They drive silently through town; Vincenzo’s dream bubble having sizzled to a watery heap. He’s not sure now whether he is making the right decision. Maybe he should look into buying the cake shop, or the store at Oyster Bay. But his mind is still giving him the beautiful view from his Esplanade café. He is standing at the front door, the easterly sea breeze ruffling his cooking apron. He holds a broom in his hand, giving it a pogo wave to Bill Sanderson across the street. His Maria is inside putting the finishing touches of plastic roses on every red-checkered tablecloth. She is singing along with the wireless, singing along with Marty Robbins, to the tune of ‘a white sports-coat and pink carnation’. At the back of his shop he can hear the crackling sounds of onions and bacon cooking. He can hear the slurping sounds of sipped coffee: an espresso machine gurgling, sputtering. He can hear the wind tweaking the pine trees along the beach, sounds of laughter, children splashing, harping, and the inveigling hover of sea-gulls above each other.
On his first night without Renato, Vincenzo visits the Memorial Club. It is nearly midnight with only a few patrons playing cards. Perched high on a stool at the bar, his only company now is a busty blonde who keeps refering to him in terms of endearment. Earlier, he had moved amongst the lanes of machines, talking to some old diggers, hesitant to respond, elbowing each other when they detected his foreign accent. But Vincenzo had found a sympathetic ear in an old bloke called Herb, making sure his war stories of being a French Legionier, wearing a green beret, and ducking sniper fire in the dessert, had floated over every head. He had found the night amorous and immortal, getting to know Sid and Barney, two war veterans who had supped back their own heroics. With winnings from the poker machines, he had bought them all a beer and a Churchill cigar, telling them, Mussolini was a fascist pig! How they had laughed, patting him on the back, saying they would visit his café, and to keep the onions sizzling. Of course, all this had been a great big whopping lie, but it gave him ideas about the café.
The desk clock ticks 1.00pm, and Betty is still counting the cash in the till. 'Drink up, Dearie,' she says. 'Time to go home to the little wife.'
'I would like one more beer, beautiful Betty,' says Vincenzo, feeling in his pockets for change, letting them topple, so that he soon finds himself scratching for them under the counter.
In the dull haze of his brain he thinks of Maria. She is standing over him, huffing and lifting him out through the door, telling him that if he wants to come back, he better not call soldiers, dirty fascist arsehole pigs.
Vincenzo stills himself at the curbside. He feels his neck hairs bristle as the fresh sea air shudders him awake. He can feel Maria holding him, pushing him into the taxi. 'Darling,' he says, clinging to her warm chest. 'Vinneybum never wanted to clean toilets for those fascists pigs. I never tell you Maria, but I been failure at war.'
'At least you're still alive, Love,' says Betty, pushing his shoulders into the cab.
* * *
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