Condolences

Rain close beneath the tin under the wing of the Studio before dawn was a trifle unsettling; it was something like the concern at howling wind and storm against the window in childhood. The evacuated possums would be having a torrid time of it without shelter. After having dispatched the large bushy-tailed felon a second much smaller was squeezing through a tiny gap on the other side of the front window. More trouble and expense. In the end handyman Goran had flipped the hinges on the box he had crafted that had fixed the first old fellow and filled that hole with expandable foam from an aerosol can. Three days later the operation appeared to have been a success—no sound of the creatures in the ceiling. After the funeral on Sunday over in Montenegro the matter of rain over a grave had played in the over-het brain. Finally the bereaved brother and the widow were reached on the phone and condolences offered. Words had been very difficult to find either side. As a sailor the brother Vajo had missed both his father and mother’s funerals. On this occasion he had been found at home. A flinty old mariner, thought had been that Vajo might have gathered himself and a calm, settled voice would be heard on the phone. In the event it proved to be not the case. Bad choking. Velika ti hvala, Many thanks to you, Vajo had responded. There was little else intelligible. Often Vajo could be quiet and circumspect. As in the villages, in Vajo’s place there at Kumbor where Aunt Radoslava had married he would live the remainder of his life one hundred metres below the church graveyard where all his family lay in the ground. Shaving the last days the thought had come of the preparation of the corpse. The younger brother Leka—Aleksandar—had a kind of large mole high on his cheek. In the summer it grew larger, he had said once. Some kind of skin condition ran through the male line in that branch of the family. Leka’s nephew Vladimir had a large dark patch of skin on his forearm that had raised consternation among the grandmas in his early years. The women shaving would need to take care with Leka. Surprisingly, late last year up in Johor Bahru, Southern Peninsular Malaysia, it had been revealed that among the Muslims in the Tropics at least it was the male kin who prepared the dead for burial. Not the case in another patriarchal form in Montenegro, where the duty fell to the widow, the daughters and other female kin.

                                                                                                       Melbourne, June 2017

Revolt

4pm, over 100 pages in on Patric, stopping at the Janissary passage – the Janicari that were of course well known to mother and all the tribes across the hills back home. Unspeakable horrors of history, invasion, power and domination. One’s own flesh and blood come back in the hated occupier’s colours to wage war on the people. There would be contemporary parallels, but nothing quite like that state policy of the Turks. Patric had heard the same stories at his grandfather’s knee possibly; being born in the old country he may have been luckier in that regard…. The older Viet girl here, married in fact with children and hardly a girl any more, understands immediately and accepts without hesitation the mandarin left for her on the counter. Possibly she saw peel on the table beside the bicycle helmet. Most of the lads were fasting of course, day six of Ramadan. Mario the Orthodox Christian in the window seat seen taking a drink of water needed a moment for recall. One could share the fruit cheaply today. Like her younger compatriots who also worked at Abdul Razak’s, the Viet woman was always pleasant, friendly and smiling. The girls here were all well treated by customers and the boss himself. Often the girls took food from a common plate with Abdul Razak, in the usual Muslim way. The ful was loaded up a bit more when Abdul Razak called them to the back table, Come, come. Quizzing the cheeky devil later about one of his common terms often playfully employed the man was less than forthcoming. The Mamalukes were vaguely remembered from the history books – Young Turks weren’t they? who assumed power in Ottoman Egypt for a number of decades, if not centuries. When copy paper boxes had been delivered the shifting had fallen entirely to the boss. The Viet woman in Abdul Razak’s employ had been busy at the coffee machine; there had not been a finger raised to help the man. Too many Mamaluka around here, Abdul Razak whined playfully. Bludgers, loafers, no-goods, Abdul Razak seemed to mean in his usage. Of course where the man came from the hired help – if it was hired and not owned – would jump to cart, clean, scratch the boss’s back without ever being asked; without the merest eyebrow raised. Of course. Those who were good and useful among the labour; there was always the laggard one could do nothing whatever with…. What is Mamaluku? the Viet woman had asked. She may have asked some weeks prior too without any answer from Abdul Razak…. Even he does not know, the woman was answered by the wise guy at the first table. In the enquiry that followed Abdul Razak was told the term was known from books, but what did he himself mean by Mamaluku?... Re-arranging the chairs Abdul Razak took his time responding, crafting his English for the reply. (Greatly improved English over these six years of absence. Six years ago Abdul Razak had possessed no more than four dozen words of English. Five at most.) If you know from books that is enough for you, Abdul Razak cheekily retorted, in a similar form that the elders had sometimes annoyingly employed for enquiries in childhood.  How many times had Abdul Razak been heard: Mamaluka!... Too many Mamaluku…. All Mamaluku here…. Loads and loads of times. Mr Morwel the South Sudanese Dinka might know the answer to the question. In the back room Morwel was working on a computer. A union leader back in his own country, who had spent six months in the USSR in the late 80s shortly before the collapse, Perestroika. Educated by Italian missionaries, Morwel spoke excellent English. Arabic as well as his own Dinka of course. There was some French too and fair chance Morwell knew more than a bit of the Tigrinya of the Eritreans. Teaching English to his people out in Fitzroy, Morwel was also collecting Dinka prose, poetry, proverbs and fables for an anthology he hoped to publish for the sake of the youth. With translations included there would be revealed some of his country’s literary heritage to Australian readers. Close Mugabe look-a-like, taller perhaps than the old fox. One “e” had been confirmed; the name was a compound of something like patience, perseverance, triumph overcoming hardship. Two separate Dinka terms mor and wel, and nothing to do with English…. Ah! Yes. That was it. Revolt of the slaves. Yes. Not the Young Turks at all; that crew had been another kettle of fish altogether. One of the most remarkable of events from the pages of the history books; similar to Haiti, but in this case much longer duration. A revolt of slaves. Slaves assuming power and retaining it for a thousand years. Like Mugabe no doubt, once in the saddle ossification and the usual insularity and jealously guarded power centre…. Something Abdul Razak might possibly not in fact have in his knowledge and no need disturb the little chappie.

NB. Black Rock White City, A.S. Patric

Dysfunction (May26)

Two chapters into last year’s Miles Franklin winner, a fellow transplanted Serb born over there in his case.  Best to omit the critique at this point; highly interesting of course to get the Bosnian War treatment from an independent source. (Thus far there has been at least one touch that hits the mark: the chief character Jovan and his wife Suzana, having lost their two young children to some intentional food poisoning in Sarajevo during the war, find they must remain mute about their particular tragedy and “have found a way to live without response.” Precisely how it might turn out for parents in such case.)

         The Viet French Bakery with the Eiffel Tower signage the least objectionable and least pretentious café thus far discovered in this city that was by default one’s own… Well, in fact Fausi’s over the road, completely unsigned, beats it for unpretentiousness hands down. Over there however you cannot sit undisturbed, quietly reading or writing. More varied clientele here too in a version of shabby genteel. One of the young Viet waitresses a little more aroused than was perhaps good for her. Beers in the far corner in the approach to winter. (Over the way third day of Ramadan.)

         After almost six years on the windless Equator, the stir of the Nazi-style bicycle helmet on the tabletop in the corner by the open door brought a little start. How about that?... One would not have thought wind blow could be missed.

         In St. Kilda for lunch the former Moroccan restaurant on Grey Street has been re-named Love Dysfunction. Perfectly located. The Choir of Hard Knocks at the top of the hill thirty metres off at Sacred Heart, and down at the bottom the Crisis Centre and Needle Exchange. Topmost dysfunction with plentiful opportunity for loving.

NB. The Miles Franklin is the top Australian prize for a novel; Black Rock White City, A.S. Patric, p. 50

Drownings, Camps and Fun-Raisin

“Adelaide couple to live on the same food rations as a Syrian refugee” http://www.abc.net.au/adelaide/

This is a program scheduled for Refugee Week (18-25 June), where participants undertake to eat the same rations as a Syrian refugee: rice portion, beans, lentils, fish, chickpeas and oil.

Sponsorship monies raised would provide refugees with food rations, medical support and education.

https://actforpeace.rationchallenge.org.au/fundraisers

A friend who is participating in the endeavor was surprised to receive a blast over the FUN-RAISIN tag at the foot of the page:

The remoteness down here in the Great Southern Land makes any sense of the realities of the larger world very difficult to comprehend.

Gift

Five and a half hours' work on the studio roof this afternoon devising a way of ousting this possum who has made a comfy home for himself in the ceiling. With the thirty degree slope, the intervening ridge and the corrugated iron not an easy task. 
         Young Goran the handyman today constructed a hinged portal which should now allow the ratfink to exit, but not re-enter. Hopefully by the morning the little chappie will find another abode for himself.
         Over a number of months now four thirty - five AM returns from his foraging through the almond, apple and plum trees in the front yard, landing with a bang on the roof-top, before crawling in back home through a tight little gap that was left below the upper level guttering. Late afternoons one heard him lazily stirring after his day-long sleep; usually by 8 30PM he was scratching around the ceiling and out and away around 9. 

         Sorry matey, vamos! You have worn out your welcome.
         Shortly before we took a late lunch Ante Roncevic happened by. Last Sunday Ante had also visited, announcing himself suddenly with a handful of weeds and searching out the green waste bin by the side fence. Stopping unnoticed at the front garden he had busied himself pulling up grass and weeds alongside the footpath.
        A fortnight before the man had been found at a bus stop in Footscray where we had a warm and friendly chat, Ante telling of his mother continuing out in some kind of residential care facility in Altona Meadows. She was in room such-and-such, her son reported. Sundays Ante went out to see her and on Christmas and Easter she came came home for a day or two (or for a few hours it may have been). 
      Ante had the name of the place, the street address and phone number by heart. During lunch he gave what seemed to be the block and unit number too. If there was pen and paper it should be recorded, Ante suggested.
      Last Sunday at his previous visit Ante had roared the same as today and must have made the people in the front house wonder. This afternoon soon after his arrival the little boys on the patio of the front house could be heard crying.
     Bab had minded young Ante as a child. Of course she had pitied him and given him much kindness and affection. The man, now well over two metres, had not forgotten.
    Last week Ante had promised he would return the following Sunday with some oranges from the tree he had in his front yard. If oranges were welcome he would bring some. Eight oranges, he had said specified for some reason.
     This afternoon Ante handed over a brown paper bag that he had stapled on top and on both sides of the paper written the same message in clear large biro: 

     Za Pok Teta Jelena Pavo
     8 Orange Za Danas 21.5.17

     For Departed Auntie Jelena Pavo
     8 Orange For Today 21.5.17

     Pok could only be abbreviated pokojna, departed.
    Ante's father, who eventually shot through on wife and child, was also named Pavo; the form Pavle / Paul took in Croatian. Big rangy Pavo had never been able to accept his son't condition and always hounded the boy to learn his lessons and to speak properly.
    Picked prematurely and still green around the stem, the small magic eight had just managed to fit in the bag. Perhaps against the glass of the kitchen window they could ripen over the next few weeks.

Noodle Salad With Spring Rolls (Bun cha gio)

Traditional water-dropping-on-the-lake music encourages care and delicacy over the pour from the complimentary teapot. Slow steady stream and holding the pot over the cup at the end for the last dribble rolling from the spout. No spillage at all. No slurping. Four or five draughts before the cup is returned to the table-top with a small, decisive knock on the black lacquered (fake) wood just like the samurai would have done it back in the day at the teahouse served by the geisha on her knees a short distance beside him. (A stronger encouragement still for best table manners.) Back in Nagoya Mihoko had learned the ceremony for six years. No surprise for a high level of accomplishment. At the time the study had been divulged by Mihoko surprise had been indeed expressed and with perhaps a guffaw escaping, to which Mihoko had deigned not to reply. Very Japanese itself that of course. After a number of years with an American G.I. boyfriend Mihoko was no doubt familiar with the gaucherie of the gaijin. The soldier had been a neat, orderly man, meticulous over his uniform. In dressing the chap had always taken care to ensure the side seams of his shirts stood properly vertical, Mihoko had once remarked, with some kind of appreciation it must have been. Mihoko had also endured questioning on the matter of intimacy with the occupier. More gaucherie met with similar reserve. Over seven years now since M. returned to Nagoya and very little subsequent word. Some reply mails had been offered in the early years; nothing now for at least four or five years. There had been some serious illness of her mother’s and Mihoko had her own health issues. Once or twice Mihoko had said she didn’t like to be burdensome delivering such matters to friends. A traditional Japanese of the finest sort. In the back shed the full eighty-eight key piano of Mihoko’s remains in its wrapping. It has now been removed to the larger, more weather-proofed shed. Mihoko performed with a local Nagoya orchestra a few years, taught the instrument for a time and also played weddings. A serious musician such as herself would not merely belt out a few pieces for light entertainment. Mother’s funeral Mihoko had attended, in part as respect for a friend but likely also curiosity about the foreign practice. She had given thanks for the notice. As usual the music was too loud at Huong. When the salad arrived it would as usual be impossible to maintain the standard of manners. Even if sticks were mastered it would be impossible. After the Viet clientele left their tables there was always a great mess left behind them. In Japan, at least in old, former Japan, in the days of the samurai and geisha, among that class, matters might have been different.

War, Migration & the First Generation

  

In walks Veki’s Vlado all unannounced straight to the baguette counter. To look at him you’d think he’d come down from some office tower, leaving the work piled up on the desk no time to tarry. Almost entirely grey. Loose black leather jacket, dark navy trousers, shoes still polished. Not any beef put on his bones in all these years. Was it the same Lennon glasses? Struggling on his super after his ex cleaned him out; stung recently too by an online dating site that he eventually traced to an unromantic outer Doveton address. Would that have been lunch at this hour? The slight frame possible and a night owl. Veki had said he was continuing to trawl the possibilities on screen. The Ukraine. Radiating even from way back then. Fags had killed his father in the end in the new country, mad relentless worker; difficult relations. Mother was for nurture – strongly attached. A vanished sister had dived into drugs in mid-teens. Assistant Manager in an office for a stretch, hard task-master with poor communication skills; not exactly a people person. When the department was decommissioned there must have been insufficient confidence for any kind of try-out elsewhere. Retirement before he was forty. The smooth blonde from the other side of town with a previous child was suspected by Vlad’s small circle to be a gold digger. Head over heels properly. No more jamming with the band; no visiting the family man in those years. It had always been an ordeal waiting for Vlado to unlock his doors for entry. Security conscious galore. The half-formed recording studio was never completed and passed into disuse. Tech-head; mixer at jigs. Vlad’s bass had always been questionable. It was only Veki who abided Vlad and the pair certainly had their moments, a couple of times Vek blowing up after enduring the opening of the fort, the clean shoes, crumbs at the coffee table one time/two too many. Briefest recall of Vlad at Laurie’s funeral – nothing in particular; fulfilling the obligation without affect something like the on-stage manner behind the glasses bent over his strings.