Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

Freya MacDonald spared no expense for her Quartorze Juillet party despite heated debates with her husband who was rumoured by other families to have death adders in his pockets. She had employed a flighty, smooth skinned but pocky-marked, homosexual to help her with the decorations and to find specific pieces which would set the night apart from the other parties that winter. On his list were items such as ‘Pompier’ outfits for the staff, which became a serious nuisance and of which Freya was forced to take over after the young man had great difficulty liasing with her Parisian contacts. To make matters worse, she was forced to give up on her marquee, whose dimensions rendered it obsolete if she still wished to keep the bonfire in the garden. Twenty workmen struggled moving sandstone animals around the gardens, fixing gargantuan lantern lights that stretched from the main house on a vortex to the gazebo, though some were in arcs, which to this day has never been seen again and who’s construction remains a mystery. A thousand tea lights lined the cobbled walkways and security had blackened out the neighbours views with thick polypropylene weaved cloth. One ratty spinster neighbour had remarked that this gesture had gone too far, that it was very ‘Un-Australian’, but Freya had simply knocked on her door with a beaded brow, a box of Marriage Des Freres Tea in her left hand, her simple Gravure font invitation in the other, and secured her neighbour as a guest not more than one cup of tea later.

“A party is not worth having if it’s no good” she said as she interlocked my arm and walked me from the garden into the kitchen where two handsome men in overalls stood bent over baguettes whose ingredients bore the signature of Freya.

“Husband’s away, mice are at play cher Freya?” I said.

“Pas mal francais, non, he is coming home by Friday and they are two of the most helpful types. Stuart and Barney. His wife is from Brittany” she said.

“So what do you think?” asked Freya.

“I think its splendid” I replied.

“Bon! Cafe?” she asked.

“Is Thomas back yet?” I asked.

“You can stay here, c’est pas de problem. You are like family Theo”

Bent over the coffee table, my hands cold from the walk around the gardens, I gripped the coffee glass and heated my frozen hands which now felt like mits. Freya sat with me whilst I drank my coffee and spoke a mental stream of consciousness relating to her project which, for the time being, was all-consuming her. Eventually I tried to change the subject and looked at my watch to see what time Thomas would be returning.

“You have to go somewhere?” asked Freya.

“No.”

“You seem a little frustrated today” said Freya.

“Yes, I am. Thomas is always late, especially if he is spending time with Marguerite. I become almost obsolete to him. I don’t have a sister but I imagine its not to dissimilar to having a brother, and I never want to spend much time with my siblings” I said.

“Oh, that makes me laugh Theo. Really, that is silly. You don’t know what it was like for them. When they were little we spent two years in Stockholm and Francis was always in an out of town and never home. They grew so close to each other that they practically raised themselves. Have you ever seen a movie called... something dog something. Qu’est que c’est le nom. Oh Merde! I think I am getting cuckoo” she said, twirling her left finger around her ear and revealing her modest platinum wedding band.

Thomas never arrived home and did not return my calls. Eventually, feeling pitiful, Freya asked me to stay for dinner but I turned down the offer.

“What time will you be here on Friday?” asked Freya as I said goodbye.

“I’m not sure” I replied.

“Are you bringing a little friend?” she asked.

“Yes” I replied and walked out the front door which was open, one workmen supporting the other on a ladder as he erected decorations around the door frame.

When the Friday arrived I was still suffering the dry and siphoned effects of heavy drinking and smoking from the night before. A group of us had been at Mr. Goodbar and then to Hugo’s Lounge to drink ourselves into a fashionable mobbish craze as we ran from one end of the bar to another. When I had awoken that morning I was pleasantly reminded that I had no need to go to Uni that day and so I donned a white tracksuit and watched Foxtel whilst I drinking jugs of water from a pitcher.

When the afternoon approached light in the West fell across the house warming my bones and thawing bare feet. There was a dryness in the air and but the day was quite moderate though a chop diagonally ran itself across the harbour views that stretched from the television room.

I had been seeing Taren Schwartz from time to time despite knowing that Robert was linked to her as well as to his girlfriend Talia. I never asked much of Taren and she wasn’t really attached to anyone, she was public property if you could afford those hungry lips and bottomless glasses she drank from that fed her chunk thighs and her accommodating mammary flesh which walked a pace in front of her. Everything about Taren was built for today, gone tomorrow. You only had to spend time with the mothers of these girls to see that they would be Mack Trucks before the decade was out. But she was fun and had a ‘joie de vivre’ and she would so often tell people before they could pin-point it. So, I had invited Taren as my date for the Quartorze Juillet, for the reason that she would please the party as much as the party would please her.

When I picked her up goose flesh had gathered around her thighs and the backs of her arms as the night was just falling, the clouds moving fast along the horizon and making way for a sparkling evening. She had stuffed herself into a tight dress, by the look of it – the same as the previous time I had seen her. She was a Christian for Marguerite the Lion but she’d chosen her faith and who was I to stop her from being slaughtered. Besides, Taren had a huge belief in her own ego and would take on animalia twice her size.

“Who’s car is this?” she asked as I opened the door to the 4WD Hilux.

“Don’t ask and don’t complain. Aren’t you happy we’re going to a swish party?” I asked.

“Tao, you look very handsome. Give me a kiss, Mr.” she said and I took her in my arms and kissed her firmly, her bare upper-arm bumpy and cold to touch. Tight into her fountain of strong golden hair I smelt her and glimpsed her bare shoulder which strongly aroused me.

I withdrew back and she played her usual game of trying to stare me in the eye, as if by some great God-bestowed gift she could see into my soul from a kiss and a glance.

“Taren, get in the car, we are running late” I said.

The entire journey to the MacDonalds from Parsley Bay I had to hear about her career plans. She was ambitious and hungry, unwilling to compromise unless the price was right and there was nothing better going on at the time. I was never smitten on her but she was spunky and always carried her sex not far behind her.

When we pulled up that evening the street was no longer council property, it belonged to the wealthy, the powerful and the established families of the Peninsula. Francis had parked his Mercedes saloon in the driveway to prevent others from parking them in, the gates were opened and a black doorman in white tuxedo was taking names as handbags clad with diamantes, formal flowing evening gowns, Church shoes tied in perfect bows with black socks, bowties, broaches, velvet jackets and cashmere overcoats all made their oppressive way brusquely up the cobbled drive which had been laced with lanterns weighed down by sandbags. The bulbous lanterns hung now from the drive too, swung gently in the crisp breeze and cast a golden light across its path. Slowly the wind was dying out and the coolness of the evening set in with breaths of cold air condensing in the hollow dry air.

The street was teeming with bright Bentleys, Coupes, BMW’s, Mazeratti’s and amongst them stood the low key silver Mercedes station wagon of the Austin-Jones’ with its undefined number plates.

Taren and I entered the foyer where balloons climbed to the domed ceiling above, one balloon sitting neatly in the arms of a cherub. Looking back down, directly in front of me, was the Prime Minister who shook hands with Francis. He wore a red beret skanted on the side of his coiffed hair, a striped navy and white t-shirt and a cream jacket which set him apart from all his guests. Freya stood tall and proud, her make-up so natural that women wondered whether she wore it at all, her skin glowing and a smile which accepted the gratitude inferred to her by the guests sweet smiles. One last workmen was in the corner busy trying to connect a light which had gone out before scuttling away, not to be seen again.

“Allo dix huit!” said Freya, “put out the fire its Tao... you do look handsome tonight” said Freya releasing the hand of the silver haired elderly lady before me and guiding her to the bar staff waiting in attendance.

“Freya, Francis, this is Taren” I said introducing her and Freya’s eyes began consuming her from head to toe whilst retaining an elongated smile which never twitched.

“A girlfriend” said Francis, “well what a surprise. You might get cold later” he said turning to Taren, his supreme restrain not casting a glance at her chest, “which is why we have a bonfire”.

“I like your beret” I said, “and your jacket. Boy, it’s hard to keep up with you MacDonalds” I said.

“So don’t try” said Francis, his bright teeth beaming back at me, his face strong and assertive.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” said Taren as we walked away, her insecure hand reaching for mine as we pulled two flutes off a tray and headed through the crowd to the rear of portico and stood together under a lamp heater whilst waiting for our own crowd to pass us by.

“It’s just his mannerism, I don’t think he means it” rejoining her thread of conversation.

“It doesn’t matter – it was an affront” she replied.

“Just leave it, he’s footing the bill tonight and ‘he pays the fiddler calls the tune’” I said.

Shortly we were joined by Marguerite and Thomas, who was flanked by Robert Cohen wearing a sports jacket and tie. Slowly the group grew with some polo types, a few of the younger set of the MacDonald family friends and a number of guests Marguerite had invited. The group surveyed the house which now sparkled and twinkled and in the distance, set into lawn was a massive funeral pyre with a straw man placed atop. French flags, which lined either side of the property walls, waved their tricolours intermittently when the breeze picked up and fell again when it died away.

Marguerite drew close to me, her wide silk pink ball-gown pearing into her waste, extending along her smooth concave stomach as it climbed to her breasts where it brimmed forth but was not filled by her small tear drop breasts.

“You are what my grandmother used to say, ‘a sight for sore eyes’” I said.

“She kissed me twice extending her chin delicately and turning to smile at Taren.

“Theo, you smell good” she said.

“Chanel” I replied.

“Hullo Theo” said Robert Cohen extending his hand.

“I was wondering why I didn’t get a return call from you today, you must have been getting ready” I said, “lovely jacket”.

“We bought it together” he said.

“I know” I replied and turned my attention to Marguerite.

Thomas’ girlfriend, Clementine, was dressed beautifully in a gown Thomas had chosen. Her hoarse and raspy voice could be heard above the others she spoke to and she lifted her dress and about-turned to walk the few feet which separated my immediate group from hers when she heard my name being mentioned.

“Look what the cat dragged in” she called out as she crossed the grass.

“Long time no see Miss. Muffet” I said.

We kissed each other hello and I introduced her to Taren. She cowered in Marguerite’s presence, her strong exuberance negated by Marguerite’s cool control. Nothing was said, no words exchanged but a thick oppressive fog immediately descended upon the group, the conversation almost completely halted. The shift in dynamic triggered an alarm in Taren and feeling it her fault for the change she let go of my arm and began walking to the bar accentuating a femininity in her stride as her stilettos dug into the grass, causing her to take particular caution with each step.

“She’s easily scared” said Marguerite smiling sweetly, “I am going to take Robert for a walk to the gazebo. Crackers and the fire start at 9.30 by the way and we are all meeting by the bean bags” she said and turned to Robert “Come on Robert, let’s go save Maman from that wretchedly boring Graham Austin-Jones” she said and they moved off towards the pool side where Graham’s moley face had cornered Freya, her smile flashing like an SOS beacon.

I was left now with Clementine who’s hawkish eyes continued to watch Marguerite as she descended into the gardens and out of sight, Robert’s jacket slowly fading into the dark and the greenery. A spot light now seemed to be directly upon us and the light was surrounding us, illuminating our clothes and features. Looking up, Clementine’s face began beaming a great big smile and I followed her face towards its view, finding Thomas standing behind a large mounted spotlight on the balcony above us. His patent leather shoes almost slipped and he pretended to wobble from the balcony, instantly gaining the attention of all the guests below who’s diamonds and furs now sparkled under the light as they looked backm as though they looked to the sun.

“That’s not your girlfriend, Theodore Rose” he said in a booming voice, guffawing and slurring his words. He switched off the light and jumped down from the balcony, the matronly women and patriarchal men sighing relief and chitter-chattering at his folly but marvelling at his good dress sense.

“Is he drunk?” asked Clementine.

“Not when I last saw him. He’s your boyfriend, don’t you know these things?” I asked. “If he is, it’s the first time I have ever seen him drunk – at least in two years”.

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thomas and Marguerite insisted on picking me up the following Friday evening for shabbas at the Cohen’s family home in Dover Heights. Robert had always described it as Vaucluse but Thomas picked up on the misnomer when he put the address into his father’s satellite navigation. Thomas tooted the horn a number of times and I ran out to the street gleefully, unsure as to what the night would hold but happy to be the chaperone as the MacDonald’s bridged cultures.

When I slid across the back seat, Thomas leaned to the side pocket, returning with a yamaka dotted with a techni-colour of fairy lights. A 9 volt battery had unfastened itself underneath the skull cap and he fidgeted with it until the lights came on, grinning as he passed it back.

“You are incorrigible” said Marguerite looking at Thomas who now motored the saloon out from the kerb, casting an eye in the rear vision as he did.

“Theo, you don’t mind wearing that do you?” he asked.

“You have to be kidding Tommy, this is not a joke tonight” I said and he looked into the rear view mirror and snuffed, raising his eye brows at me.

“I thought you wouldn’t mind giving those Cohen’s a run for their money” he said.

“I told you, they are friends, first and foremost” I said.

“Well then they will know that it’s all fun and games” he said, dismissing me and putting his cheeky face up to Marguerite.

“What say you sis, a bit of fun?” he said but his face scoured and he scarified her leg with his nails.

“Thomas, you really don’t know when to quit. You are quite the social terrorist” she said, her voice increasing in its severity but quavering.

“You’re accusing me of being a terrorist?” he said and snuffed again, turning to me in the rear, not watching the road, smiling again, alarming both Marguerite and I.

“I just hope they don’t pull all that Jewish Superiority stuff on me, they always crap on about how important their religion is” said Thomas.

“It is, Thomas. They eat together like civilised human beings every Friday night and they break bread and pray. You and I quite often are snorting coke by that hour. I think it’s wonderful. Point taken though, it can go too far” I said in agreement.

“You are both twits” said Marguerite, opening her window and letting the air wop through the window, “you both need to grow up”.

We sped along Old South Head Road and into Dover Heights, parking the car outside the newly built concrete structure, its square lines rising precipitously into the black flannel sky. Heavy steel gates secured the compound and a large security camera was mounted against the far wall, which followed us as we made our way up the sidewalk.

“My God, the security camera moves” said Thomas.

“Yes, he’s such a goose. Robert’s in the security room moving it – I’m all in!” I said throwing pretend chips into the centre of the table.

“Sometimes when you two talk I don’t know what you are saying” said Marguerite.

She pressed the door chime, a irksome melody rang out and could be faintly heard echoing across the house.

We entered the front door where a short rotund silver-haired man of fifty-five stood embracing his wife, his children neatly lined in size from left to right, Robert the last of the children to be displayed. His eager expression threw Thomas off and cooled Marguerite who now became less excited.

“Welcome welcome” said Sam Cohen, his voice bellowing deep, constructive yet scrutinising hazel eyes and thick bushy brows looking at Marguerite, “or ‘Shabbat Shalom’ as we say”, averting his eyes now to Thomas who walked casually in, almost swinging his gait. Thomas looked the lobby over in a glance.

“Tell me something, who moves the camera?” said Thomas but no-one ventured to answer his question.

“This is my wife Rebecca” said Sam undeterred. “Ralph on the left, Jessica next, then Eliza, and of course you all know Robert”.

“Welcome welcome” said Robert.

Rebecca was a strikingly beautiful Sephardic Jewess, her almond eyes and rich black hair which now greyed, catching the attention of Thomas who stared intently at her for a few moments.

“I see where you get your good looks from Robert” said Thomas and followed the family as we walked through the hallways, Sam walking two paces in front of the rest. Both Marguerite and Thomas were itching to touch things and feel their way around but were practically enclosed by the family who flanked them on either side. I watched them marvel at photo frames of the family unit, pointing at one dolphin photo frame they must have found particularly amusing. In another instance, Marguerite laid a finger lightly atop a chest of drawers, home to a bowl of keys, checking her finger for dust. Thomas looked to the walls, amazed at the limewash technique used to flower and cloud the walls, stiffening as he did. They both hunted for the obscure detail which would send them wild with laughter but for now they remained composed and interested in their subject matters. Eliza was asking Marguerite questions about being a model and Marguerite modestly answered them, totally confounded that Robert must have marketed her as such as he sold her to his own family. Thomas put his hands in his pockets as we entered into the dining room, surveying the inflated flat screen television and obtuse surround sound speakers mounted to all four corners of the room. But, according to their silent communication which I could now intercept, the most remarkable of all details could be found in the faux timber panelling that adorned the walls. Marguerite tapped it twice to alert Thomas who then examined it on the opposite wall.

“We have no rules about where people sit but I like to keep myself up to date with the kids of today so one of you young ones needs to be within ear’s reach” he said.

Ralph began handing out yamakas, passing them from from a fisted mound, an assortment of different yamakas from differing events and festivals.

Thomas turned toward me and hissed that it was time.

“I’m not doing it” I said.

“What?” he asked under his breath.

“Time and a place” I said, peering down into my cashmere jacket pocket where the yamaka had made contact with the battery and was flashing in its darkened cavern.

We seated ourselves on the green velvet high-back chairs, Sam standing by the hulla, one hand holding his prayer book, his other arm wrapped around his wife; who’s radiant smile was caged tonight. Sam now prayed over his aged crimson covered prayer book, spotted with oil and fraying at its edges. When he finished his prayer, which was now familiar to myself but which had Marguerite and Thomas respectfully dumbfounded, he stood over the table, and began dispensing chunks of bread which were thrown down the table, twirling the air to be caught by each recipient. Now Thomas and Marguerite, who sat opposite each other; Robert seating himself next to her whilst placing Thomas next to me. I edged over the table to look down at Ralph who was sharply at Thomas and Eliza who gazed at Marguerite as though she’d descended from another planet. This evening Marguerite had set herself apart; elegantly dressed, her lofty cheek bones almost masculine in their definition, her hair combed into a beehive.

“So is this your first time?” asked Sam, addressing both MacDonald’s.

“Yes, I believe it’s mine” answered Thomas, “but I can’t speak for Marguerite” he said passing the conversation across the table.

“I had some Jewish friends, people of the Jewish faith I should say, in London. But I don’t think we ever did the prayers or the bread” she said, Robert placing egg dip onto her plate, the sweet smell of the brioche bread permeating the air.

“It’s all standard fare isn’t it?” said Thomas, “I can remember in the old days I used to eat this sort of stuff down at the Swiss Deli”.

Sam Cohen produced a bottle of red wine and passed it to Robert who now corked it and began to pour wine amongst the adults. When he finished I picked up the bottle, finished my glass and poured another. Thomas was now progressively becoming agitated as he noticed Robert within Marguerite’s personal space and he shifted, turning to me to try and ignore it. He raised his eyebrows at me, pushing his forehead forward, his whole mass of hair moved like a toupee.

The conversation drifted through gentle topics, Sam bent on introducing different parts of the dinner and the history of the traditions behind them. Further, he paid particular effort towards Thomas who seethed quietly, his eyes constantly casting themselves towards the awkward lovers, Robert attentively doting on his prize. After some time, Sam brought the conversation back onto himself.

“Ralph, Eliza, stop that” he said, the adolescent children playfully making shapes out of bread. He was about to continue but paused as Thomas spoke.

“Do you mind not doing that?” said Thomas, who now looked directly upon Robert.

“Do what?” he said, the table stopping instantaneously, frozen at this sudden change in conversation.

“You know what I am talking about Cohen. Just stop grovelling after my sister” he said, throwing off his niceties and gaining impetus in delivery. “Can’t you just talk to her”.

“Thomas!” said Marguerite alarmed and shaking her head in dismay.

“What, it’s perfectly alright? I wouldn’t do this to you. It’s embarrassing, and you sit there lapping it up” said Thomas.

“Thomas” said Sam, but here he coughed, repeating himself for measure, “Thomas, I think there is a misunderstanding but Robert wi...” but was cut short.

“I came here to respect your culture, would you kindly respect mine”, Thomas’ words now gritty, his napkin now held in his right hand.

“Calm down old sport” said Robert, completely unsure of his course, “the night’s still young, we can roll in the hay afterwards”.

Thomas crawled gently back into his former self, Marguerite’s hands, though not visible, were surely wringing, and she lifter her chin and edged her face towards his, sizing her brother’s intentions. After they’d exchanged a prolonged glance they released their lock on each other and the night continued with a renewed smoothness though each participant bar myself made a concerted effort not to speak to Thomas directly.

A main course of chicken schnitzel with mashed potato and garden salad was served by a Filipino maid who had not showed her face all evening. There was a soft and timid way about her, Rebecca physically guiding her with light touches of her shoulder as to where to set dishes down.

“Tina is new” she said to Marguerite, “she’s still not sure about how things get done” she said.

“Ours is not as pretty nor as deft” said Marguerite in return, “she’s like a bull in the China shop at times”.

“My white socks came out pink last week” said Thomas abruptly.

“Lucky you like pink” I said laughing, but the others did not join in, quivering on the spot, looking to Thomas for his reaction. Thomas noted this by slightly raising his head and squeezing his lips together.

I ate as much as I could to avoid conversing. Realising my course of action, Sam turned to me.

“Theo, will the people return a liberal government?” he said.

“I hope not – we’re selling off the countries telecommunications for a song to raise revenue for God knows what” I said.

“Wrong, but let’s not go there” chimed in Thomas.

“What’s your opinion, Thomas?” asked Sam.

“We’ve finally got a government who is leading economic reform in the right direction. Say what you will about John Howard but he’s a good leader” said Thomas assertively.

Marguerite sat frozen in her seat, she made polite gestures but she marked Tom, who at times showed potential of raising himself into a state of seething anger but remained stirring in his eddy, waiting for something, perhaps a sign from his hosts, of what course to take.

“I think that the Liberals have done an excellent job of guiding the economy, but perhaps the economy should be made up of more than just numbers and decimal places” said Sam Cohen sagaciously, daubing his forehead with a crisp white handkerchief and behind his voice the slightest hint of European Jewry could still be detected, as though the Polish forefathers which had died for his freedom could still be heard in the annals of his vocal chords.

“My problem, Mr. Cohen, and I hope I don’t come across as too much of a prat, is that until people understand that profiteering is not an evil pursuit but that it is people who become corrupt in profiteering, then we will constantly have people like yourself saying that we shouldn’t just make the economy up of numbers when in fact, there is nothing wrong with the numbers, it’s the human beings which cause the problems” said Thomas in a disguised contemptuousness.

“And how should wealth be divided Thomas?” said Sam.

“By whoever has the most of it” said Thomas undeterred.

“Salary caps on directors of companies?” asked Sam.

“Never”

“Would you like to breed out the weak”

“If they can’t keep up with progress”

“If you brought a child into the world with Cerebral Palsy?” asked Sam with greater enthusiasm, nearing the finishing line.

“I haven’t had children, I cannot answer that yet”

“I think you are a very presumptuous man”

“I think your son is very presumptuous”

“I think he’s stupid, not presumptuous” said Sam and turned toward Robert who’s face was stuck, unable to move as he looked down the table to see his father tete a tete with Thomas. Marguerite’s face now flushed crimson, now pale lily white, now green. She gritted her teeth as though she were weakening.

“Do you want some water?” I said to Marguerite but she did not respond.

“Marguerite, I think Mr. Cohen has completely misunderstood me” said Thomas and here he turned to Sam Cohen, and beamed a full teeth smile.

The children remained still and Rebecca was patiently waiting to diffuse the conversation by offering dessert with tea and coffee. Her opportunity came as Thomas did his best to diffuse Sam who was by now channelling all his efforts into Thomas. Thomas turned the conversation onto friendlier terms and with a stroke of genius managed to find enough common knowledge on music with Sam to have him consider the previous skirmish as sport.

“Fourth time around or Norwegian Wood?” asked Thomas.

“Dylan is a master” said Sam, “I don’t really know if you could make a comparison like that”.

“I think the same” said Thomas, “the Beatles are imposters. It wasn’t until they caught up with Dylan or that Dylan caught up to them and gave them an earful that they pulled their fingers out of their arses.”

“We have children present” said Rebecca.

“My apologies” said Thomas, shooting Ralph a cheeky smile and having it returned.

The table adjourned to the lounge room where Rebecca served an apple flan with some filtered Illy coffee. Robert sat with Marguerite on the far sofa, both of their knees stiffly together, remaining quiet and subdued.

I watched them eating their cake in small aristocratic portions, Robert humbly following Marguerite’s lead, to the dismay of Thomas who pretended that they did not exist as Robert dug his silver fork into the paisley plate and cantilevered small portions to his lips, crumbles remaining on his lower lip.

Surprisingly now, as though the early evening had been wiped from the memories of all that had gathered, Thomas made a surprisingly good and genuine effort to engage his host and hostess.

“This is a lovely cake, Rebecca. Theo’s stepmother makes an amazing apple and walnut cake. Have you ever had it?” he asked Rebecca.

“We’ve never even met Theo’s parents” said Sam, “though I hear his Dad plays golf with Bruce Levin but I never seem to get an invite”.

“Would you want to play with him?” I asked Sam but I held my eyes on Marguerite, her eyes darting from person to person.

“No, I am kidding, I always play with my same crowd. I have for twenty years” he said.

“Does your father play golf?” asked Sam to Thomas.

“We have memberships to the Australian and the Royal Sydney but to answer your question – we hate golf. Besides, we don’t like the anti-semitical types that linger around the Royal Sydney club house” said Thomas but did not win over Sam as he had intended. Instead a silence fell over the family, as though they had finally gauged Thomas in this final statement.

We all seemed to place our coffee cups down onto the table at the same time to a common clank of porcelain. Rebecca lifted her glazed chin which was lightly bronzed and finished with foundation which cracked near some aging skin of her lower cheek. She turned to Marguerite.

“I feel as though we didn’t even have a chance to talk” she said.

“Oh, well, it was Thomas’ night tonight. I think he preferred to make the family impression” she said.

“Robert tells me you are off to the snow in a few weeks time” said Rebecca.

“Yes, Theo’s booked us all into a chalet” said Marguerite.

“Are we still going?” I asked.

“Theo, don’t be so stupid, of course we are going. Robert’s never seen snow before. We can’t miss this” said Thomas.

“I’d like to go to the snow” said Ralph but his father dismissed him.

“There is something strange about you Jews” said Thomas pricking the ears of every person in the room, “you don’t really like to go far from the city. It seems the world over you congregate in cities. Not many of you seem to be the farming types. What is the reason for this?” he asked, turning to Sam.

Sam thought for a while, not saying a word. He looked for answers in his wife’s concerned countenance.

“I think, firstly, that we like to be referred to as Jewish people, just as a matter of preference, but to answer your question.... I think we have always been driven my markets and markets occur where there are people congregating”.

“My father is reading ‘A History of Jews’ as we speak. He says it’s fascinating. I intend to read it afterwards.”

“I am told it’s not a bad history for a gentile to have written though I haven’t read it” replied Sam.

“Well, Marguerite, we should be making tracks” said Thomas, then turning to me, with eyes asunder he said, “And Theo, could you please drive, I drank too much”.

We were escorted to the door by the Cohen family who trailed behind us as we made our way for the door.

“You should come over and play FA Cup with Robert and I” said Ralph which embarrassed Robert in front of Marguerite.

“He loves his video games doesn’t he” I said to Ralph.

Sam Cohen held the door open and a fresh evening air rushed through into the foyer, it was dry and windy outside. Marguerite wrapped herself in her shawl and kissed Robert on both cheeks, both certain not to embrace each other. When the door closed behind us I waited ten paces before I spoke.

“Thomas, if you jeopardised my friendship with the Cohen’s tonight I will rip off your throat and shit down your neck. They are good people. What the hell were you doing back there?”

“Go to hell Theo. I am not interested in your fucking wide net of social friends” he said, “I am more annoyed that my sister is cavorting with a Jew who thinks it’s appropriate to rape her with his eyes over dinner”. He threw the keys across the car at me, I caught them and opened the door.

“You are a criminal, Thomas” said Marguerite, “He has done nothing wrong to you. All he wants is for you to accept him”.

“We all want things we can’t have Marguerite, and if I did accept him what then? Are we all donning yamakas each Friday night?” he said.

“Are you drunk?” asked Marguerite.

“I would like to be but I felt so fucking oppressed in there that I didn’t want to drink their wine. And I thought they might charge me for it at the end”.

“Thomas, I never thought you could be such a fuckwit” I said.

“Again Theo, go to hell. Stay out of this, it’s in-house”.

We drove towards Christensen Park and made our way back towards Bellevue Hill via New South Head Road, descending the S Bends past Kambala School whilst Thomas and Marguerite argued without words. They would just stare at each other, turn to their sides, huff, re-position themselves, pull slack on their seat belts and open and close their windows.

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The telling sign that the fireworks were soon to commence was the dying sound of the jazz band which played from a platform built out from the ante-room on the far side of the house. The second sign was the gradual slowing of canapés and finger food trays that wandered past. Freya and Francis had been dancing French rock ‘n’ roll and as the clarinets resounding notes faded away Francis kissed his wife’s hand and was greeted by the pocky-faced organiser, dressed in black tie and sporting an ear-piece which coiled to his collar and then was seen no more. He escorted Francis down to the bonfire whilst Freya mingled with the guests and gathered two by each of her arms and began walking gently towards the gardens, herding them in a gathering ball that she considered her flock. Francis could now be seen speaking firmly, his hands gesticulating in punctual movements, his index finger extended.

Despite being a battle song for the victorious Russians, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture was chosen to set off the fireworks, the slow forlorn cadence crackling over the powered amplified speakers which were strategically placed on stands within the garden beds. A small battalion of waiters in starched jackets descended into the gardens armed with trays of champagne. The guests stood within the prescribed perimeter of the bonfire which was marked with a yellow lined safety circumference. As the music built up through the air Clementine, Thomas and I followed the throng of guests who gossiped about the cost of these exhibitions and the kinds of permits required by the municipality in order to achieve these kinds of spectaculars. One of the elderly men twirled his moustache and pushed his spectacles further up his nose and remarked that this kind of opulence had never been displayed in Sydney before.

“I heard he made half a chocolate factory on the FX last year” said another guest in passing, not noticing us following up behind.

This gave Thomas a fantastic grin and caused Clementine to squeeze his arm more tightly.

When we arrived at the bean bags Robert was looking decidedly more confident and Marguerite’s hair had been re-positioned. He took flutes off the tray whilst a waiter stood patiently, passing them around to all and sundry. As the last of the champagne was removed from the silver tray the first fireworks ascended from a pontoon which had been erected in Rose Bay, a diminishing trajectory into the cold night sky and bursting forth in bright cracks and glows and streaks like wilting flowers. The clarinets, bassoons, snares, trombones, cymbals and horns all building the escalating sound which resonated with clarity from the numerous speakers.

Marguerite kept Robert by her side and I sided up to them to marvel at the sky which dazzled confused the guests who were not sure how to take this impressive display or wealth and privilege. As the abridged overture built up to its finale I noticed Anthony Geha hurrying with Taren into the garden, her heels removed as she ran with him. The night sky was now a garden of lights backed by the stars that seemed to twinkle solely for the guest’s enjoyment. The bonfire was lit, gathering its heat as its flames licked the dry timber dry three men unobtrusively stayed close holding fire extinguishers. Marguerite squeezed Robert’s hand and the fireworks finished.

The guests were handed marshmallow stick and as the fire crippled and fell, the straw man dead to a lonely death upon the pyre. The marsellaise played over the speakers but was cut short as Francis took a cordless microphone.

“Dear honourable guests, Prime Minister and friends” he said, “tonight I am proud to say that my wife has pulled off a marvellous festive event in a culture I adopted some twenty five years ago now. I think she’s done a fantastic job and I would like to thank her for the effort she has put in here tonight”. His voice was jittery though pleased. The crowd applauded and some even whistled.

“My children told me to speak briefly, so I would just like to say that this day marks the symbolic liberation of French and of course I believe this to be something we should celebrate here. We are a young country but it is important to me... to my family... that we should always remain liberated as a people and, so, I was all too happy for Freya to put on tonight’s party. Eat drink and be merry” he said and turned the microphone off.

The crowd applauded again and someone from the crowd called for Freya to speak. She moved towards her husband and he passed her the microphone.

“Merci” was all she muttered and this sent the crowd into a frenzy, they clapped all the more.

Francis grabbed the microphone from his wife and turned it back on.

“One last thing” he said “As you all know, Freya and I are strong supporters of the Salvation Army. We have invited a few Salvo’s to swing by later on, and, as they say ‘Please give generously’”.

A supper buffet was set near the jazz band stage and slowly the crowd moved back towards the popular scores of music being played, the buffet line regulating itself into a charming line whilst the more reckless, now tipsy, chose to stay and heat marshmallows by the fire.

Marguerite asked me to dance after she declared Robert a ‘wowser’ whilst he stood by the stone wall to the garden, his hands in his tweed jacket pockets, watching me carefully.

I pulled her in close to me, she craned her neck softly into my padded shoulder, her hair against my cheek smelling of the sweetest perfume, weakening my knees and rendering me helpless against her charms.

“Theo” she said, “What do you think of Cohen?”

“I don’t like him anymore” I replied.

“Don’t be silly” she said.

“I mean it, he’s destroying me and he’s hurting Thomas” I said.

“But he’s sincere and he’s clever. He’s even got that little scar of his which is so adorable” she said.

“It’s a fake” I said.

“What do you mean?” she inquired.

“I mean he did cycling. No-one ever took a knife to it” I said. My voice trembled.

“Marguerite, I have dreamt of you for so long. Why now?” I asked, the courage mustering from deep within my gutless soul.

“You don’t” she said, “you just have a lot of white noise in your head” she said and I stiffly turned her, swinging her out and back into my arms.

“How can you say that” I said with ferocity.

“Your loyalty lies with Thomas” she said and broke from my arms, lightly stepping back from the dance floor, her pink dress ruffling as she moved, her hand extending to Robert as his forlorn eyes drooped down and then raised themselves.

We re-assembled ourselves in a group twenty minutes later as the elderly guests took to the floor to dance to the floor, the clarinet announcing the haunting murmur of “Night and Day”. “You you you..” could be heard over the sound system as the beret singing Maurice Chevalier look alike beat his foot against the stage, the withered hands tightly clasping themselves, staring at each other, the faded beauty of yesteryear replaced with a deeper more evocative nostalgia. There was something so Gatsby about them in their old coats, their old smells and their misty eyes.

Again Robert gathered champagne flutes from a waiter and handed them around though he did not drink himself his but sided it against a lone column stand. The group now consisted of Clementine, Thomas, Marguerite, Anthony, Taren and I.

“I would like to raise a toast” said Robert, his accent becoming more and more gentile as the night wore on.

“To my first sighting of snow in less than a month and a wonderful skiing holiday with my new friends” he said then lowered his lips to the flute and sipped the champagne.

“Here here” said Thomas, “to the slush piles of Crackenback!” he exclaimed.

“Why don’t you stop drinking tonight Thomas” said Clementine but said not a word more after Thomas gritted his teeth.

“To old friends and new” I said “may we sort the wheat from the chaf on the mountain.”

We continued to converse whilst Thomas busily played with his curls and looked down toward the harbour which was now uneventfully black but for markers which flashed into the night. Robert moved closer to me, forcing me slightly away from the group.

“What is a ‘wowser’?” he asked.

“Oh nothing, she’s just being facetious. This whole thing kind of stinks of the decadence of the twenties so I think she was trying to use it contextually. Quite contrived. Don’t worry, you get used to it. It means a ‘party pooper’.”

“Oh, I knew that” said Robert scratching his head, “I knew I heard that somewhere before.”

“I am going to dance with Theo again!” declared Marguerite and she grabbed my hand as the song changed.

She lead me onto the dance floor, this time she was excitable, her brimming with the sheer possibilities of life and its endless magic and for the second time that evening, though for completely different reasons, I was at the whim of her charms. All that stood near regarded her presence; her youthful milky tea skin, her delicate opal sea treasures refracting golden light from their depths, her thin diamond necklace sparkling in the glow of lights; all coming together in a kaleidoscope of miracles and trickery.

“Come on Theo, dance, dance” she said spinning wildly about the floor and I elevated myself onto my toes and took the floor, a bull seduced by the toreador’s cape. I locked arms with her again, spread wide, and she slid down one arm and off to the side. The eyes of the party focussed on us as we finished to the song, a number of the guests clapping as she took her bow.

As I left that evening the smell of her stayed on my lapel. Taren had gone home with Anthony and I walked through the house alone, stopping to pull a creased book off the shelf. Freya touched my shoulder giving me a fright.

“C’etais une bonne soireee” she said.

“Yes, I had a fantastic time” I said.

“You danced very well” she offered as a consolation prize.

Marguerite walked past the two of us, Robert walking in tow. She let go of Robert’s hand and crossed the room to kiss me goodnight. It was an awkward moment, Robert remained silent and blank-faced; eventually she took his hand again, ascending the stairs toward the bedroom wing.

As I made my way down the drive I listened to the couples as they meandered through the evenings events, formulating their repartee on the gossiping phones of the Peninsula the following morning. One of the more refined women, a fashion designer turned magazine editor, was busy trying to coin the catchphrase for the night as her husband carried her coat, their driver waiting at the bottom of the drive.

“A winter’s soiree heated to a summer’s delight” she said and her pointy new nose twitched in the air, “The festivities knew no bounds as Freya MacDonald serves up a slice of France to the antipodeans she has come to know”. Here she turned to her husband, his amused expression nodding with its tortoise shell glasses.

Yia Yia Mary

My father was born Stavros Panayiotis Zorbas. He arrived in Australia in 1912; first settling in Perth and then heading for North Queensland.

When Stavros arrived in Perth he worked 18 hours a day, seven days a week. The pay was very poor and eventually he made his way to North Queensland, and he begun working in ‘Sugar Gangs’ where the money was better; cutting the sugar cane that grew in this wet country. He predominantly worked in Innisfail and the surrounding districts. He made good money from this, saving most of it and sending some of it back to his family who still lived in Castellorizo.

In 1921, at the age of twenty seven, my father returned to Castellorizo with one thousand pounds which in those days was a small fortune. He was tall, dark and handsome and naturally would be looking for a wife but his first priority was to make sure that he married off his sisters. Stavros was one of eight children; four sisters and four brothers.

After his sisters were married, Stavros found himself a wife in Keresea Zanalis, the eldest daughter in her family (this name no longer exists with no surviving family members). They were married on 23^rd of April 1922. On the bridal outfit, a traditional Dodecanese island dress, my father pinned to Keresea between 29 and 31 gold coins. These coins included some 5 pound sterling Queen Victoria coins, United States 20 dollar coins as well as some Turkish coins. For a dowry he received 100 pounds in sterling and a house in Castellorizo.

[Keresea was one of five children: Keresea, Anna, Evangelia, Costa and Anastasi]

Stavros and Keresea Zorbas returned to Australia 5 months later; carrying no passports for in those days it was relatively easy to bring home relatives. My mother’s job was to cook for everyone. At one port my mother found some French perfume. She went to my father and asked if he would buy it for her; he would not and responded: “There’s no money for that!” My mother would always remember this; not to mention the sea-sickness she would have in the long journey which passed through Perth, then Melbourne, finally arriving in Sydney.

The boat arrived sometime in early January 1923. Not long after, I, Mary Atgemis nee Zorbas, was born on the 27^th January. My parents received a birth certificate from the hospital but my birth would not be registered in Castellorizo; as they priest would only register the births via christenings when the names were written on the back of the icons.

When Mum arrived in Sydney she started wearing modern clothes. Upon returning to Innisfail, my father opened the New York Cafe, which was nothing fancy but a good cash business. They began to have more children and I now had two new brothers in Steven and Peter. Dad built a house at 29 Gladys Street and soon after we were in the new house Peggy was born on 22^nd June, 1926. Peggy was born with the help of a midwife. After that Dimitry was born in a maternity ward and then came Michaelene (Micha), who was born at the Innisfail District Hospital on the 28^th March, 1932.

Dad then built 5 shops on Edith Street opposite Lee Toys. At this time the town was very prosperous because of the labour that was pouring into Innisfail for the ‘Sugar Gangs’. However, later, when the harvester came, the amount of labour needed died down. The harvester would cut the cane and then load it onto trucks where it was taken directly to the mills.

Downstairs dad leased the apartments to relatives. There was also a bread shop nearby and this filled the air with a sweet aroma. It was a very wet place – it never stopped raining between November and March. The fields of cane were in all shapes according to the land and in the distance there were mountains. You could even see Mount Bartle Frere in the distance which is Queensland’s highest peak.

My brother Peter was endless trouble growing up and often he would run away. One time Peter ran away and we had no idea where he was until Aunt Anna rang to say that he was in Tully with her. She’d said “If you’re looking for your son, he’s here with me”. He’d also done a similar expedition to Millaa Millaa.

My father Stavros also sold fish off the back of his 1929 model Ford Utility. He used to take Micha with him for company and head out to the farms to sell it the local rural areas. All us kids went to Innisfail State School. There was also a Greek School in the area run by the local Greek priest. He used to get hell from the kids, a terrible time, they were very disobedient.

The Greek Church in Innisfail was very important because it was the only Greek Church in Australia which was outside the capital cities. Therefore, most of North Queensland’s Greek Community would make the journey to Innisfail all around the time of the Holy Days. At Easter there was a big celebration and it would often be during this time that Christenings would be conducted though not weddings as they could not take place during the period of Lent. Only after Lent could the weddings take place.

Quite often these celebrations would take place at the Blue Bird Cafe which was very elegant and catered for all sorts of functions. There would be weddings, christenings and balls there.

Sadly, none of us children would ever meet our grandparents who stayed behind in Castellorizo.

In 1942, with the war coming to our doorstep with the bombing of Darwin (they bombed it 64 times) Innisfail officially became a ‘war zone’. I can still remember the policeman walking up the steps. They said to Dad “You can either go right now with what you’re wearing or you can head inland to Mt. Isa”. They were worried that the Japs were going to come further down the coast.

A year earlier in 1941 I had met a man called Nick Pengly. He was handsome and kind and I liked him very much. We became engaged. When we were forced to pack up we sent a telegram to Nick to tell him that we would be at the Railway Station in Mackay. There was flooding all over the country surrounding Mackay and the Fitzroy River Bridge was under water, prohibiting any trains from coming or going. The journey took us 3 days in total to reach Brisbane. Then of course we had to change trains as the tracks in NSW were a different width to the Queensland trains. It was another day to Sydney, then another to Melbourne. Years later we found out that Nick never got the telegram. He married another lady.

We relocated to Melbourne where we stayed with relatives. It was just Mum, Micha and I. The others remained in Innisfail. We didn’t stay there long before moving to Sydney. We rented a house in Surry Hills for 13 shillings a rent. It’s not worth mentioning, it wasn’t very nice.

In that same year, whilst my father was in Queensland, my mother arranged a meeting with a ‘gambro’ via the help of Mr Yiannoukas, a friend of the family. His name was Con. We met at the house, my mother said “this is the gambro” and that was that. I spent no time alone with him. I pleaded with my parents and told them that I didn’t want to get married. We were engaged within 6 months.

We were married on the 25^th October, 1942. I wore a modern wedding dress.

It broke my heart when I was forced to work in the fish shop given the life I had been brought up in. My father had educated us and I had been trained as a secretary and to keep the books. However, a year later on the 22^nd October, 1942 I gave birth to Tass (Anastasi), the greatest joy in my life. He was delivered at Crown Street Hospital. At this stage we lived above the fish shop.

On the 4^th February in 1946 I gave birth to my second child, Despina, who was born in private hospital. I was so happy that I wanted another girl.

Business at the shop was good and we eventually got a new shop. On the 4^th October 1946 I had another girl named Cherie.

My brother Jimmy at this stage was working at Valentine’s where he befriended a man by the name of Peter Pandelis. My sister Peggy was a bridesmaid at Anne Kailis’ wedding and this is where Peter met Peggy. They were married and had three children: Sandra, Kerry and Michael. Unfortunately Peggy didn’t get on well with her in-laws and they moved to Umina, Woy Woy where they ran a style of cafe. It wasn’t a diner and it wasn’t a cafe as such. It was like a big barn and they served ice-cream, hamburgers and general meals. They also had a jukebox.

My father eventually bought a house at 163 Eastern Avenue, Kingsford in 1946. Sadly, he would die in Innisfail on the 28^th October 1949. He’d caught a cold and was being looked after by a cousin, George Zorbas, who’d taken him to Innisfail District Hospital. He died of meningitis.

My brother’s took care of selling off the property in Innisfail, selling the shops and house. With the proceeds they bought 8 flats in Houston Road in Kensington and paid off the house at 163 Eastern Avenue.

Con was a difficult husband. He had a gambling problem and also diabetes; constantly needing mouth injections.

When they were old enough they all the kids got jobs. Despina worked at the Motor Transport in Roseberry, Cherie worked at the Commonwealth Bank and Tass did a number of jobs to make ends meet. Tass did well at school and eventually got a scholarship to Sydney University. I have wanted him to become a doctor but he chose pharmacy. He eventually bought his own pharmacy in Newtown after working with Mr Rose for some time.

Despina met Costa at a 21^st birthday party for Phynea Paspalis. We loved him the moment he came into our home. They married on the 15^th January, 1966 at St. Spyridon Church. After, they had their reception at the Wentworth Hotel. Eighteen months later they had Eugenie. After that came Maria and then Emil. They bought a wonderful home over-looking Botany Bay, adding a swimming pool, tennis court and an entertaining area downstairs. Since then they moved to a beautiful mansion in Edgecliff with the best of everything.

Cherie and Brian met at John Comandis’ party. They had three children: Christopher, Stephanie and Mariana. They eventually moved to Clifton Gardens where they had a beautiful house.

Tass met Chrisanthy at the Round House, NSW University, for the Kytherean Ball. They had their wedding in Canberra and their reception at the Rex Hotel. They moved first into Lenthall Street where they had Dean and Nicholas, and later to Ocean Street Woollahra. Later they moved to Lavender Bay where Michael was born. A few years later they bought a mansion in Bellevue Hill and they filled it with the best of everything, beautiful tiles, plush carpets and lovely taps.

One of the saddest days in my family was when Peggy’s son Michael died. He got sick with leukaemia. During his remission he managed to complete his Bachelors of Law and his Bachelors of Commerce. We opened up our backyard for him and Michael held a function to raise money for cancer research. He raised over $10,000 from the function. He died on the 28^th May, 1984. Since then his sister’s Sandra and Kerry established the Michael Foundation and have risen over $60,000.

I can honestly say that I have been blessed and thank God that I have three beautiful children who have been very good to me and I am thankful to their spouses who have all been welcomed into the family and whom I love dearly.

Mary Atgemis.

Oh my darling Clementine

“I’m drunk again, I am miserable” I said to myself as I walked out of the club and onto the cobbled street. “You’re going to call Ana again aren’t you?” I asked myself and my inner dialogue went as follows.

“Yes. You know I am”

“Don’t do it, no good will come of it”

“I will do the fuck what I want”.

These conversations usually took place after vodka. Especially after large amounts of vodka.

I was outside the Sens nightclub. I looked up at the corner building looking for the sign that would give away what arrondisement I was in. I thought I was in the 8^th but I had no idea. I looked up, my eyes receiving light like a long aperture exposed photograph. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have my glasses. I decided to retreat to my apartment.

I got out and paid the bill when I arrived at Boulevarde Barbes. The crack whores, pimps and dealers had all gone home so it must have been very late. Perhaps it was early morning.

I walked into the kitchen and ate curry from the pot I had made the night before. I shovelled it in with a spoon, cold and gluggy. I went and sat on the toilet. Nothing. My head span. I got up walked over to the sink, turned the fawcets on and stuck my fingers down my throat. Nothing.

I turned on my notebook. And I opened my emails.

“You have no self control”

“Fuck it, why not call just once more. The last time you drink dialled she went for lunch with you the next day. Admittedly she fucked you over but she did go for lunch with you”

I had purposefully deleted her emails, her text messages and her number so that I would have not opportunity to do this. I fished through the archive inbox where I had stored one email which she sent in a group list. It had her Parisian mobile at the bottom with a line saying “You can reach me on this number…. For those of you in London, your Parisian visiting antics are GAY GAY GAY”. I laughed. I loved it when she used that term. She did it on our first date. It was a date to me. We had dinner at Brasserie Lipp on my first night in Paris. In a round about way I asked her to marry me. In a round about way she said she’d consider it.

I grabbed the house phone and dialled once. I didn’t even look at my watch. This was a greedy self indulgent act of sheer self flagellation.

“You know, even if you win her as a friend, even if you got her sexually, it proves nothing. You don’t want to be messing with this bird, she’s half batty”.

No answer. I let go.

I had sent a text message earlier that evening “Do you still not want to talk to me? I am quite lonely tonight. Felt like talking to someone”

In my mind, this text message worked. It said “hi, I am extending my hand of friendship to you if you are willing to forgive me for whatever wrong doings you may think I have done, and, I am defenceless, so why not talk to me?”

She didn’t reply. Some famous artist was having his birthday in the ground floor apartment. He had a glass hothouse which he had converted into an entertaining space. A grand piano played out popular jazz tunes and the guests sang in both French and English. Their mirth and gusto as they sang only reminded me further of my loneliness. I opened the windows and French doors to peer down at the party. It looked very elegant. Perhaps I could crash it with a bottle of champagne in hand and some lame story about being a tourist in a new city. To me, torture was not being invited to a party and having to sit outside while others played. I hated exclusion. I texted John Dioniso, who I had set up on blackberry messenger when I had first arrived.

“Are you going to go out tonight?”

“I was going to but everyone’s being such a giant pussy”

“Well, if you make me an offer I will come out”

“Wanna meet at the long hop in 30?”

“Yep. On my way.”

I stood at the bar waiting for John, I was sweating from my bike ride. I had been so enthusiastic to get out of my bedroom and onto the road that I rode as fast as I could shooting down Boulevarde Magenta not caring if a car swiped me off the road and liberally ringing my bell if anyone as much as put a foot on the bike track. The road was mine tonight. The air was cool and damp and my jacket flapped in the wind as I listened to “Jenny don’t be hasty" on my mp3.

I ordered a drink from Raoul, a person, who though I hadn’t known for long, already considered a friend. He was John’s partner in crime. And Guilhaume’s, but Guillhaume was in Slovenia. And, Jean Baptise. But he was in New York. Such was the nature of these guys. Well educated, well versed, and well travelled.

Raoul put a beer on the bar and I threw half of it down owing to the ride. I paid for it. I looked at my phone. John had replied to my message.

“In the corner coming over now”

John was wearing a tweed jacket, possibly herringbone. It was a nice jacket. White shirt. Jeans. Well groomed hair. We exchanged hellos and then I referenced a story about Clementine that I had touched on earlier that day.

John spoke.

“I know man, that was so not cool. He violated the Man Code. Did he even ask you before he went for it?”

He was referring to Thomas’ behaviour. Thomas was my cousin’s ex boyfriend who I had befriended on arriving in Paris. He and I would sit and stew and talk about women and try to help each other overcome the obstacles to getting laid. We had both recently lost women. My wound wasn’t as fresh as Thomas’. I had hooked him up with an Australian girl in the first weeks. We had gone to a party in Pere Lachaise and hooked up with some attractive girls and both of us got numbers. But neither of us had been able to close a deal. It was getting us down. He had watched Ana put me in her cross hairs and take me out. He knew Heloiz had brushed me too. He was privy to it all.

I had met Clementine at a product launch for a spaceship. Since arriving in Paris my cousin, Maria, had tried to hook me up with different women. Especially after failing with Ana. But Clementine was the first time I looked at a woman and saw something that I wanted. At four in the morning, at Le Baron nightclub, I had walked across the room where she sat with Nicholas, and plonked myself at her side. I had the confidence of having been on good terms with Owen Wilson that night so as I sat down, I was sure that she would at least be interested. I looked at her complexion, it was stunning. Her soft features beautifully French. She was a magnificent creature.

She said yes and gave me her number.

I texted her, she texted me. We negotiated and finally agreed to meet at Fete De La Musique on Thursday evening. She was going to see a band at the Bastille and I could come and meet her in a group.

I arrived, having dressed myself to look as cool as I could. I wore a Paul and Joe shirt, my new YSL frames so I could see the band, dior jeans and zegna jacket. The city was teeming with people and the crowds were thick across the entire Bastille.

Clementine picked me up at the BNP Paribas on Richard Lenoir. She was wearing jeans, sneakers and a singlet. I noticed her straight away, she had an air of elegance about her even when she dressed down. I felt stupid. She didn’t make me feel uncomfortable though. I kissed her hello and followed her into the crowd to meet her friend. We made small talk, she seemed genuinely warm and sincere.

I was very excited. I congratulated myself.

“Well Nick, it was only a matter of time. You see, you played the averages. So Ana hated your guts, so what? And Heloiz brushed you for her mother. But look what’s at the end of the rainbow.”

Clementine introduced me to her friend, Maya, and Maya’s cousin.

I thought of Thomas. My poor comrade in arms… still out there somewhere in the darkness fumbling. I was a compassionate person wasn’t I?

I blackberry messaged him: “Come on down. You will love it. It’s electric”

“Nah, probably stay home” he replied.

“C’mon, she’s got a friend.” I pleaded.

Maya’s ex boyfriend was the lead singer of the band “Hey Hey My My” on stage. I loved the name as it came from Neil Young. I loved anything Neil Young. The band played and said goodbye to the audience. Maya seemed very cute. She was a little rounder than what I liked but she had jet black eyes and a dimpled smile. Short too. But Thomas could help me here. I needed to get Clementine on her own.

We met at a bar a block from the Bastille. It was Clementine’s local bar. I ordered and paid for the first round whilst we waited for Thomas. I decided to tell Maya about Thomas, addressing both Maya and Clementine as I did.

“Thomas is a wonderful guy. You will really like him. He’s grungy like your ex boyfriend. I am not grungy. I tried it, but it didn’t work out. So anyway, you will like him. He rides a Harley Davidson too. Oh and he speaks fluent French”

I kept my tone upbeat and perky. I didn’t want any of my recent weeks negativity oozing into my conversation.

Thomas arrived. I walked him in. He took one look at Clementine. She looked back at him. My night was over. “This is Maya” I said and my heart kept saying “This is Maya…. Thomas will you please fucking look at Maya!”.

There are times in this world where you hear about raw attraction. There are times when you witness it. It’s a rare occurrence. It has happened to me. But I looked like her ex boyfriend my cousin told me. I was funny like her ex boyfriend my cousin told me. But Thomas was what Clementine wanted now. And as if the script had been written long before the play, I was ordered to play out my role.

Thomas, a known loather of public spaces, crowds and music waited for half an hour to get a second helmut in order to take Clementine on the back of his bike. My bicycle, which was her first choice before Thomas had arrived, had now become obsolete.

We agreed to meet at the top of Oberkampf. I headed off on my bike. I raced along my thoughts were sad and disjointed. “Chin up big boy, it’s not the end of the world. You will find someone else. Maybe she likes you, just wait and see. No, you saw what that was, it was raw attraction. By George, when will I have my day in the sun? It didn’t used to be this hard did it? I feel like a schoolboy again. First Ana, mad as a cut snake, then Heloiz, not interested. I throw my heart on the craps table one more time for Clementine and she’s vanished just like that. Just like that! Well well.”

My quadriceps burned and the lactate built up. I was cycling hard. I arrived on Oberkampf and ducked into some Chinese restaurant. I had three plates of dumplings, one of which took fifteen minutes to cook, before Thomas finally called me. Magnanimous, I made my way up the hill to meet the group, I tapped him on the shoulder and said he could have her.

“She likes you Thomas. It’s unfair, it’s not right. But it’s the rules of attraction” I said.

“Yeah, I thought she did but I didn’t want to say anything to you cause I thought you might be pissed. Are you okay if I go for it” he said.

“Yes” I answered. I felt like a baby seal that had been clubbed to death, what use did I have for my blubber anymore, take it.

I turned to John, the bar was full of buffoning Americans drinking tequilas. “No, he didn’t really ask for it, but what could I do? I can’t stop love” I replied.

John looked at me, shook his head.

Raoul, John and I agreed to go to Sens nightclub. I was in good spirits again. Raoul pointed to two girls at the end of the bar. They were coming with us. Two American girls from the south. One thin, one, well, heavy but not fat. Thick.

We got into a cab with John and made our way to Sens. An attractive girl with mask on lead us to ur private table. A bottle of grey goose was placed in the centre. “Here we go” I thought.

The girls danced nicely together. The larger one grabbed her friends arse, then grabbed a girl she didn’t know’s arse. I was jealous. The larger one sat on my lap. She wanted a photo. She stretched her arm out and took it. She kissed me. I tried to turn it into a frencher. I stuck my tongue out. I went slightly inside. I pulled it back into my mouth. I let her have her fun.

“I can’t do this, I will wing John and get him laid if I can but I can’t do this. I need another drink” I said to myself.

I knocked back three or four vodkas pretty quickly. I went to the bathroom on the other side of the club. I came back, the larger one was now onto the next table of guys. John danced with the thin one. She seemed nice but a little forlorn. They were both leaving Paris by Friday.

Raoul arrived after closing the bar. His good looks and charm a welcomed change. I thought he was a better candidate for fatty. A better man, person, soul. I was deeply troubled and wanted to drink dial. So I passed the baton over, wordlessly, by leaving the club and walking into the night.

“There is a story in this” I said to myself. “It has no meaning, but there is a story in this” and I looked up at the building next to me to find the sign which would tell me what street I was on and what arrondisment. I needed set the scene. “Now where were my glasses?”.