Wednesday, July 26, 2017

The Eyes Have It


Oci moje drage
Sunse moje
Ogledalo moje
Hranitelju
Roditelju moj
         My dear eyes. Oci crnje, oci blaznje from the famous old Russian song. Dark (black) eyes; dearest eyes....
A Slavic endearment if not used otherwise.
         In many languages My sunshine was an endearment. English included. (In later years when the cursing had been adopted Bab was stung by it. All the world gives thanks to the sun, yet you curse it!) Sunse moje.

         Mirror (ogledalo) mine was always mystifying. She was seeing herself in her son was she? How was the child a mirror? A mirror’s reflection dazzled?

         Breadwinner in the sense of saviour; staff in old age perhaps. Hrana is food; hranitelju the provider. With pension and fair assets and savings she was hardly in need of that kind of sustenance.
 
         More mystifying again, most mystifying, was Roditelju moj, Parent mine! Howso a child become the parent? In what sense and by what process? Again, the safeguard in old age possibly.

         Often mother spoke in this archaic form that brought echoes of the ancients in Dickens, the fond quiet and smiling mothers and sometimes fathers. Uriah Heap's old mum by the fire with her motley rags pulled tight around her; Johnson's London and the Hebrides. That period.

         An old friend from schooldays, the oldest friend, was surprised recently to be told Bab had never once in all our time called her son by his name. Once or twice she might have been overheard talking to someone using the diminutive. Never to the son himself, diminutive or otherwise. Avoiding the Greek hex was one thought; the evil eye. The Montenegrins, at least those up in the higher hills, seem to have had something similar in their social psychology. 
         Blazene oci koje vide te was another kettle of fish. Bab smirked a bit relating that old usage. It was an example of ljeporecenje, sweet-talking. Most fortunate eyes that behold you approaches the sense. Indians on the equator used similarly extravagant ceremonials.
         Blazene oci…./Most fortunate and blessed…. We came upon the same in one of the videos or a book of epic poetry.

         Her dear eyes, Oci moje drage….

         It was only in the last years of her life that Bab started openly with these endearments. The last four or five years perhaps. Prior to that her love was offered without any words to the effect. In fact there was much badgering and criticism rather than sweet-talking of any kind. There was no revelation of course when the words began to arrive, no surprise at the deep feeling. It was the unusual terms that were striking, and more than a little mystifying.
         Bab's words could often strike and startle; her manner and force of utterance the same. There was an oddity in much of her language. She had been the chief teacher of the language for one thing, and the teacher always had more to impart. As we began to mine the story of her life, her hidden first half of life in the old country, more and more remarkable events and happenings came in new words and new constructions. There were new categories delivered, judgements and encapsulations that revealed a wondrous culture and social realm. Sometime thereafter the endearments followed.

         We took in a visiting German girl once who had been given our contact. She was the girlfriend of a Montenegrin who had emigrated and lived in Stuttgart; the pair involved in drugs at some level it turned out. It turned out the girl, Andrea, was looking for some kind of out from that life and that relationship. Subsequently she met a local chemist and after a whirlwind romance married, had a child and soon thereafter divorced. During the period of looking for work and drifting away from her former life the old boyfriend called a few times. Thirty years ago pre mobile technology it was the home landline for communication, and it was Babi who took the calls. Andrea was often out.
         The fellow was missing his girl. He appealed to Bab to look after her. We had never met the man nor had any association with him; the connection was through a third party who herself was little known to us. The chap in Stuttgart was missing Andrea greatly; she was lapsing in her contact.
         Bab reported the man’s words. This Montenegrin lad loved this girl more than anything he saw with his eyes. Volim je vise nego sve drugo sto ocima vidim.
         Bab herself was struck enough to report the phrase. It was a Montenegrin construction. Memorable. Bab had a store of her own expressions, but this was worth reporting.
 
        We had fought such battles together, campaigns one after the other in the new hard life after the death of the man, the husband and father. Her mother's passing left little trace; the mourning must have followed closely the earlier. But then her own father, the man dead in the lines of her sister's letter. Blue and red-fringed par avion on the kitchen table that had her reeling once more, a ruination of tears and heaving. Help was required for that. Together we managed. Endured what needed to be endured.
         Sta se mora nije ni tesko, Nor is the needed, the necessary hard.
         Tesko is heavy. A heavy burden. Made lighter and more manageable by necessity.
         We managed at the kitchen table. Managed as needed.
         The sister Bosa more beautiful than Doris Day was mourned by the eldest sister, the eldest of the family in the far distant foreign land unable to share the burden with her other siblings. In the vitrine she kept the picture of Bosa and her two young sons, so soon become orphans. Again echoes of Dickens and others.

         Ocni vide was another strange, surprising and striking construction: Sight of my eyes, a verbal phrase a grammarians might term it. It was understood and received this way.
         You are the sight of my eyes; rather than you make a sight for my eyes; ie. What a sight you are. If that was right. Strange and deeply affecting of course, though at the time it was always received casually.
         There was never any doubt about Bab's great feeling, the depth of her love. Speaking it never meant a great deal, at least while she was in life.
         When uncle Petar in the last years of life laid up in the front room of the house on the coast his moaning was audible through the upper storey. In the last year or two good days he rose for occasional ventures up on the higher hill where aunt Andje suspected he only lay up again in the hay of the animal hut up there. Once he was indeed found in the doorway of that hut arms behind his head looking out into the close wide clouds.
         Stirring from his slumber in the room, turning himself over, the man in his mid-eighties moaned again and again, Majko moja. Majko moja. Mother mine. Mother mine.
         Stari konj sjetio se majke / The old horse remembering his mother. For the one who had done his mother ill and remembers all her sacrifice only later.
         Up on the equator the Muslim supplication appeared an excellent form of obeisance to the elders. The Chinese worship did not seem to go far enough, at least in the form of the ritual. The prostrations of the Muslims seemed fitting for that.

         Bab had not expected to receive a return of her love and devotion. There was no guarantee; even in the former time in the village there was no surety on that matter. In the 70s she had had a garden shed built in the backyard where she began stockpiling provisions against the days ahead when she might be left alone in the new country, the children flown off to their own lives. Tins of sardines and tuna, packs of pasta and instant noodles; the other staples of washing powder, soaps and toilet paper.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Arthur’s Meteorology


The night before the washing arrayed around the electric oil heater for the last of the drying. There had been some sun through the afternoon, but the clothes were still damp when they were taken from the line. Nights at the desk beside the heater the hands are run over the bars something like the petting of a dog—more briskly in this case to avoid the sting. When his supper is delivered one of the ways Arthur confirms the level of cold is by blowing out his vapour behind his side gates. For the display Arthur turns side-on, a large child-like O formed for the production, chin uptilted and proper Huff sounded. In the dark from a metre distance the evidence is not always easy to discern. 7pm weeknights the planes round overhead for the approach to Tullamarine, large four engine jets illuminated particularly noteworthy. The droplet when it forms on the end of Arthur’s nose is left alone most nights; occasionally there will be a shake of the head, not ever wiping or brushing away. Through the day Arthur never turns on his heater; if there is any sun he will come out back to catch the warmth, raising a leg on one of his piles in the old fashioned way, elbow resting on knee. If the grass is still wet and he is wearing his slippers Arthur won’t come to the side fence for a chat; the tree cover makes it too cold in any case. Cold evenings feet need to be warmed before bed; cold feet will never be warmed under the covers. Through the day indoors foot stamping alleviates the chill; otherwise for confinement inside the house a treadle rigged up to run the television and computer would be just the thing. As the Africans have remarked at the café for cooling, Arthur suggests it’s all in the extremities at ground level. Cloud cover lessens the cold overnight, while a clear sky portends bitter passage. Wind too prevents the harshest cold, though of course it turns up the chill a notch no matter what the mercury records if one is caught outdoors. Early mornings Arthur gauges the cold by the vial of jojoba beside his bed. Particularly cold nights, nights only one or two above zero, the jojoba in Arthur’s bedside vial turns a grey cloudy colour; as the temperature rises in the morning the lightening marks the return to liquid. When Arthur’s bread and buns are delivered he usually has not turned on his heater and comes to the gates without jacket, scarf or cap. Knowing his body is sagging particularly in winter Arthur strives to stand himself upright for correction; after the battle of the day by evening at the gates his figure reminds of the drawings of the aged in Dickens. Dead winter there was no point rising much before 10; much better keep in the burrow and dream on. Unthinkingly once tongue quicker than brain a correction was passed to something Arthur said about the best means of keeping warm at night. Far the best though Arthur is holding tight onto a pretty babe!.... Yeah well, there was that, Arthur conceded. On his laptop it was mostly the porn Arthur surfed when the TV programming ran dry. When the net was down Arthur was sad, he admitted some weeks past before the winter had set in properly.


Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Medicare Office, Newport



Half ten, dozen people on the chairs and others at the self-help PCs and phone booths. Young uniformed Sikh inside the front door stands security in neat black slacks, twin pocketed shirt with epaulettes. Sans head wrap possibly not Sikh; somewhere within the region. Neat razored cut; tight ponytail like a topknot. A face from the past impossible to place entering, contemporary couple years junior perhaps. From the mouth and jaw suggestion of Viddy Richardson from primary school and the football club. His younger brother Earl perhaps. A Westie lad all the hallmarks; basically on the rails, health the issues now. Numerous migrants. Chinese middle-aged pair were outta the blocks prematurely when the name Giuseppe was called. On the approach to the Info chap behind his motorized stand, who managed all-comers with aplomb and courtesy, the pair had called an English speaker on their phone. At the desks within they presumably had someone appropriate. Old Bill likewise jumped at his name as if he might lose his place being tardy, still nimble on his feet. Migrants over-represented, strugglers and plodders. Security was armed with an ear-piece, at entry he had been circling his corner gesticulating theatrically. Some of the poor punters mistaking him for the go-to man were duly obliged with directions. An old porky seated on his stroller behind wore a nautical white skipper’s cap fringed with laurel. Painless in the event, fifteen minutes certainly outside expectations. Big tick to the system. The rain had made the difference, keeping numbers down. Truly cold winter; a few sun-lit days earlier in the week thought had been the season was all over mid-July before it had begun. And confirmation at exit. Having taken a chair in his corner that reminded of the dunce’s punishment in primary school, the Security man nodding to the 7 ½ hours of his watch: the entire shift crossing the four or five carpet squares under the fluro overhead in his corral. Commiserations were met with embarrassed smiling and nodding some more.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

The Right


After the printing this afternoon a familiar face found at the window table, chap by the name of Yemani. Earlier something about the man had suggested a Christian. A loner. Many of the Christian Eritreans were best buddies of their Muslim compatriots. Not Yemani. And nothing in the name to do with the country over the Red Sea. In Tigrinya yemani is “right hand.” Not a case either of shared Arabic according to the man. A Muslim presumably was unlikely to have a name such as this deriving from something other than the Qur’an, but that might be wrong. The history of the right hand was of course widely known. Not only were slaps administered by parents and teachers for left-handed writing attempts on the Horn, left-handed passing of articles and such like (pointing forget it), a person would also earn a slap for resting a cheek on a left palm. Yemani’s demonstration suggested he might have suffered for the latter. The left was used for cleaning oneself of course. Never on an Eritrean table did the left stray toward the plate. A haunting presence at the café over so many years, together with such a stretch in the Muslim lands of S-E Asia, must have had Yemani wondering about his tablemate. A cultural Orthodox Christian difficult for Yemani to get his head around. Swiveling chin, unsteady eyes, halting and broken phrasing. With converts one needed to tread especially carefully, Yemani knew. Or thought he knew.