Etonian / Ethiopian X

 

Up in the Tropics it could all pass almost as a non-event, even Singapore if you carefully picked where you went. Before that on these shores the Jews in Balaclava had provided some kind of decent cover. Now on the return it would be the Muslims, Buddhists and Orthodox in Foots—the East Africans, Viets and Ethiopians. For a moment it looked like Faisal might in fact not have opened, despite what he had said the day before. The advertising stands were out on the street, not the tables or chairs. I don’t want the junkies sitting, Faisal explained at the coffee machine. It seemed the street people had been around earlier in some numbers; shortly after noon there were very few. Even some of the African places seemed to have shut. First up Greg needed a call and more so Al. The former was surprised. Yes, he’d been down to the Mission, where they had feasted on turkey and the rest, and also received $25 supermarket vouchers. It was always quite a show at the Mission for Chrissy, the locals took great pride in the staging, celebrity chefs, TV people & sports stars helping in the kitchen. Talk could not be prolonged, Greg promptly warned. No need of explanation; early afternoon with one hole filled, the chase would get going to fill the other. There was a tentative date set for Monday. Monday was a good day for Greg, yeah, yeah. First up Al didn’t make it to the phone. If he was anywhere other than in the living-room he could not beat the answering machine. It could wait. It was uncertain too whether the Viet bakery was open. Good chance, but you never knew. Couple of older girls on the bench outside the Hub; some occasional passing guys. With the bottle shop beside Faisal closed the quarter had lost its draw. There might have been something akin to the Mission put on for the locals here. Surprisingly, a middle-aged Ethiopian woman, regular, upright lady, later stopped out front of the bottle shop to ask where she might get alcohol. A short few minutes after Greg a new, thick-set fellow in a hoodie bowled up all of a sudden. Not interested in buying a $25 voucher for $10?... Ten minutes later he tried a couple getting into a Saab that you would have expected to scoot off quickly and nervously. On the contrary, the lad behind the wheel took some time fishing out what must have been ten in coins and handed it through the open door. In his characteristic marching gait Faisal had paced off shortly before for the communal prayer in back of one of the shops further down. This was something tailored for him, a goodie to tell on his return. The head was still reeling a bit from the Boris J. item on ABC from the morning. For some reason the pad had given a different version of it to the phone; much more comprehensive the latter. Lottsa detail that hadn’t emerged earlier. Fully eleven of the post-war UK PMs had been Etonians (Brown the odd man out). At a Writers’s Festival down here in fact at some point eight or nine years ago Johnson had been a guest. During a playful cat-and-mouse interview where some earlier inadequacy had been exposed he delivered from the podium an animated extempore recitation of lines from…. Wait for it…Homer’s Iliad in the original Ancient Greek! Achilles it sounded like in a long dramatic passage that might have been the agony over the death of Patroclus, or suchlike. Not a mere dozen lines; lasting a full 2-2½ minutes in total. I could go on, when he could finally bring himself to a stop. Highbrow vaudeville on the politico/literary funhouse stage, barrel of laughs. At the time the man had recently been given the meagre Arts portfolio, or shadow portfolio. A shaggy-haired performer cavorting on the platform like that; one willing and enthusiastic, soaking up the limelight. An inevitable counterpoint to the colleague across the other side of the Atlantic; altogether different kinda fish, though  cut from the same cloth/taken from the same tank. The Old Vic against talk show jabber variety. Apparently Johnson was vastly rich too; not merely average upper crust loaded. That had not made it into any of the reportage, not even on the BBC in all the time since his ascension. (Recently a mention of Trump being the richest President in US history too, when memory had Washington some little while ago unsurpassable.) One of the accompanying photos in the piece showed Etonians circa WWI marching in formation with top hats and rifles on their shoulders. Wandering far from Christmas, but by chance that had been the content of the morning’s lie-in reviewing the day’s news. The deal with the EU had finally been signed overnight, on the very Eve. Faisal was not surprised at the Saab deal. Greed was everywhere, Faisal contended. The cafe owner declared if he himself ever found money on the street he never took it for himself—acting out the placing of the note in his shirt pocket. No, Faisal put it in the box at the mosque. The same with anything left on the floor of his caf. After asking around among his customers and unclaimed, these monies too went into the box at the mosque. One of the chaps from early afternoon who had used the utility box for a ledge for a couple of Coke bottles he seemed to be drinking simultaneously returned later with what may have been a third 750ml. This time there was an older tradie friend in tow who drove a canopied ute. Shifting his bulk into the passenger seat proved a slow, arduous procedure for the Coker. Odd that Faisal had not heard about the Sudanese incursion into Ethiopia and the killing and reprisal killing that followed. When he was told he wrongly assumed it had been into the Tigray region. News of the near-fisticuffs between Abiy and Kenyatta at their meeting in Djibouti had reached him. The day before when Adib the Addis accountant had first revealed the events he expressed his fears for the worst. Like your country—meaning Yugoslavia. (x 4+ in the case of a country the size of Ethiopia; then factor the wider East African powder keg.) Like some others, Adib tried to shield himself from events in his former homeland. He was here now, this was his country, he had said a number of times. Thinking about the madness over there only made Adib mad, depressed. On this occasion the shying away had been unsuccessful. Al when he was reached was agreeable for a meat pie and sausage roll in lieu of turkey for Chrissy supper. As usual, it had been WeetBix for lunch.

Blowin the House Down

It was still difficult to get your head around the Hitler rallies. So many viewings; still a challenge. In some ways Benito was even more so. The footage for Bennie had been less voluminous, it didn’t get the same run. You had to guess the man had been a lesser force, less magnetic. The vaudeville seemed to be far more apparent in his case, all the strutting on the balconies, chin raised so absurdly high. What was that all about? Was it just a matter of the camera angle, taken from ground level? Jazz trumpeters went into that pose straining for the big blasts.

Ethiop

Ticking over half twelve, the Ethiopian lad crossing by Paisley corner had offered the nod & received in return. With the unseasonable cool his jacket was fully donned; through much of December it had been carried under arm. A number of weeks now since we had struck up the acquaintance, the first words back then the man having revealed with a conspiratorial smile that he too was a writer. Strangely, for some reason eagle-eyed Faisal maintained the fellow didn’t drink. Passing to-and-fro all day, Faisal perhaps had been fooled by the lolly-colours that alternated with the pale green. Lad came from a rich family in Addis—for a businessman like Faisal, who had a nephew fallen into the drug net, those cases were especially difficult to fathom. Soft, strongly Chaplinesque, nattering to himself quietly, scrounging ciggies & coin from the tables. Witticisms were exchanged with the regulars; not so much the street people, with whom there were good terms. One of the ladies had appeared the day before sporting a terribly dark black eye and sometimes the men wore other kinds of abrasions. As the sun rose one arm of the Ethiop’s jacket came off, care taken over its trailing on the ground. I need a holiday. I’m sick and tired of this. At the pass in the morning it had been unclear whether or not this had been a quip. As usual, the man had ignored the smile & nodding. Smiles the lad could give, but not easily receive. Many of us were struggling even with over fifty days of zero local transmission of the virus, news of the two new strains in the UK and the freedoms that had been restored.

 

 

                                                                                                                                         Melbourne

Publication news: ‘Tis the Season — New World Writing

Hello Readers

Hoping this finds you all very well.

One more publication to round out the year, NWW again.

This is a short sequence of flash that brings together elements of the festive period up in Singapore. (1,200 words)

Strange to see the Myers Department Store window decorations with their queueing crowds here in Melbourne after ten Decembers away!


Hope you like the item—

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-tis-the-season/

Pavle Radonic ~ 'Tis the Season - New World Writing 1. Crossing from the fruit by the sushi aisles there was a S - L - O - W slow amble through something about a Christmas tree. (Not the old up-tempo fave.) Almonds had not been tasted two full month… newworldwriting.net

Best of the best to all
Pavle

The Lit. Class

Held off on the Eve Babitz & Anais Nin purchases, City Library volume of the latter would suffice. The Four-Chambered Heart, after a sequence of pages in the stacks had read pretty well. Years ago Miki had been a fan, dismissing the recent discovery of falsity in what was presented as memoir. Who gave a toss about all that, said the astro-physicist. Almost 4PM at Degraves downstairs, where the image of Kerryn Jackson from Veki’s school photographs returned again. Such a time. Kerryn had been in Veki’s form group, not ours, together with a couple of other transfers that year from a neighbouring school. We had cleared maybe 10% of Veki’s books and some of the choice vinyl albums. Veki’s sister had left some photograph albums too for sifting. Kerryn. The only girl of that name in twelve years of schooling. Very little of her had come back in all the time since, understandably buried so far in the past. Another girl who had transferred in the group with Kerryn had stung Veki and continued to plague his mind all these many years later. All the relevant events had remained of course in the back of the mind, but it was the face and bodily form in the photograph that delivered the force of life. There was the girl again in her person in her thick abundant hair held by a couple of clips, full figure beneath her blazer, the vivaciousness apparent behind the blank facade for the camera. What a quantity of girl at that age! Anais and Eve were perfectly fitting precursors. How the girl had mown through our ranks left and right with no beg pardons! Firstly there had been six or nine months with big blonde Dicko. More than odd now looking back how the Jock had never for a moment thought anything of those lunches the pair took at Dicko’s place through the first half of Year 12. School and local team captain, leader of the pack, fully seventeen years of age—not the faintest inkling. The best friend more or less. We went down to the holiday house in Rosebud the year before. Fishing with the plumber old man in his little tin sardine can. (Terrifying.) Drinking buddies. There was one memory of parting at the bottom of the overpass one lunchtime, the pair of them going off to the right and Jock left. In retrospect later John had been flushed and awkward on the turn, lumbering away heavily. Kerryn had somehow been off balance too, as if concerned she had made herself transparent just then and been unmasked. Not the faintest idea; never a thought. Training; the game on the Saturday; later in the afternoon the Bombers would be playing in the big league. Schoolwork figured almost zero and girls little more. Suddenly half way through the year the best pal’s gal was assuming a seat at the desk in the Lit. class, during Othello it may have started. (Dicko did Accounting.) Some number of weeks later out of nowhere the suggestion to see a movie in town. Without any memory of astonishment there could have been none when Kerryn suggested the venture. Other meetings in Footscray had followed, only recalled because the house boarder Stojan’s approving remark on a sighting stayed in memory. Completely forgettable, as was the feature on the big screen on that first date. There surely would have been kisses sitting close together like that in the dark. How had they been erased without any trace? Weren’t you supposed to recall such blazing moments, like Veki all the ins and outs with his secret sweetheart? Kerryn had been awaited at the head of the ramp at Footscray Station, dropped off by her mother in the car. Rather than the first kiss, the signal moment had been turning to climb up the ramp for platform No. 4, the presence of mind taking the hand immediately without further ado. Hers; not the Jock’s; within the first couple of strides. Up and down and into town; the initial kiss had been minor by comparison. A bar on Collins Street had been discovered some weeks before with the boys. Not bad going being recognised almost by the waiter afterward. The part-time KFC had loaded cash in the pocket. At her folk’s place in Robert Street, over the other side of Geelong Road up from the oval—opposite North Footscray’s oval in fact, one of our opponents—kisses and squeezes on the couch while mum and plumber dad (another one) slept on the other side of the hall. Later in the year a phone call from the booth around in the next street promptly ended the affair. We were too alike; it was no good; bye. Gee, that was quick; over in a flash. Taken to mean we both wanted it on our own terms; the other coming onto us. Possibly. Precocious seventeen year old psychological assessment. Dicko was left badly wounded. There could be no explanation. What was to say? Later again that year or early the next, Ronnie W. reported a big love bite given to Kerryn’s breast. There seemed to have been no preamble, nor any sequel either for Ron. Some time after that too, suddenly out of the blue again, Viddy brings the gal over to the flat in Balaclava one afternoon, where she commented on the Jock’s perfect toenails up on the fireplace. Strange and unfathomable. We repaired to a booth at The Greyhound on Nepean Highway, whispering between the pair while Ronnie and the Jock were supposed to twiddle our thumbs waiting, was it? Hey guys, no! Ten or fifteen years later she appeared 15-20kgs heavier with her husband in Viddy’s office seeking assistance over their taxation. (The team had produced a number of accountants.) Guilt long-lingering, making you wince inside. Did Dicko ever recover? did he ever turn away from the booze, the choice VB? His role model father never did, dying early. Spectacular racey gal. Masterful. The Jock had topped the class in the half year Lit. exam, though with the need to catch up on the other subjects in the last weeks of swotting, a failure in the finals. Ron Dyet the new principal had taken the Othello class himself, a rare standout in twelve years of Western Suburban schooling. During the regular teacher’s classes the fifty minutes was devoted to more important learning. Quite something how the Shakes. would stand as a signpost into the future. Curious how the bard’s name had carried into that particular milieu; in the previous year MacBeth too had been set. Tackling that giant to the ground and making some kind of sense of the matter constituted a signifier right enough. The old Signet edition still on the shelves bore the alternate title that had been half penned/half gouged into the front cover: IAGO. Rightly understood, such command of love and fallibility deserved precedence over the foolish old blundering Moor; (odd how Shakespeare could get something like that so badly wrong). Had that been the teacher Dyet’s, or in fact the Jock’s own insight? We followed the twists and turns of love in the class reading and simultaneously out in the field.