The Novel - The Ozone Café, Short-Lived

Short-Lived

Dampness hung over the café. Thunder clouds in the morning had opened their little valleys and waterfalls, releasing torrents of rain. The new cane chairs out in the courtyard were soaked and the palms had leaked their wet fronds into Joe's shirt as he tried to bunch up the chairs and put them in the back laundry. It was a scramble, even into the long afternoon, his wife, and Alf, one of his customers, helping to take down the umbrellas, stack tables under tarpaulin, and straighten and re-dirt potted plants.

Lightning had never struck this little business, but during the shouting and each of them rattling timber to close windows and doors, a stereophonic bolt of lightning came within inches of the café, knocking down the telegraph pole on the corner of Bream Street. There seemed to be a pile of wooden furniture everywhere, curled metal and wires. It had heaved and swayed several times before crashing into their front gate. And there were tree limbs shunting themselves towards the same pile of junk. Joe watched from the café window, as several branches from each of the four Esplanade pines weaved and whorled about, travelling as far as he could see along Memorial Avenue. Joe had a vision that any moment now he'd be surrounded by a jungle of green, but it was a kaleidoscope of colour, lilac blossoms from the front Jacaranda shook and shivered past his eyes meeting yellow and white Frangipani petals. Boats also lost their moorings. One cruiser, he knew belonged to Bill Sanderson, beached itself on the grass bank within inches of the store. The hire boats also received a battering, some turning to planks before sinking.

In the evening, the storm turned to hail, not small mothball sizes, but large ones almost as big as tennis balls. They pounded and smacked into parked cars and when the light show seemed to be over, a thick fog of white had surrounded the Ozone Café.
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The Ozone Café - Joe Pendlebury, Owner No. 2

Short-Lived

Joe Pendlebury tied the boat up at the wharf, coiling the excess rope into the deck. He collected his fishing gear, bucket and catch and trudged up the steps to his ute. Fishing was something he always wanted to do, but he found it tedious and quite often on the nose. The fishing manuals he had at the café had enticed him to the sport, but since it was on glossy paper it all looked too easy. Today, just two small jewfish. He had spent a total of five hours out there in the rocking, leaving him with a throbbing headache.
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The Ozone Cafe - Chapter, Only You 2

Only You, 2

Vincenzo decides he has two choices, to stay and keep on working alone in the Ozone Café or do something really sinful with Mandy. He opens up for the lunch time session, and on springing the blinds to the top latch of the doors, he catches sight of Winifred crossing Bream Street.
Outside the day is a blazing blue of sea and sky. He notices that Casey and Nicolas are trying to catch up.
‘I found Pomadina barking at the seagulls under the pines,’ says Winifred, passing the dog over to Vincenzo.
‘Your big brother told me to fetch her. Said you forgot her.’
‘Yeah,’ says Vincenzo, pushing the dog through the double doors. ‘Come in, have a milkshake. Where you been, huh?’
‘I can only stay for a bit,’ says Winifred, turning, watching Mandy take the last step on the stairs. ‘Who’s she?’
‘I’m Mandy, Vin’s friend.’
‘This is Winifred, I been telling you about. But I don’t see her much since she started High School. She’s too busy studying. Boys, eh?’ says Vincenzo, pinching her cheek.
‘Mr. Polamo can we play some snooker?’ Voices chip into the three-way conversation.
‘Yeah, yeah, buzz off for a minute. We’re talking here,’ says Vincenzo. ‘You too Casey. Here’s a cloth wipe down some tables and I give you a bag of lollies.’
‘What about me?’ says Winifred. ‘Don’t I get any? I can rake the yard on Sunday.’
‘Ok, ok. These kids they’re getting big and demanding.’
‘Oh, I forgot. Your brother wants you to get down to his place at one o’clock,’ says Winifred, raiding the lolley jar. ‘You’re going fishing, and guess what, Rennie says I can come too?’
‘What about us?’ calls Nicolas.
‘Na, no room for you two, and anyway Vin’s brother knows dad. They go fishing together. So shut up your whinging.’
‘Where you get this language from, Winifred? You been once good girl.’
‘They give me the pip,’ says Winifred, looking over the top of her milkshake at Mandy. ‘She coming?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ says Mandy, slipping her arm in between Vincenzo’s who has both hands in his pockets.
‘She is the cat’s mother. You be polite to Mandy. We are, as you say, hooked up.’
‘Oh. You gonna work here? You know, help Vincenzo wash dishes, cook, clean up, make up the menus, and run errands.’
‘No, I’m not, Winifred.’
‘We already make big plans. We want to go fishing, dancing, see movies together like other couples. Go to Sydney. So, I have made another big decision in my life.’
Winifred rests her chin between her hands on the counter top and grumbles to herself, ‘Pray tell, what is that?’
‘I am going to sell the Ozone Café.’
‘Whaaaat!’

* * *
Rennie’s boat leaves Wharf Road without words. Today, there is an unusual sense of time moving autumn quickly into winter. Eight people huddle in hooded coats and windcheaters close to the cabin. The three sisters sit braced next to one another in their furs. Lucy, Natasha and Riesca are mute with the glory of the day, their scarves pulled tight under their chins. The bow ploughs through newly formed waves, creating a foamy path to the Heads. There is only one sad cry from a lone seagull on the rocks, and everyone is taking in the silhouettes of foothills and rocky shores of Oyster Bay. Fishermen wave from moored boats and there’s a group of pelicans flying in, to what seems to be their time for breakfast.
Winifred has Pomadina on her lap, jogging her up and down, while Vincenzo has his arms linked with Mandy’s. He notices that Winifred won’t look him in the eye. He breaks the silence. ‘You show me how to drop those lobster pots, hey Winifred?’
He waits, but nothing comes. She is rugged up in a pink fluffy coat, and her short denim shirt is showing her dimpled knees. She has her mouth curled into a sneer, her face looking directly across at Vincenzo, yet her view is beyond him. Vincenzo thinks how cheap she looks today with painted nails and rose-pink lipstick. Her long golden plaits are now fully teased out into two ponytails. He is starting to see the changes in her. All grown up. He stretches out his hands to take Pomadina from her, but she swivels the dog away, her lips pulled tight.
Vincenzo knows that Winifred’s mood has something to do with him selling the café, and he knows that her silence is meant to punish him for not changing his mind. He also knows that when the boat moors on some distant shore, he will have to tumble out all the reasons for selling the Ozone.
* * *
Rennie cuts the engine and the boat glides in a few yards offshore at one of Tiger Island’s sandy beaches. They all comment on the way the island resembles a large reclining cat, its head pointing to the south-east while its haunches are hunkered down in a nor-westerly direction. The women point to its two ears, snout, its cave-like mouth. ‘It’s yawning,’ says Riesca. ‘I take photo of this island, beautiful!’
‘It’s good fishing round here,’ says Rennie, lighting up a smoke. ‘We’ll drop some pots, and maybe have a look over the island, what do you say, girls?’
‘Wonderful’, says Natasha, rubbing her gloved hands together.
They arrive on the island, when the sun is beginning to warm their bodies. They leave their coats in the dinghy and walk along a sandy path.
Winifred plonks down on one of the picnic blankets, and begins to dig a hole in the sand with a piece of cuttlefish. Pomadina runs back and forth along the path, hunting something invisible.
Vincenzo loves the mystery of the island, the stories Rennie has told him about the ghost-like creatures that howl late at night, and the aboriginal cave paintings.
‘We’ll take a look later, but for now, I think I might try my rod up around the bend,’ Rennie says, pointing towards an open expanse of rock, its layers of granite jutting out from the cliffs overhead.
‘We go look at the caves,’ says Vincenzo. ‘We meet back here at twelve for lunch. What you say ladies, let’s be daring?’
Winifred, who is listening with her head bent over her sandcastle, at the same time watching Pomadina dig a moat, looks up at Vincenzo with questioning eyes.
‘Come on, we go take a look-see, hey? Or you been here before?’
‘No, dad said this island is jinxed. I’m not going into some creepy cave. No, Sir-ee-barb.’
‘Okay,’ says Vincenzo, slapping his arms by his side. ‘You wait here, watch out for ghost-boy.’
‘She’ll be okay, Vin,’ says Mandy. ‘She’s just upset about your place, and she thinks you’re not caring about the mural.’
‘She can look at it any time,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek as they walk slowly up the path.
‘Hey you two love birds, hurry up,’ says Lucy. ‘We don’t wanna get lost, hey?’
Another fifteen minutes on the track and they discover a dramatic change in the scenery. The land drops away and there’s a gully below. The gully is made up of a series of striations that appear as if wind and weather have eroded the sides of the island leaving layer upon layer of exposed ochre and yellow rock formations. Some are hollow, some have ledges, some narrow pathways with wooden steps. The group is amazed, so they stand there for several minutes taking in this chiasmic colour.
‘Look down there,’ says Vincenzo. ‘There’s an inland pool and further over there, see Mandy, much further to the right is a waterfall.’
‘This is wonderful. I’ve never heard of this before, not in all the times I’ve been to Satara Bay. This is untouched, Vin. Something prehistoric.’
The three sisters clasp their hands, ‘Oh, so lovely, yes, Vin. Thank you for bringing us here.’
Vincenzo proffers his hand towards Mandy as he begins to descend down the jagged hillside. They move slowly, finding it difficult to place their shoes between the sharp pieces of granite. Eventually, they make their way down to the bottom, with Vincenzo hollering out to Riesca and Lucy who have stayed at the top. ‘Take a photo,’ yells Vincenzo, as he pulls the two women in by his side.
‘What was that?’ says Mandy. ‘I thought I heard something, over there.’
‘Flap, flap,’ says Natasha, ‘like a sailboat.’
‘Oh, look Vin, it’s a crane. Oh, look there’s several birds drinking. That must be fresh water,’ says Mandy, silently padding towards several rocks.
Vincenzo cannot help notice how Mandy bends low to the ground. Her tight jeans stretching across her bottom make him think how lucky he is at this very moment. To be in god’s garden with god’s creatures with a beautiful woman. Is he in paradise? Is he just going crazy all over again, falling in love, falling for this lady who does outrageous bed romps, who goes fishing, rock climbing, boating? And now here she is in the dunes of discovery, telling him to take her hand, to watch while two pelicans knife their large beaks into their feathers.
Vincenzo wraps his arms around Mandy, holding her, squeezing her. ‘Marry me,’ he says, muffling his voice into her blonde hair.
* * *
In the late afternoon, they file into the boat and head back towards the point. Vincenzo watches while Winifred empties some shells from her pockets. She spreads them out on a towel, and looks up at Vincenzo smiling, naming similar shells like the ones she collected along the Esplanade.
‘You have replaced all your shells, now,’ says Vincenzo, about to lift a small conch shell from the towel, when Winifred pulls it away.
‘And you’re not getting them this time,’ she says. ‘And I’m going to paint them and mould them myself!’
‘Okay, you win,’ say Vincenzo. ‘But I still sell my café and it’s not to please you. You go by there and play snooker, have a coke, play some Elvis. It’s still the same for you no matter if Vincenzo is there or not.’
‘But what about the seascape? You don’t care about us anymore. All you think about is getting married. It won’t be the same, cause….cause you’re not there!’
‘We never lose sight of each other, Winifred. And the mural will be there on the wall for all time. It won’t ever go away. People will come and see the names of Winifred, Casey and Nicolas. Three kids who gave up their shells for Vincenzo. I never forget it. I never forget the Ozone Café. I built it with my brother. I put my blood and my Calabrian soul into that place, but what for? I never once had any enthusiasm coming from my wife back in Italy. I never once saw her walk down the aisles, sit and have a meal, or a cup of coffee in my place. I always expected she would come to Australia to see the café, to meet all of my friends, but no. No. And I grow to be a very sad man. Uh? You want me to be unhappy? You still want me to slave away night after night, cooking, cleaning, all on my own? But now it’s different. Mandy and I, well, we have come to an agreement. Bugger going back to Paola. I don’t want to. I want to be with Mandy, and have fun, eh?’
‘Were you going to leave Australia?’
‘Yes, I have the plans after selling to bugger off back home. Ha, ha! Now my dear Winifred, you have to put up with me a little longer, my little Bella. I’m gonna buy a house in Sandy Bay Road, or Lurline Street, or somewhere along Ocean View Road. You wait and see. Me and your father, we’ll be fishing in the summer. And guess what, you can come.’
Winifred swipes a sleeve across her face. ‘Okay, okay,’ she says, moving Pomadina away from the pile. ‘Here,’ she says to Vincenzo, handing him one of the conch shells, ‘you’re just getting this one, and no more.’
* * *

Over the next few weeks Mandy helps Vincenzo pack his belongings, an assortment of kitchenware, some soft furnishings, his cooking utensils, then making the Café presentable for the sale. Vincenzo hires a window cleaner, a yardman for the alfresco area, and a painter to resurface some cracks that have appeared on the outside walls. He gives the mural another coat of paint, re-patching the shoreline with shells Winifred has collected from Sandy Beach.
After a month the café is primed with new signage, a new coat of cream paint and bright fluorescent lights on the inside.
Despite Vincenzo’s efforts to sell the café himself, the same two families who appeared from time to time have stalled over the price. The season quickly turns into a bud-filled spring and although the café is refurbished with Mandy making red and white curtains, the same group of people are haggling about cracks, damp rooms, café equipment, broken outdoor furniture and offering a lower price. Each time after their visit, Vincenzo tries to explain to Mandy that he will eventually sell, that he should hold out a bit longer and doesn’t really need a Real Estate Agent, or Ronny Williams.
* * *

At the same time, while the café is up for sale, Riesca, Natasha and Lucy are all packed after a long restful holiday. ‘We gonna miss you, Vin,’ says Lucy, giving him a hug.
‘Yeah, Vincenzo, you take care and don’t you worry about Maria. She know nothing about your life now, not from our lips,’ says Natasha.
When the carriages slow to a stop, Vincenzo helps the women lift their bags onto the carriage rack, shuffling some small carry-bags under the seats. The train spews out a belch of smoke and the women lean out of the windows, waving hankies. On the platform, Vincenzo and Mandy watch while the last of the carriages disappears into the tunnel like a monster snake crawling into its hole.
Vincenzo sits for a few moments in the car. The steps over the railway line have made his knees ache and he can feel the arthritis in his feet.
‘All of the time I been doing up the café, Mandy, I never look for a house for us. This real estate game has got me beat. You are right, I’m not selling the Ozone Café because these peoples don’t wanna pay my price.’
‘It’s not your job to sell Vincenzo. You’re a cook, a man who can run a business. You can’t do everything,’ she says, rubbing his cheeks. ‘Why don’t we call into the real estate place on the way home, and put your mind at ease. I’m sure Ronny Williams will be only too happy to see you.’
‘Good ol’Ron, he’s a man I can trust. How you say, we kill two birds with one hit.’

* * *

It’s been a long time since Vincenzo has placed his shoes on the floor of Bruce Kerr’s Real Estate office. They sit waiting in the reception area for Paul Massam to return from a property sale. Vincenzo is a little surprised that both Ronny and Marjorie have left the business.
The young lady at the reception desk offers them a cup of coffee.
‘That would be most kind,’ says Vincenzo. ‘Black one sugar, and white two sugars.’
The clock on the far wall clicks loudly, showing signs that a whole hour has passed. Vincenzo shuffles his feet, while Mandy files her nails with an emery board.
‘When did Ronny and Marjorie leave? I know them for three years now and I was hoping Ronny would sell my business,’ says Vincenzo projecting his voice towards the counter.
‘I don’t really know, I’ve just started last week, but Paul would know. Paul knows everything,’ she says, turning and answering the telephone.
‘Okay, another …okay, I’ll ask, hang on,’ she says.
‘Mr Polamo, Paul won’t be long. He wants to know if you’re going to wait.’
‘Yep,’ returns Vincenzo, waiting for the girl to hang up. ‘Hey young lady, you got any forwarding address of Ronny Williams? I want to buy him a beer, you know, for his retirement.’
‘Sorry,’ says the girl, scrunching her face.
‘We wait then.’
‘Stupido,’ says Vincenzo, standing in front of Mandy and blocking his voice..
‘He might have bought a franchise in Heytsbury, Vin. This Paul will probably know, so don’t lose all hope. Here, look at this house. This is nice.’
Both start flipping through the Realtor pages and discover that there are plenty of small cottages for sale in Satara Bay.
‘I just have to sell the café first, huh?’
‘Sorry to keep you folks waiting.’ A hand is extended underneath Vincenzo’s bent chin, and when he looks up he discovers the fresh face of Paul Massam. He is about thirty, blonde hair, crew cut, wearing a pin-striped blue suit, a blue shirt and tie. Compared to the way Ronny dressed, he is elegant in patent leather shoes.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ he says, shaking Vincenzo’s hand. ‘Come, let’s talk in my office. That’ll be three coffees, Amanda, thanks.’
Seated near a window overlooking the street, Paul opens a manila folder. ‘Says here you paid two grand for the property, back in…let’s see fifty seven. That right?’
‘I can’t remember, but around that price,’ says Vincenzo. ‘I want a lot more now, of course. What you think it’s worth?’
‘Going by today standards, being a large property, double storey, house and café, I would say we might try for ten thousand pounds.’
Vincenzo glances at Mandy, who shrugs her shoulders and looks questioningly back at him.
‘What about your commission, Paul. I need to know as I also want you to look for a house for me and Mandy. Somewhere close to the Esplanade, but doesn’t have to be close to where I work for long hours.’
‘No! No reminders, hey?’
‘I have a brother who lives at No. 46 Sandy Bay Road, so I wouldn’t mind being close to him. Here,’ says Vincenzo, showing him the page with property listings. ‘You still sell this one?’
‘Just come on the market. Not a bad price either.’
‘That would leave us with some cash and we would own it outright,’ says Vincenzo. ‘I tell you, you try and get me eleven thousand for the café and I buy this house from you. But first, we take a look-see.’
‘You certainly know what you want, fella, so I’ll get you to fill in these forms, if you don’t mind. I’ll come by, and inspect the café tomorrow, and then we can take a look at No. 54. How’s that?’
After signing the forms, they shake hands and just as Vincenzo is about to step outside, he pivots on the spot and calls back to Paul Massam. ‘One thing I wanna know is, what happened to Ronny Williams, we been good friends, but I know nothing of him leaving Satara Bay. You know where he is now?’
Paul runs a hand over his crewcut in a sweeping motion, and lifts a calendar from the countertop. ‘His address is in here, somewhere.’ He flips through the pages, wetting his fingers as he goes. ‘I think he went to Sydney first, then he was planning a big holiday. Sorry, it’s not here, fella.’
‘Okay, sorry to trouble you. I look him up in the phone book.’
‘Catcha tomorrow at two o’clock, fella,’ says Paul, clicking his fingers like a gun.

Novel - The Ozone Café - Tattoo Lady, 2

Tattoo Lady (contd)

Everyone makes an effort for the party to be the coup d'etart of all parties. Winifred's mum and dad arrive with freshly cooked prawns, Ronny and Marjorie hover at the doorway with a bottle of champagne and homemade sausage rolls. The dining room table is filled with all kinds of assorted meats, chicken, turkey, ham. Strong smells of antipasto with olives, Gruyere cheese, dried tomatoes, salami, deliciously erupt through the room. Bill Sanderson and his lady friend are sitting in the corner with drinks on their lap, watching Pomadina's antics, while she spins crazily on all fours.

In the kitchen, Sandra pulls Vincenzo by side, away from an in depth conversation with Betty from the Club. 'I want you to meet my friend, Mandy,' says Sandra, bringing Vincenzo a little closer by pulling on his knitted vest. 'Mandy and I work together, Vin. We've known each other for fifteen years, through thick and thin.'

'Through divorces as well,' adds Mandy, shaking Vincenzo's hand. 'I've heard so much about your wonderful cooking and your Ozone Café, I'd like to take a look sometime,' she says, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulders.

Vincenzo felt a little tongue-tied and all he could manage was a nod, saying, 'anytime, I be there.' What a babe he thought, nice looking, nice figure, smart too. He couldn't help thinking that tonight he would let his hair down, although he only had a few on top. It didn't matter. Wait until they hear the music. He waved all the women in from the kitchen to the lounge room where the men were seated. He asked his sisters to stand beside him. He wanted to make the introductions just right.

'Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me...I mean I am a very proud man tonight. Be quiet Pomadina,' he says, shaking his finger at the dog, so that she sat up on er haunches for the first time. 'My three lovely sisters have paid me the honour of a visit, so it is fitting that I pay them the honour of introducing them, one by one.'

Vincenzo proceeded to name his sisters, each time telling his guests about their little quirky natures, their good points, their not-so-good points (which got a laugh), and how back in Paola with a big family, they didn't have very much money, but the family was close and he promised that it would always be so. He got loud cheering at the end, with plenty of back slapping. Everyone warmed to Vincenzo. You see a man will be blessed by "the one above who sends down the warmth of the sun each day", if he leads a virtuous life, if he is good and kindly and leads the life of a saint. Well not quite so for Vincenzo, although he tried very hard to please everybody. However, Vincenzo's life was full of sunshine, and tonight he thought while God was sleeping he might get up to some wild things.

After the champagne and toasting, and before everyone dispersed, Vincenzo made another announcement. 'In the backroom,' he says, waving Bill Sanderson over. 'We got a machine, so just wait a minute, we gonna bring out the music.'

After a few minutes, with loud sounds of crashing, Bill and Vincenzo trolley in the largest juke box you have ever seen.

'Oh, man, the real deal,' says Rennie.

'It's a Seeburg, one of the best playing, sounding machines you'll ever find. But as from tonight it belongs to Vin. Let's rock 'n' roll the Seeburg, Vin.'

The women stand amazed at the sight before them. A nickelodian on wheels. It blipped and blinked on seconds of being plugged in; red, yellow, green, and blue lights flickering on and off as Vincenzo stacks some of his favourite records. Sandra and Rennie help clear the room, lifting the carpet rug from the floorboards. 'Let's dance,' Vincenzo says, clicking his glass with Anna's.

It was the Fourth of July, the end of the war, end of the revolution, Mardi Gras, New Year's Eve and Vincenzo's party all rolled into one. The discs clicked over, spinning the sounds of Bobby Darren, Elvis Presley, the Animals, and with uproarious laughter they clicked their heels, swung into a jive, or jigged on the spot, all singing along to the night has a thousand eyes, and a thousand eyes can see but true...uuuuuu.

Vincenzo knew he would have to dance with Mandy after his three sisters, Marjorie, Betty and Sandra. He gulped down two shots of Vodka for Dutch courage. He walked out to the back verandah, where Mandy was talking to Ronny, about real estate.

'Hey, watch that man, he sell you his grandmother,' says Vincenzo.

'I'm thinking of moving here, Vin. What do you think of that?'
'Okay, but I bet you can move on the dance floor better. Madam, would you like to dance with me?'

'Guess, I'll give it a burl.'

'Huh?'

'I'll try Vin, but I can't dance. I never learnt.'

'Doesn't matter. Come with me. I show you. Flapper style.'

It was Vincenzo's chance to show off his dance skills. He boogied, jitterbugged, and showed Mandy the Charleston. She nodded her approval, moving in close to his jiggling knees, telling him she could also cross her knees like the roaring thirties.

Puffed out, Vincenzo guided Mandy out the front, to the small porch where there were just two convenient cane chairs for them. 'I think I danced my knees off,' says Vincenzo. 'I can't feel them, oh, yes there they are. Still on their best behaviour.'

'Are you always on you best behaviour?' asks Mandy.

'Tonight, I very drunk....and you the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Mandy, I wanna...make...make you the most delicious meal in my café. What you say to that?'

'Why don't we go there now. You can show me around. No-one will miss us, they'll all drunk in there.'

Vincenzo's ears pricked. His groin suddenly ached. When was the last time, he thought, that he had been alone with a woman, a beautiful woman like this. And she was coming onto him in a big way. He couldn't believe his luck. He patted his belly. No, it was no longer a rotund lump of lard, he had lost weight, slimmed down with all the walking along the beach. He was only fifty six, still young and his body was telling him that he would like to touch this woman in the night, enter her gently from behind and feel lost in the smell of her Venus de Milo body.

'Okay,' he said, slapping his knees and getting up. In fact he sprung from the chair, delighted by the soft, delicate skin of Mandy's hand placed in his.

'It's just a short walk. Good shoes. Flat. Just right for walking along in the sand.'

'I once came to Satara Bay when I was little, for a holiday. But it's all changed. The Club is bigger, and there's more shops. It seems everyone on the Sunrise Coast commutes down the line to Sydney. I could do that until I found a job, maybe, in Heystbury.

Vincenzo opened the front doors, turned on the lights, then doused them quickly to just cubicle lights. He wanted to keep this wonderful mood happening. He was itching to ask this woman to be his friend from the very start, but thought it wise to take things slowly.

'What's up there?' Mandy points, wobbling slightly towards the first stair.

'It's my bedroom, and bathroom, of course. Actually I have two bathrooms and one other room for Pomadina.'

Vincenzo suddenly realised that he had forgotten Pomadina. She would fret, at first, then probably during the night would scratch at the front door. 'I forget Pomadina,' he said, giggling. 'Come with me. We have another drink upstairs.'

'I love your café, what I can see of it.'

'It's better in the daylight. Here, I show you my family.'

Mandy gently put down the photo album that was in Vincenzo's hand, and bent over in front of him, pulling down her lace panties. Vincenzo couldn't believe the beautiful porcelain sight in front of him. 'I wanted to show you my seahorse tattoo,' she says, pointing to another, below the bikini line. She lifted her blouse to reveal two full breasts pushed up by a wire contraption, and lowering the lace to almost the tip of her nipple, she showed Vincenzo her ladybird on the left, and her Scorpion on the right. Then Vincenzo discovered another tattoo on her belly, touching it with his hands like a precious jewel. He found himself kissing another slightly above her pubic hairs and then he was searching his naked body for war scars, but there were none, and both these two single people began pressing into each other, the dark pressing down gently on their bodies, their tongues finding the sweetness of each other's mouths. For a moment the ladybird flew away, the scorpion crawled under a rock, the seahorse rocked away, the butterfly winged skyward, and two swords sunk deep into flesh during the night, and one very hard sword belonged to Vincenzo.

* * *

In the morning Vincenzo had plenty of opportunity to study the nude body beside him. Mandy looked like Lady Godiva. Her hair was slightly wrapped around her body so that it covered one of her breasts as she lay on her side. He was smitten.

Novel - The Ozone Café - Tattoo Lady

Tattoo Lady

There's a flurry in the morning to get dressed. Rosanna puts on her yellow silk suit. Anna raises one eyebrow at Natasha's purple and pink dress, matching pill-box hat. They are all dressed for the Queen, but haven't realised that they will have to walk the sandy road edges to the Ozone Café. The café that has floorboards covered in the stains of the sea, cracked seats and youths playing billiards. Louts who would look at you with their toothpicks dangling, their mouths grinning. The same café that once served beautiful Italian pasta, gonchi, baked fish with garlic and wine, now offers fish and chips, hamburgers, greasy savaloys or steak and onions. The women are in a rush, the back verandah where the sleepout is, is overflowing with junk. Starting with the three beds, the covers are in chaos; strewn skirts, hats, underwear, slips and pyjamas of all shades and hues. The sickly-sweet smell of perfume is unbelievable. The one dressing table that they all share is a dust bowl of powder, jewellery, lipsticks and hair pins.

Anna is looking for her one last unholed stocking. 'Excuse, excuse,' she says, pushing past Rosanna who is plastering her lips candy apple pink. 'You seen my nylons, I put them there,' she says, pointing at the end of the bed.

Rosanna shrugs. 'You can have a pair of mine, down there, in my suitcase. We find yours later, hurry, hurry. We need a cup of coffee first.'

It was a tight squeeze around the kitchen table. Sandra had made a pot of good Italian coffee and was serving her guests with Bouslaka bread and cheese.

'You good girl,' says Natasha. 'We like you, better than Titianna. She was, how you say, a packet of noodles short of a bowl.'

'I never met her,' says Sandra. 'Rennie told me that one morning she packed her bags and left while he was at work. The police found out she went to Queensland and Rennie told me he was better off without her.'

'She probably wanted a cane farmer,' says Anna. 'You know, a man on the land, that she could work beside. I bet she's up there now, cutting cane and killing snakes.'

'Na, too soft for that. That little babushka would be rocking the cradle, with three children, and baking cakes.'

'Oh, well. Hey, what time is Vinnie coming to collect us?'
'He'll be here any minute,' says Sandra. 'I won't be coming because I must prepare for the party tonight.'

All the women give a loud cheer, fluttering their polyester front bows, fingers under their cultured pearls. They scuff around, rinsing coffee cups and generally getting in the way of each other.

There is a squeak of the front flywire door and Vincenzo pops his head around the kitchen door. He's dressed in shorts, a white open-necked sports shirt and thongs. He chuckles at the sight before his eyes. 'Hey,' he says, 'You look like the time you came to my wedding. You girls could always put a man through the punishment, but believe me, and seven hail Marys for my penance, how you gals gonna walk along the road in those crocodile stilts?'

'Walk?' says Anna.

'Yeah, it's just up the road,' giggles Vincenzo. 'I never had anyone dress up for me like that before.'

The ladies look unforgiving at each other through Sandra's coughing smoke fit. 'I'm glad you're telling them, Vincenzo,' she says, swiping the air to dispel her extra cigarette plume. 'I didn't have the courage.'

'We don't know Australia,' says Natasha, 'so how we know what to wear, huh?'

'Oh, come on. Doesn't matter. We wanna see the Ozono. What you got for lunch, Vinnie?'

Anna swings herself around in the hallway, dervishing her new pleated skirt, while Natasha pushes her along.

Vincenzo hasn't told his sisters yet, but he has a surprise for them. He couldn't bear to think of the ladies trying to plonk their false teeth into a mound of hamburger meat or a thick beef steak, so he has prepared his piece de resistance. Fresh King Prawns with a pesto salad for his entree. Then he's baking a whole large Queensland Barrumundi with yoghurt, shallots, red peppers, garlic and wine, with fresh side vegetables. For dessert he will open his strawberry preserves, serving them with homemade waffles, so that he will drizzle each section with the fruit, strawberry juice and fresh cream.

* * *

The three women sink down into a cubicle and remove their shoes. The café is an inner sanctum after the long, hot walk on their wobbly high heels. Vincenzo had held them in suspense about the lunch he will serve, keeping them in good cheer, telling them that next time he would take them to the supermarket and buy each sister a pair of rubber thongs (for the sand).

On impulse Anna tries every flavour of syrup at the milkshake stand. Natasha is a little annoyed that Maria was too pained to come with them to see her husband's beautiful café. They take photographs commenting on the children's mural, the outside walls shaped like a woman's body, all curvey and humpy like big thighs and bosoms. His beautiful vegetable and herb garden. The outdoor dining area for special events, with Mediterannean umbrellas and timber decking. His palm trees with colourful fairy lights. His emaculate kitchen with stainless steel pots, a deep fryer, and all the latest modern appliances, especially the waffle machine. They love the pinballs, the young men playing snooker and play the jukebox along with the boys, as if they eighteen again.

A trickle of tears lines Vincenzo's cheek. He wanted four women today, prancing around. Maria begging him to dance to Tony Bennett, while Natasha and Anna rock 'n' roll along the aisles. But there is only three and he claps to their knees-up, the flaying of skirts side to side like Annette Funicello. Anna pretending to slick her hair back like Bobby Darren.

'Oh,' says Natasha, sitting back down again. 'I get too old for this. Hey look! Vinnie's bringing out the first course.'

* * *

They plied through the meal, laughing, joking, singing all the old songs from back home. When the last of the snooker boys had left, Vincenzo closed the front door, swinging his sign around. He was tired of listening to the clacking balls. It was time to give some cheer to his favourite sisters and maybe plug them for some information about Maria.

When the dishes were stacked away, Vincenzo brought out his best Blue Mountain coffee. He had bought a new Italian coffee pot for the occasion, little white porcelain cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug to match.
'You think of everything, Vin.'

'I think of Maria, Anna. I don't wanna spoil you girls fun, but I was hoping...'

'Ah, it was never meant to be. She's too selfish, full of her own aspirations....she wanna be a famous artist. Vinnie, forget her. You got a new life here, with your brother, a beautiful bay to fish, a cafe that has a view that is magnifico and well, why not think about...'

'Hey, leave him alone,' interupts Anna. 'He can get drunk tonight at the party.'

'Party?'

'Yeah, Sandra is putting on a party for us. Would you believe it? She's invited all your friends, Vinnie.'

'In that case, I have a few Oozo's.'

Creative Writing in Fremantle - 2010 Classes have Commenced

Writing at the Centre classes have recommenced at the Fremantle Arts Centre. If you're new to writing, or are planning to write fiction then these classes are for you. We have several choices. I teach the prose class, Shane McCauley teaches poetry and Bruce Russell runs Get a Life which explores all facets of life writing.
Why not come along, join in the fun, each Friday from 10.00am to noon. (Get a Life! - Friday 1-3pm after prose).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 our website.
http://www.writingatthecentre.blogspot.com
Venue: Fremantle Arts Centre
1 Finnerty St, Fremantle, Western Australia

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