. No one.’

  ‘Not even when they’re misbehaving?’

  Elisavet hesitated. ‘No.’

  Koula threw back her chair in disgust, rose and walked over to the sink. ‘And you’re paying someone thousands of dollars today to tell you why children don’t read, why they don’t write. You should give me the money. I’ll sort it out for you.’

  Elisavet swore under her breath. ‘So it’s alright to bash a child, is it?’ she hissed in English. ‘Bashing a child is fine, eh?’

  Manolis had enough.

  ‘For God’s sake, no one bashed anyone. He gave him a slap, one fucking slap. That’s all. And now Aisha won’t talk to Harry and that stupid Australian whore calls the cops and what’s the result? Her child is probably still causing trouble everywhere he goes. It’s nonsense. ’

  ‘How would you feel if a stranger slapped Sava in front of you?’ Elisavet was yelling as well.

  ‘I’d be furious. But if Sava was going to hit his child I’d understand. I’d take an apology and that would be it. Finished. Maybe I’d punch him a few times. We’d deal with it like men, not like animals the way those filthy Australian degenerates did.’ Manolis was shaking. He remembered the crowded formality of the courtroom, Sandi’s fear, Harry’s shame.

  He rose. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to talk to Aisha. She’s coming to the party.’

  Elisavet rolled her eyes. ‘Good luck.’

  Koula shook her head in disgust. ‘You should be supporting your brother, you should be helping to fix this madness. But you support her. I’m ashamed of you.’

  ‘Aisha is in the right.’

  Koula pointed to the door. ‘Go. I’ve had enough.’

  Elisavet picked up her handbag, went into the lounge to kiss the children goodbye. She came in and kissed the top of Manolis’s head.

  ‘You’ll see. She’ll come, she will listen to me.’

  ‘Dad, she won’t.’

  He wouldn’t answer her. Aisha would listen to him. He’d be calm, reasonable. His reasons were sound. She respected him, she loved him. She would listen to him.

  Elisavet leaned over to kiss her mother. Koula turned her head, offered a cold, disdainful cheek.

  ‘Thanks for looking after the kids, Mama.’

  Koula made no answer.

  ‘I’ll see you at eight.’

  Koula had got to Elisavet. Her farewell was melancholic, resigned. They both waited till they heard the slam of the car door and the engine start up.

  Koula put her hands over her head. ‘They’re mad, husband, they’re all mad.’

  He got up, rubbing his knee. Koula looked up eagerly as he picked up the phone.

  ‘Are you going to speak to her?’

  He nodded. Excitedly she rushed into the lounge room. ‘Sava, Kiki, turn down the television. Your pappou is on the phone.’

  Sava groaned. ‘Do we have to?’

  Koula wagged a stern finger. ‘Now. Or I’ll spank your bottom a hundred times.’

  The boy scrambled for the remote and turned down the volume.

  Aisha was running late. Manolis did not mind. High Street was busy with people doing their Friday night shopping, and others out walking, taking advantage of the mild spring evening, the lengthening of the day. He did not know the coffee shop that Aisha had chosen and when he first arrived there had been a moment of embarrassing social confusion. A young couple were heading for the door, just as his hand had reached the handle, and he had assumed—had not doubted it at all—that they would make room for him to pass. However, the man, who was in front, did not yield and he and Manolis had bumped into one another. Neither had been hurt, but they had looked at each other in momentary bewilderment. The young man had stepped back, and crashed into his partner. The young woman had then frowned at Manolis, and the old man had blushed. Manolis, rattled, stood there expecting an apology but the young man did nothing, did not move, did not say a thing. He just looked confused. ‘Excuse me,’ the woman had finally said sharply—an order, not an apology—and Manolis stood aside to let them pass. Out in the street, the young man had turned back to look at Manolis once again. His face still wore a baffled expression.

  Manolis took a seat at the back of the busy café and ordered a cappuccino. It would be too milky for him but it was the one English coffee he liked to drink. It arrived promptly. He thought back to the incident at the door. Manolis was almost certain that the young man had wanted to apologise to him, that he was even forming the words when his girlfriend rudely swept him aside. If Koula had been with him, she would still be complaining about their rudeness and selfishness. He too had thought this for a long time, that the abandonment of respect for the aged was an indication of moral emptiness and materialism. He was not so sure now. He wondered if the youth had a father. Did the woman? When there was no father one did not learn respect. Often on the tram or the train he would be taken aback by some clear lack of civility in a young man and then realise that the boy had no notion of how crude his behaviour appeared, how dishonourable. As for the girls, they seemed distrustful of any adult. It used to anger him, it used to want to make him grab hold of their ears and punish them. He no longer felt that way. Now he felt pity for them. They had no fathers and they had not learned the meaning of honour, of respect. The mother was everything, of course, everyone knew that: women gave life and sustained life. But women were too selfish to teach honour. He felt sorry for the young couple, felt compassion for them.

  That’s no good, he mused to himself, no good at all. Something is wrong in the world when the old pity the young.

  ‘You’re deep in thought.’

  He kissed his daughter-in-law twice on the cheek. She smelled scrubbed, he could detect the clean antiseptic odour of soap on her. She looked beautiful and, as always, her clothes were simple and elegant. He was proud of her. As a child Manolis had grown up knowing little if anything about the manners and sophistication that came from money. The first film he had ever seen was in Patra when he was on leave from the army, a French comedy set in some distant past. A man with a moustache had kissed a woman’s hand and the gesture had made the young Manolis burst out laughing. What the Devil, he’d said to his army comrade next to
him, does the idiot think she’s a Priest? But when Ecttora had first introduced him to the Indian he’d recalled the film and wanted to lean over and kiss her hand.

  ‘How was work?’

  ‘Friday is always busy.’ Aisha placed her jacket over the chair and took a seat. She looked around for a waiter and ordered. ‘Hector said that you went to a funeral yesterday. I’m sorry. Were you close?’

  He sometimes thought her deep-set eyes were too big for her face.

  ‘An old friend. What is there to say? We all have to die.’

  ‘Was it cancer?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Hector hardly remembers him. But he did say that when he was born you and Koula and your friend all lived together. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated.

  The coffee arrived and they sat drinking in silence. They had never been alone in such a way before, and he felt awkward. She must be feeling it too. But he could not bring himself to speak. He realised that he’d given the conversation no thought at all. From the beginning, he and this woman—why, she was still a girl when Ecttora first brought her home—had seemed to fall into an easy friendship. They never did have to talk much, Aisha knew no Greek and he, even after all his time, could not always make his meaning clear in English. But that did not matter. Their immediate trust was something that both of them had been thankful for, allowed them to distance themselves from Koula’s anger and Ecttora’s stubbornness. Manolis had simply wanted to talk to Aisha and convince her to come to the party. He had no doubt of her love for him. She would agree. But now, watching her sip her coffee, noticing the quizzical look in her eyes, he felt uncertain of his hold on her. He did not know what to say.

  ‘Manoli, why did you want to meet with me?’

  Her eyes gave nothing away. However, they seemed to penetrate right into him. She knew, of course. She knew.

  ‘Aisha, I want you to go to Harry and Sandi’s house for his birthday.’

  She placed her coffee cup on the table.

  ‘Please,’ he added suddenly.

  ‘I thought it was going to be about this.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not going.’

  He tried to read her eyes, those dark, alluring cat-eyes. They were unfathomable. Did she pity him? Was she angry with him?

  ‘What he did was bad, terrible, very terrible, but it was a mistake. He is very sorry. Please, Aisha, it is no good for Adam and Melissa. They want to visit Rocco, they are cousins—’

  ‘They can see their cousins whenever they like,’ she shot out, crossing her arms. ‘I’m not stopping them.’

  ‘It makes problems for Hector.’

  ‘Hector understands my reasons.’

  He was getting confused. What were her reasons, how could she maintain such a rage? It creates a problem for me, he should answer, how about the problems you are creating for me?

  ‘Harry and Hector are close, very close. Like brothers.’

  She was unimpressed with his play on family loyalty. Her eyes flashed and this time he detected her anger. ‘This is not hard for Hector. You don’t have to worry about him. Isn’t the real issue that this is a problem for Koula?’

  This was dangerous ground. His damned knee started to ache, and he lowered his hand under the table to massage it. He was frustrated with Aisha. This was another battle between the women, another petty crusade. He refused to discuss his wife.

  ‘Harry is very sorry.’

  ‘He’s not sorry at all.’

  She would not budge. Why the fuck should Harry be sorry? Though that idiotic fool deserved a hiding for hitting that boy. Though it was not good to speak ill of the dead, he was exactly like his cursed father, no self-control.

  ‘He is very very sorry. He told me again and again. He is very sad that you are angry with him.’

  ‘You went to the courthouse with him, Rosie told me. She was very hurt.’

  This took him by surprise. Of course he’d gone with Harry to the court. What did these crazy Australian women expect? The boy’s parents were dead, he was obliged to be there supporting his wife’s nephew. If he hadn’t been there his wife would not have forgiven him for not standing next to her brother’s child. Surely Aisha understood that. She wasn’t a bloody barbarian. Did he have to remind her of loyalty and honour?

  ‘I was disappointed myself, Manoli. You shouldn’t have gone.’ There were too many people in the damn café! The heating was intolerable and he could not concentrate. He became aware that he was sitting across from his daughter-in-law with his mouth wide open, like some imbecile. Foolish old man. He quickly closed his mouth. Did he understand her correctly? He was unsure of that perplexing English word: disappointed. Was she angry because he had made it difficult between herself and her stupid friend, that mad Australeza, Rosie? All this was ridiculous. It had happened, forget it. Too much time and too many tears had already been wasted on this silliness.

  ‘Aisha, you are family.’

  She laughed, a short, scornful burst, her eyes not moving from his face. They were the black of a winter night. ‘I have known Rosie much longer than I have known your family.’

  He forgot the pain in his knee, the incessant rumble of noise in the café. He straightened his back. He must have looked fierce because instantly she perceived her mistake and she recoiled from him. He wanted to grab her hair, pull her face to the table, beat her as if she was a little girl.

  ‘This is not about our family,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s about my friendship with Rosie. Harry humiliated me in my own home. And he did something unforgivable to my friend and her son.’

  That poutana, and that moulkio of a child. He remembered the Australian’s words to him in that crowded hallway outside the courtroom. You should not be here. Shame on you. He had been embarrassed, rendered mute by her unforgiving self-righteousness. The sense of shame still stung, but he now knew exactly what he should have said to her. He should have grabbed the poutana by the hair, and shouted at her, You created this, you dragged all of us into this. You are a bad mother. He saw the waitress hovering near the table and he drummed his fingers loudly.

  ‘Another coffee?’

  Aisha shook her head.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Harry was wrong. He make mistake. He is very sorry.’ He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting him. ‘But your friend was also very wrong. Why she not look after her child?’

  ‘Rosie loves Hugo.’

  ‘Why she no stop her son when he was very bad?’

  ‘Hugo is only a child. He doesn’t know better.’

  Exactly. Exactly the damned problem. He doesn’t know better because he has not been taught to know better.

  ‘She is terrible, a terrible mother.’ He didn’t care anymore, he was no longer interested in conjoling Aisha, in being gentle. He marvelled at her blindness. She was defending the indefensible. This mad woman Rosie should have disciplined the boy herself. And if not her, that fool alcoholic of a husband. Harry was no saint, they all knew that, far from it, but for the first time since the incident had occurred Manolis understood, felt, believed, that his nephew was innocent.

  Aisha would not look at him.

  ‘You are going to the party next week.’

  She turned to look at him in disbelief. There was a glimmer of an astonished, respectful smile. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ He wanted to insist until she agreed. He was right. He had never been more right in his life. This time he could read the flashing fire in her eyes.

  ‘You are not my father.’

  He wished he could slap her. So it all meant nothing, all those years of shared jokes, of affection, of defending her, of caring for her children, of assisting her and Hector with money and with time. Love and family meant nothing to her? Nothing mattered to her at this moment but her pride. Did she think she was being brave in disobeying him? She, Hector, the whole ma
d lot of them, they knew nothing of courage. Everything had been given to them, everything had been assumed as rightfully theirs. She even believed her defence of her friend was a matter of honour. One war, one bomb, one misfortune and she would fall apart. He meant nothing to her because like all of them she was truly selfish. She had no idea of the world and so believed her drama to be significant. The idiotic mad Muslims were right. Throw a bloody bomb in this café and disintegrate the whole lot of them. Her beauty, her sophistication, her education, none of it meant anything. She had no humility and no generosity. Monsters, they had bred monsters.

  He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, slurped back his coffee and stood. ‘Let’s go.’

  She rushed to her feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Koula is at your house.’

  He walked ahead of her, ordering his weak leg to outdistance her. He heard her rapid steps coming up behind him. She called out to him and he turned. She was standing by her car on High Street, the keys in her hand.

  ‘Tell Koula I go shopping.’ He could not bear to be with the women. He could not bear his wife’s scorn once she realised he had not succeeded. Old, old fool, to believe they cared for him, respected him, would listen to him.

  ‘I think you should come home with me.’

  Go fuck yourself.

  ‘I go shopping.’

  She beeped open the car.

  ‘Manoli, I am sorry.’

  He turned his back to her and walked away. The words dropped easily from her lips but they meant nothing. Australians used the word like a chant. Sorry sorry sorry. She was not sorry. He thought she loved him, respected him. He’d nursed this hope for years. He wanted to strike himself for his vanity and foolishness. He had never asked anything of her before and she must know that he would never ask a thing of her again. Sorry. He spat out the word as if it were poison.

  He thought she loved him. He was just a silly old man.

  You’re lucky, Thimio, he whispered to the wind, to the shade of his friend, how much longer must I wait till death comes for me?

  In the end he avoided the plaza, the shops in High Street. He was in no mood for gazing at things; his stomach turned in disgust at the thought of the senseless temptation of so many objects. He also wanted to avoid the faces of his neighbours, the groups of old Greek men and women who congregated at the mall as they once did as youths around the village square. He had left his damn village a lifetime ago, sailed across the globe to escape it, but the village had come with him. He turned off High Street and zigzagged the side streets to Merri Station. A young Mohammedan girl, her hair veiled, was standing outside the vestibule on the platform. She was still a child, a high school student. Her quick eyes were darting back and forth; she seemed nervous. He smiled at her. She should not be on the platform alone, this was not a time of good men. She dropped her eyes at his smile. She too had brought the village with her, wherever the Devil she was from. He passed her and glanced inside the vestibule. An older girl, also veiled, was locked in an embrace with a thin youth, his hair a shocking orange. She noticed his glance and drew apart from the boy, who looked up and stared, at first fearfully, then angrily at Manolis.