Novel - The Ozone Café - The Sins of Satara

The Sins of Satara

Marjorie put the phone down slowly, letting it click silently on its rest. She raised her chest, feeling the weight of trouble resting there. It all seemed so complicated. First, an irate call from Mayor Tyrone last Tuesday, now this. The office was so disheveled it looked like a storm had entered, leaving the detritus of a wild party. She thought back to closing time at work and wondered if the security latch on the back door had missed the lock. The thieves couldn't have possibly entered the front door, that was still firm with the iron bar clicked into place. What she couldn't understand was the trail of wet footprints that led to the bathroom and out the back. The safe had a dry handle. Not that she would touch it, not now, not while she waited for the police and Ronny to arrive. There were too many strange things happening of late, and what with her nerves being bad, today she had a mind to tell Ronnie she was quitting. She could handle some of the tenants being abusive over the phone, holding the receiver out at the cord's full stretch. But the Mayor was different, acting like a pig in her ear. 'Grunt, grunt, snort, snort'. What did she know about "matters going over his head". Then this week, not a peep out of Ronnie.

Ronnie pressed his face on the front door, tapping lightly. It took several minutes for him to hold his head up and look in Marjorie's direction, while she turned the key, releasing the bar.

'What the hell's going on, Ron?'

'Yeah, we've been burgled all right. What did they take?'

'How would I know. Got to wait for the police to find that out. You don't look well, Ron. Go and sit down and I'll make a cup of tea. I'll try to get through all this water. Bloody hell!'

Ronnie Williams shuffled his chair forward behind his desk, stacking the sheets of strewn paper. He sat there thump, thumping them, turning them clockwise until all the edges had joined.

Marjorie sat down in front of him, passing the tea, while she warmed her hands on her cup.

'You had a meeting with Tyrone, yet?'

'Next week. Marjorie.....' he paused for a few minutes, and looked out at the darkened window. Outside the rain renewed its slick path down the glass. The trees outside were in a mood of unutterable sadness. He thought he saw the figure of a dark man in a sailor's suit, then realised it was the baker next door. 'Storm's in,' he said, finally.

'What were you gonna say?'

'Oh, yeah. I'm thinking of selling the business.'

'You got big trouble and I know it,' said Marjorie, picking up the two empty cups. 'I don't wanna know,' she called from the kitchen. 'Because if it has anything to do with that Mayor Tyrone and Bob Haycock, I ain't gonna lose any sleep over it. In fact, the old man and I are thinking of moving to that new subdivision called Cove Heights or somethin'. I've already made enquiries, and I could easily give up travelling from Kildare, so I might as well be closer to the hub of it all. So don't worry, mate. I think we better get going while the iron's hot. What do ya, reckon?'

'Oh, your blood's worth bottling Marjorie.'

'Yeah, well....'

The door opened with a percussive suck. A very tall gentleman, and a smaller policeman entered the Real Estate Office. It was in their nature, to dip their caps at victims of a burglary.

Novel - The Ozone Café - The 3 Sisters

The Three Sisters

Lucy squeezes in beside Vincenzo and Rennie while Riesca and Natasha are in the back seat of the car. Vincenzo watches and listens as the two women open and close their mouths like pecking ravens. Watching them together, his three sisters and brother makes Vincenzo think about Sundays back in Paola. All the women talking, while the men played bocci.

Rennie swings the car around in the railway station's carpark, hearing the luggage on the roofrack bouncing. He nudges Vincenzo's shoulder. 'I love us all being together, Vinny old boy,' he says, 'but I'm afraid brother Maria is missing out.'

Vincenzo nods in agreement and Riesca goes quiet. Natasha who has been a veritable verbal outpour, slaps her knees, raising her hands in the air. 'We tried very, very hard Vin, but she insisted all of the time, blah, blah, blah, too much work at home, what about the girls, what about her paintings.'

'She wants you to come home,' adds Lucy, nudging his side. 'She thinks Australia has swallowed you up like one of these sharks. I tell you she has changed Vincenzo, not so friendly to us when we talked about coming to Sydney.'

'Cranky, cranky, all of the time,' says Natasha.

'Oh well, I make the best of it. We have a good time, hey?' Vincenzo stares out of the window. He had threatened her this time, if she didn't come he would get a divorce. 'I say, I divorce you, I divorce you three times and it is over,' he blurted down the phone. 'I find myself a nice Australian woman. There's plenty here in Satara Bay.' But seated in his arm chair after the call, he had sulked for the rest of the night. Of course, he would never leave her.

The car pulls into the drive. Rennie has taken two days off work to get his three sisters settled into his holiday house. Since the completion of the Ozone Café he has renovated, adding a sleepout to the back with louvres and a large patio that stretches across the width of the building. With his new girlfriend they have planted ferns and palms, making the area very cool and tropical.

Susan greets them at the front door, and after several toasts of red wine and helpings of pizza, they lounge on cane chairs in the backyard.
Everyone is drinking making an effort to keep talking about old times except for Vincenzo. He wasn't expecting so much Calabrian dialect to fly out of his sisters' mouths, all speaking over one another. He found that his constant switching from thinking in English to speaking in Italian very tiresome.

He opens one eye, then both. 'It's been a long day, and now I have to get back to the café. We see you tomorrow and I make a good Australian steak for you.'

'Ha, watch that banana lounge doesn't snap you up like a shark,' laughs Rennie. 'Remember, like last time.'

'I lost weight since then,' says Vincenzo, whistling for Pomadina to join him on his walk home. At the front gate, he can still hear the women's voices raised above the loudest octave, rabbiting on and on about their husbands, kids, jobs and the mafia. He wasn't at all concerned. Any doubts that he had about them not liking Satara Bay had been squashed in the afternoon with the women admiring the bay, the boats and distant foothills. 'It's heaven,' suggested Lucy. 'Paola with Australian trees,' said Riesca. Although there had been plenty of laughter, he felt a little sad that Maria hadn't made any effort to come. Her last letter had left him feeling puzzled about her strong criticisms of him living in Australia, and he didn't like her swearing down the phone at him. She was never like that before.

* * *

Novel - The Ozone Café, Bill Sanderson's Help

Mr. Sanderson’s Help

With the final touches of paint and the café’s name screwed into the front wall, Vincenzo posts the menu in an alcove at the door, his white apron and wispy hair curling in the easterly breeze. Today, Vincenzo promises the children that he will reveal his veiled seascape; lots of fish and plenty of surprises. Winifred, who is now stretched out on the cane lounge in the courtyard has been at the café since 7.00 am, first waking Vincenzo by yelling towards the top window. ‘I have to get to school, Vinny. I can’t wait all day.’

‘Whatcha want, ha?’ he had said. ‘You kids nip at my brain like Pomadina does at my ankles. I be there in a minute.’

She had waited a half hour for him, listening to his singing, his banging in the kitchen, the utensils scraping over a burnt smell of onions and sausages. After the first three days and opening party, Winifred had been mesmerized by the atmosphere of the Ozone Café. On her way home from school she helped Vincenzo simmer sauces in the pot, wash up or dry the dishes. She loved all the large stainless steel pots, the large chopping knife that easily slipped into his freshly grown herbs. She learnt all their names; basil, thyme, myrtle, oregano, marjoram, borage, and chervil. Vincenzo made his own preserves just like her grandmother, but his bottles held the bright reds of capsicums, chilli, and pimentos. At home, it was peaches, apricots and figs. How she hated figs, and always Betty Parker offering them after school with ice-cream. Yuk!

* * *

Pomadina crawls over Winifred, digging his sharp claws into her skin. ‘Ouch, Pommy, that hurt. And look what you’ve done, dirty paws on my clean uniform. Thanks for making me look like a goob.’

Winifred blushes when Vincenzo walks into the courtyard, wearing only his pyjama pants and apron. She stares at him up and down, holding Pomadina against her stomach.

‘Okay, so I’m not dressed, but the salad, she is.’

‘How many did you get last night? Was it better than Wednesday?’

Winifred places Pomadina on the wooden bench, below a green tarpaulin slung across the courtyard wall. She lifts the material like someone peeking under a dress.

‘Three couples. I had some noisy holidaymakers come in, asking for fish and chips. At this rate, I go broke.’

‘I told you, people round here don’t want pasta, olive oil and that pickled stuff.’

‘Ah, I dunno what to do. Rennie says I gotta go Australian, but look at me, I’m a Calabrian through and through. Maybe if Maria was here she know what to do.’

‘I told you, you have to have: Number 1. Fish and chips. 2. Hamburgers. 3. Paddle Pops for the kids, and Number 4. Kraft cheese sandwiches. Well, something like that.’

‘Aah, that cheese? Tastes like soap.’

‘I know what to do!’ says Winifred, putting her finger in the air like a traffic signal. ‘Mr Sanderson over the road, he’ll help. Go have a talk with him. He’ll tell you what his customers like.’

‘Maybe. Say, where’s Casey and Nicholas for the unveiling?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve got to go. See you later, Vin. I’ll be back after school.’ Winifred grabs her school case from the courtyard, swings it in the air with a final, ‘Hey Vin, any shells left?’

‘Aah, very funny, Winny,’ he says, raising his voice in the breeze.

* * *

Creative Writing at the Fremantle Arts Centre

Writing at the Centre
1 Finnerty St, Fremantle, Western Australia

I am the prose tutor at the Fremantle Arts Centre. If you're new to writing, or are planning to write fiction then these classes are for you. My aim is to guide writers over time to achieve their goals. Learning to write is all about trial and error. There is no quick fix. It's all about "getting started", "getting it written" & "using what you know." Our workshops offer a step-by-step guide through a broad range of literary techniques and forms, including the short story, flash fiction, vignette, prose poetry, creative non-fiction, memoir and life writing. Writers generally look at the short story form which enables them to learn the basics of style, narrative structure, characterization, plot, dialogue, exploring life experience, editing, etc. and how to employ these through writing exercises.

This week at the FAC (20/2/09), we will be looking at "The Confines of Plotting".

Poetry classes are run by Shane McCauley alternative Fridays to the Prose class. The class concentrates on the form, enabling new, emerging, or published poets to enhance their poetic writing skills, knowledge and technique.

Why not come along, join in the fun, each Friday from 10.00am to noon. We encourage writers of all ages, beginners, intermediate and published writers. Have lunch under the trees with the Out of The Asylum writers in the gothic atmosphere of the Fremantle Arts Centre, where even Edgar Allan Poe would feel comfortable. For a .pdf class brochure contact Helen -hagemannDOThelenATgmailDOTcom or download our 2-page brochure from the website.
http://www.writingatthecentre.blogspot.com

Novel - The Ozone Café, Winifred, Casey & Nicolas

Winifred, Casey and Nicolas

‘What are you doing?’

‘Yeah, how come you pulled down our cubby?'

‘Where have all the oranges gone. Hey mister, you own this place?’

Lots of little voices tracking in the wind. Vincenzo hasn’t seen these children before. Two girls, and a boy in a wheelchair, just appearing out of sea air. He puts down his shovel, calling Pomadina to stop her barking. ‘Yeah, this my place. Next week we start foundations. You kids better not be in here. Big trucks coming by, my brother, big boss man, he don’t like kids on his building site.

‘What have you done with our shells?’

‘Aah,’ says Vincenzo, putting two and two together. The beautiful collection of sea-shells that he saved to impregnate into the walls of his café. They belong to these children. They are the ones who had made beds in the old laundry, draped Mexican blankets and old pillows around, and kept a bunch of odd cups and saucers in a concrete trough. ‘Before I tell you about the shells, tell me your names,’ he says, watching Pomadina jump on the boy’s lap.

‘I’m Winifred, and this is my friend Casey. And that’s Nicolas over there, holding your dog.’

‘How you get in here with that wheelchair all of the time?’
‘It’s got a big rubber wheel at the back, so we can get through sand,’ says Winifred. ‘See,’ she says, swiveling Nicolas around on the spot.

‘He got a broken leg or something?’

‘No, he’s got MD. You always wanted to have doctor’s initials, didn’t you, Nick?’

Nicolas is quietly patting the dog and not taking any notice.

‘What does that mean?’ asks Vincenzo.

‘Means he can’t walk, so we push him all the time, down the beach, along the jetty, to the park. Where else Casey?’ Casey just shrugs.

‘How old are you children?’

‘I’m twelve. Casey’s, um…nearly eleven and Nicolas is…how old are you, Nicolas?’

‘Don’t know, don’t care.’

‘He’s our age,’ says Winifred. ‘Have you got our shells?’

‘I tell you what I do. We make a deal. You been trespassing on my land, so you come to my place at No. 46.’ Vincenzo points down the street, as they walk through the sand to the front. ‘And…’

‘That big bloke, is he your brother? Winifred huffs, and turns facing Vincenzo with her hands on both hips.

‘You know my brother?’

‘Yeah, sort of.’

‘We know his boat,’ says Casey, suddenly pushing Nicolas across the road to the pines, Pomadina running after them.

‘Hey, you two! We’re going to No. 46, this bloke’s got our shells.’

* * *

Back at the house, Vincenzo shows the children where he keeps the shells. Some are on the laundry shelf drying, some in the sink, and others are in the house. While he is discussing the future of the shells, the children notice the birdhouse and a faint squawking coming from within. While they gather round, little Maria twitters over their heads and hops along Vincenzo’s arm.

‘How did you do that?’ gasps Nicolas.

‘Shush, little boy. I don’t want you to scare my little Bella. Just take it easy, huh? She not used to children. But if you’re very quiet, I show you some of her tricks.’

Vincenzo makes a slight click with his tongue and the bird flies up like a stooka-bomber up over the laundry, over the toilet block, back through the jacaranda, makes a sweeping flutter over their heads, landing like a hovercraft on his shirtsleeve. The children’s mouths are agape. Winifred jiggles on the spot, while Casey holds her hand over her mouth.

‘She’s got babies,’ says Nicolas, looking up into the box.

‘Oh,’ says Winifred. ‘Can we take a peek, Mr. Pol…’

‘Hey, call me Vincenzo. And yes, have a look-see, but easy.’

‘He’s cute,’ says Casey. ‘Oh, look at that little one snuggled up to its brother. Casey turns her head back towards Vincenzo. ‘Are they boys or girls?’

‘I dunno yet,’ says Vincenzo. ‘I didn’t know if my little Bella was really a girl until she sat on her eggs.’

‘Oh, they’re so cute,’ says Winifred. ‘Can we have our shells now?’

‘Shells, shells. That all you think about, little girl?’

‘Well, they are ours.’

‘Come with me. You kids want a lemonade? Some potato chips?’

‘Yes, please!’ they all yell.

Inside the house, Vincenzo clears the kitchen table, and unravels a large roll of paper. He spreads it out with both hands, placing glasses at each corner. Casey and Nicolas pull their chairs in, while Winifred is practically shoulder to shoulder with Vincenzo. ‘See there. That’s my house at the back. And along here,’ he says, dragging a ruler down the plans to stop the edges curling. ‘This is my Café. What you think, nice hey?’

‘What are those round things on the side,’ says Winifred.

‘They’re tables, or maybe umbrellas. It’s a schematic drawing done by my brother. Where the peoples sits outside.’

‘What’s the name gonna be,’ says Nicolas.

‘Well, I first thought of 'The Sea Breeze Café'. Rennie didn’t like it that much. So we came up with the same name as our café back home. Ozono Caffé. But the Ozone Café sounds better in English, huh?’

‘Yeah, we like it,’ says Winifred. ‘But why do you want our shells?’

‘Aah. It’s like this. Back home we have many artists. My wife she’s a painter. A lot of culture in Italy. So, you know what I thought. On this side,’ says Vincenzo, pointing to the plan. ‘I mould two mermaids into the wall. And of course, the shells will be scattered along the shore near the ladies. I wanna beach scene, you know, like the Esplanade.

‘You could make a necklace of shells,’ says Winifred.

‘Wait.’ From a drawer in the cabinet, Vincenzo pulls out more rolled paper. He places a large tin in front of the children, and unravels his drawings of two mermaids reclined on sea rocks. He has drawn the very same shells limning the edges of the sea. He scatters the shells across the table dividing the limpets from the periwinkles. He swirls then into patterns; a crescent moon, a star fish, a sea-horse, and an upside down v as a shark’s fin; explaining as he goes that Casey and Winifred are the mermaids, while Nicolas is the star fish. The two girls begin to shape their own pile of shells, when suddenly Nicolas flips the paper drawing in the air, spilling the contents to the floor.

‘Nick!’ yells Winifred. ‘Whatcha do that for?’

‘It’s okay for you two,’ he grumbles. ‘Two mermaids, and I got to be some thorny star fish.’

‘Wait, wait,’ says Vincenzo, following Nicolas’s quick thrust of wheels out the door.

‘Hey boy. No need to get upset. You can be the shark, hey? With big teeth.’

‘No, no, no!’ yells Nicolas. ‘I don’t want to be no bloody shark, or a shitty star fish.’

Vincenzo stops the boy’s wheels with his feet, not letting him move forward. He throws his hands into the air, and groans a few words in his regional dialect. What did they have on the walls? Barca da pesca - a fishing boat, some nets. Was it one of the Roman gods? He couldn’t remember, but he knew that this boy was feeling worse about his position on the wall, than his sitting position for the rest of his life. ‘I got it’, he says. ‘King Neptune, with a crown, and …and his fork. What you say, you be a legend on my café, hey Nick?’

‘Nicolas, that’d be great,’ says Casey, while Winifred clasps her hands to her forehead.

‘A King. I only wanted to be a King,’ says Nicolas, grinning, and spinning his wheelchair on the spot.

All of sudden Vincenzo sinks down into a flowered cane lounge, Pomadina traveling across his lap. ‘You kids happy now. You can go,’ he says. ‘I need a siesta.’

Novel - The Ozone Café, Demolition 121

Demolition 121

Anyone who looked in the window of Bruce Kerr’s Real Estate could tell that there was a slight turnover of properties in Satara Bay. The houses were the colonial type, tin roof, weatherboard to mid section, then fibro to the top and under the eaves. Some places were run down, being holiday cottages, and others, the permanents, were usually cared for with flowering gardens in popular pink and blue hydrangeas. It was the country, so rooster calls could be heard early in the morning, then later the brooding sounds of hens. Most backyards had aviaries and pink and grey galahs could be heard scratching tin or squawking non-stop after a dog bark. Dogs roamed freely down the beach, in the town, and there were few dog fights. Now and again you’d see a ginger cat in the early morning at a quick pace across Sandy Bay Road. Tabbies and old toms chin-buffed the oyster sheds or waited on a jetty for a feed. Children walked to school along the same arterial roads, some in groups, some holding their mother’s hand. Globite school cases were filled with banana or vegemite sandwiches, frozen cordial, pencils, exercise books and the NSW school songbook.

* * *

Marjorie has been in the office for at least an hour after the doctor’s, singing. She wipes down the kitchen bench tops and empties stale food and drink from the refrigerator. She is about to make a cup of tea, turning on the kettle, when she hears a car pull up outside. Ronny crunches his shoes on the gravel stones in the carpark. She knows he’s been out to those hillbillies at Black Mountain. Rentals. They took up most of her time, all the filing, contracts, inventories, advertising, calming some irate tenant down when their three monthly inspection was due.

‘Thought I heard ya. How’d it go with Ma and Pa Kettle?’

‘What a family. I could put a fist through that Nigel, if I wasn’t such a gentleman. He’s a spiky prick, that one, and his old man’s no better,’ says Ronny, ripping open the day’s mail. ‘Bill Haycock say anything about Bream Street?’

‘Oh, yeah. Says he wants to talk to you, but not over the telephone. Something about a Demolition 121, whatever that is. He says he can see you tomorra, at noon, at the Leagues Club. Just give him a tinkle.’

‘I got anything on tomorrow?’

‘Vinnie Polamo wants you to go to his place, something about his three sisters. Gosh, he’s hard to understand. I have to tell him, go slow, go slow mate. I got all day.’

‘Italians. Still they’ve got the dough when it comes to property. Do me a favour and confirm Haycock and tell Polamo that I’ll visit him Wednesday at two. I may have some good news for him.’

‘You know when you think about it, that old house must’ve been empty now for eight years. Do you think the Shire’s about to demolish it? And what wiv the state it’s in, you’d think they wouldn’t done something by now. Dangerous for kids, I reckon.’

‘No-one’s going to demolish it, Marjorie, not if I can help it. The property’s worth more with a building on it. And if it does go down, it will be when a nice little commission is tucked firmly in my bank account.

* * *

The Leagues Club. Good food. Good deals, but it wasn’t the kind of place Ronny Williams really liked to do business, but that’s how Bill Haycock wanted it. A beer, a fisherman’s basket with plenty of chips and he was your ticket to a sale. They had done the odd deal, but he never asked any questions about the zoning changes Bill could effect. That was Shire business. But a good solid handshake, and a deposit stub sent to his post box address later on, meant that mountains could be moved in Heystbury Shire. It always intrigued Ronny how things got done closer to home, like the huge Memorial Club that was practically sitting on three large blocks. It was, and could have been the size of a new hospital, which many locals had campaigned for. The only hospital was in Heytsbury, twelve miles away. Too bad if you croaked it on the way in the ambulance. Apart from that, the majority of the townsfolk didn’t complain, especially the old Diggers. Most were happy if they won a lamb roast in the chook raffle, or watched a weekly movie for nix. Mother’s Day, they handed out free cups of coffee. Members were content to dabble either on the gee-gees, or exercise the one-armed bandits. It was commonly known that there were higher stakes going on upstairs. Gambling. It was something Ronny Williams didn’t want to do with his hard-earned money. A small flutter on the Melbourne Cup was enough to lose. He was a simple property man, keeping to himself. That was the best way to conduct a Real Estate business.

Hell, he had to climb those stairs again. Why did the club have all the pokies on the ground floor and the dining room upstairs? He preferred the Memorial Club in Satara, ground floor restaurant easy access through two swing doors. Bars to the right, machines one step down. Formal cocktail bars, huge dance floor, and cinema upstairs. It made sense that the Return Soldiers had their meetings and office upstairs, while the old codgers could partake of their vices easily. This club was different, badly planned, ostentatious, decorated in the team’s colours, dark blue and gold everywhere. Blue carpet imprinted with the club’s insignia at every step, brass fittings in the toilets, at the bars, on handrails, counter tops, banisters and furniture.

He wondered if Hayley was on duty. But there was no sign of life in the foyer. He thought about her long black hair tied in a knot at the back. One kid, no husband. She was popular with the men and he’d have to make some drastic changes to his appearance to get her interested. Maybe then he could buy her some expensive jewellery, make up for the loss of funds she accused him of.

* * *

‘Waiting for me?’ Haycock, dressed in suit and tie, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. ‘Sorry I’m late. You know what it’s like, meetings, then those bloody councilors are arguing about the state of the highway. Road crews can only go as fast as they can, hey Ron?’

Ronnie lifts his chin in agreement. They sit amongst other chattering diners in one of the largest rooms in the club. It’s smorgasbord, or you can order something listed on the wall. The specials are chalked on a blackboard.
‘Fisherman’s basket will be fine. What about you Ron?’

‘Yeah, same.’

When their meals arrive along with glasses and a jug of beer, Ronny and Bill shuffle their chairs in. It’s a ritual they have learnt in the practice. ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ says Bill, lowering his voice. ‘It was owned by a Mr. Sawbridge, an old fellow of eighty-two who passed away, leaving no will. From what I can understand,’ and Haycock moves in closer, ‘no family - equals - no inheritors.’

‘So what’s this Demolition 121 Marjorie told me about?’

‘Never mind about that. Not a problem. My cut of the sale will be two grand.’

‘What!’ says Ronny Williams, nearly choking on a calamari ring.

‘Shush will you. It’s worth a lot more than you think. Some of the big boys have been sitting on the property for reasons of their own, especially the Mayor. There’s talk that Tyrone is doing deals with the Memorial Club. So it’s just a matter of time before they will whip it out from under us. But we’re not going to let that happen, are we Ron?’

‘What I don’t understand is, how come probate hasn’t got their hands on it.’

‘Oh, my boy. Just think how the stationers are running out of brown paper bags right now.’

‘So, you want to get in first?’

‘Exactly. Otherwise there’s no sale and we don’t get rich.’
‘You’re amazing.’

‘Best in the business, mate.’ Haycock pours another beer and offers a top up, but Ronny holds his hand over the glass.

‘I better get back to the office. Got some figures to tally. Shit, I only hope my client goes for it. It will be way over price.’

‘What’s he want that old thing for?’

‘A café.’

‘Oh, so it’s a rezoning. That would now make my tally two and half grand.’

‘Jesus!’, says Ronny, rubbing his chin. Both men crumple their serviettes, and move away slowly from their chairs. At the bottom of the steps, Haycock puts his hand on the Ronny’s back, huddles close. ‘Hope your client is keen, Ron.’

Novel - The Ozone Café, Bird Watching

Bird Watching

The next morning Vincenzo struggles to get out of bed. He knows he had a late night with the men drinking, but he can’t remember how he got home. All he can remember is Maria putting him beneath the sheets and tucking him in. ‘Just a dream,’ he says to Pomadina. ‘Hey quit licking my face. I don’t feel too good. Give me a minute and I get your breakfast. Go eat your biscuits, dumb dog.’

Vincenzo suddenly realizes two things. First, he misses Maria terribly, dreaming of her soft body, pressing her plump breasts into his back. The second thing he assumes was fraudulent, telling huge whoppers. He couldn’t exactly remember what he had told them, but the men had treated him with respect, and that mattered in Satara Bay.

He opens the cupboards, and dog tins roll onto the floor. ‘Pomadina, you should learn to get these yourself. All I do is talk to a mutt who don’t talk back. What are you good for, uh? You eat, sleep and poop. Aah, I go for some fresh air.’

Outside under the veranda, near a huge Lily Pily with flowers dripping pollen, he pulls out the striped hammock. He can’t quite get his legs in, so he smacks it against the outside post. It whips back and just as he catches it, he notices that the little black bird is back again, chit-chittering and fanning its tail under the shade of the laundry tank.

‘Hey, little birdie, whatcha name?’ he calls, sliding his words into a new language, and slowly padding his feet down the back steps. ‘Pomadina! No, naughty girl, you don’t chase it. Good girl,’ he says, stroking the dog’s mane. ‘It’s come again, hey?’

In the aftermath of his hangover, Vincenzo likens the bird’s chattering and tail action to Maria’s tongue. If she wasn’t going to be with him, or on the telephone when he rang, in Greece on holiday or some such thing, then she would be here, disguised as this brash, grass-hopping bird.

For several days, he had heard the bird chirping in the front yard, then out the back. When he hosed the garden, it had flown down at him, squawking incessantly and disappearing again in between the jacaranda blooms. Once, when he was outside at the washtub, the bird had tapped on the window pane. He hadn’t taken any notice of its further antics, until Ronny Williams came to take him to Oyster Bay for a look-see, the bird whirling, landing on the car windscreen. Williams had told him that they were friendly ‘little-creatures’ and if a Willy-Wagtail liked you they would be your protector and constant companion. They also didn’t play havoc in the gutters like those pesky sparrows did.

Now, or perhaps it was his heavy night opening a door of perception, Vincenzo is suddenly aware of the bird’s constant communication.

‘It’s Maria! My Bella, my woman as a bird,’ Vincenzo chuckles. His good fortune making him so excited that nudging the dog forces Pomadina to fall off the veranda and into the garden.

The next day, Vincenzo feeling a little health and vitality not drinking in the evening, opens a packet of cracker biscuits and crunches them onto a plate. He leaves them under the tankstand, where he knows the little bird forages. He collects a few things in the house so that he can lie and wait, hidden in the hammock. Along with a drink, pillow, towel and a Herald newspaper, he has a letter from Joanna. He has read her words before in the evening but wants to read them again. Maria is working in the bread shop and saving for her holiday to Australia. Holiday! Vincenzo is not pleased with that word. ‘Live, live. I want you to live here,’ he hollers. Joanna also writes that her father’s three sisters, Lucy, Riesca and Natasha are also planning to come in May. ‘Well I suppose all three in one bed then,’ he mumbles.

Just as he folds the letter behind his pillow, he hears the familiar sound of the bird. ‘Hey, Maria, what’s the big idea you only wanna come for short stay. Vinneybum needs you all of the time.’

The bird dives under the tankstand, talking as she goes. ‘Tich-tich, tich-tich.’

‘Oh, so you’re gonna tell me something today, hey?’ Vincenzo creeps towards the bird who is perched on top of the tank. ‘Thirsty, hey? Wait there, I get you a bowl of water.’

Vincenzo returns with the water, and with plenty on his mind to ask Maria. He slides the ceramic pottery dish along the boards of the tankstand as close as he can to the Willy-Wagtail. Vincenzo notices all the biscuits are gone. ‘Hungry too, hey? You have to be patient with me, I’m an old man but I be back soon with some more. Don’t go away, little Bella.’

The bird is still there when he returns. He pushes the plate of biscuits towards her. The bird dances back and forth and swans in, fanning as she goes. Vincenzo has brought out a small chair, and there he sits in the shade of the tank, believing in bird talk. ‘No worries, Maria. Long trip, hey? You have to come with me tomorrow, I show you where the café will be and you can live there too.’