Manolis peered over his glasses this time and looked up at the sky, to where they said the heavens resided. If there is a God, You’re a fool. There is no logic or fairness in this world You have created; how can You be a Supreme Being? He immediately and silently apologised to the Virgin for his blasphemous thought, but he felt no compulsion to take it back, or be ashamed of thinking it. Now sixty-nine years of age, still blessedly fit except for the occassional pain of rheumatism, Manolis felt himself further removed from religion and the Church than at any other point in his life. As a young man he had not dared risk God’s wrath by questioning His purpose. Now he did not give a damn. Fuck it. There was no Paradise and there was no Hell and if there was a God, He was worse than inscrutable. What did exist was the cold, cruel truth of a young man, dead—from cancer or a car accident or suicide or God knows what—at the obscene age of thirty-two. Manolis shivered—a ghost had walked across his spine—and he folded the paper to read the rest of the death notices. The young man’s face haunted him. He wanted to forget it.

Anna Paximidis, seventy-eight. That was more like it. Anastasios Christoforous, sixty-three. Not a grand age, but he looked fat and unhealthy in the photograph. Too much of the good life, Anastasios, Manolis admonished the photo. Dimitrios Kafentsis, seventy-two. Fine, fine—that was a decent age, enough to experience something of old age, but not too old to have the body fall apart into useless dependency. That was his greatest fear.

His wife’s voice suddenly screeched and he dropped the paper. ‘Manoli!’ she called out in a shout loud enough to frighten the dead souls trapped in the newsprint. ‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Yes,’ he grunted.

Another screech. ‘What?’

‘Yes,’ he called out this time. He went back to the paper.

Thimios Karamantzis. There was no photograph. Just the age at death. Seventy-one years old. The funeral was to be held in Doncaster. He was mourned by his wife, Paraskevi, his children, Stella and John, and his grandchildren, Athena, Samuel and Timothy. Manolis laid down the paper again and made some quick mental calculations. The age seemed right; Thimios would only have been a couple of years older than he was. As for Doncaster, who the hell knew where people had ended up? They had all scattered to the far ends of this too-huge city. But of course it must be Thimios. The same family name, a wife called Paraskevi. Of course it was him. How long had it been since he had last seen him? Manolis cursed his slowing mind. Think, he berated himself. Was it Elisavet’s baptism? My God, my God, over forty years ago.

His wife brought out the coffee and sat on the old kitchen chair that had been banished to the verandah when the children still lived at home. The vinyl back and seat had been ripped to shreds by generations of cats, the legs appeared almost gold from the rust, but he and Koula could never bring themselves to get rid of it. It had been with them since their first house in North Melbourne. She picked up the front page of Neos Kosmos and started reading it while softly blowing across the surface of her coffee. She could never bring herself to drink it hot.

‘What are the papers telling us, husband?’

He grunted. ‘I was just looking through the death notices.’

‘Read them out to me.’

Manolis began to read, slowly, one eye cocked towards his wife.

She clucked sadly on hearing about the death of the thirty-two-year-old lad. Unlike Manolis she did not curse God, but proceeded to lament the inequity of fate. He read out Thimios’s name and at first her face registered nothing. He began to read out another notice when he suddenly heard her gasp. He stopped, and peered at his wife over the rim of his spectacles.

‘Manoli mou, do you think that could be Thimio from Ipeiros?’

‘I think it could be.’

‘The poor bastard.’

They sat in silence, each drifting off into separate memories. Manolis and Thimios had worked together at the Ford plant, had sacrificed their youth to that job. The man was a hard worker but, much more than that, he had been a good friend. The best parties, the best nights, were always to be had at Thimios’s house, for he was a generous and exuberant host. His wife, Paraskevi, a ravishing, Slaviclooking brunette, was also full of life and she too loved to entertain. Their house always seemed full of music. Thimios played guitar and would often drag Koula up with him to sing. Manolis had never had much time for that peasant crap that Thimios and Koula enjoyed, all that wailing nonsense about eagles and shepherds and godforsaken clumps of rock, but his wife had had a thrilling voice when she was young. It was at Thimios’s house that he had first met Koula. He had not taken much notice of her at first—she was pretty enough, a little too short perhaps, not unlike so many of the young village girls who had come out to Australia back then, ship after ship after ship-load of them. He had paid her scant attention until he heard her sing. She smiled like happiness itself when she was lost in a song, and her voice was clear and galvanising: like pure mountain water dancing downstream, like the first warm rays of the summer sun.

That following Monday on the assembly line, he had asked Thimios about her.

‘She’s a good girl. And she’s pretty.’

They had to yell to hear each other above the ferocious clamour of the machines.

‘She’s a little short.’

‘What the fuck are you looking for, Manoli, a German? Koula’s pretty, and a real homemaker. Paraskevi knew her family back in Greece. She’s good stock.’

The following weekend, Paraskevi and Thimios had organised another party. Manolis hardly spoke to Koula, but he watched her closely. She was fine looking, no Sophia Loren, but she was delightful when she smiled. She also had spirit, courage; it was obvious in her singing, as it was in the way she dared to contradict and argue with the men. At work the following week, Manolis had interrogated Thimios about her family.

‘What can I tell you? From what I hear they are a decent, good family, from a village outside Yiannina, just like Paraskevi. No money there, but that’s no different to any of us. She’s got no one out here except a first cousin, a good man, a damned right-winger but not one of those crazy ones. You can argue with him. Koula lives with him and his wife in Richmond.’ Thimios had then grinned slyly. ‘Are you going to take her?’

Had he answered his friend straight away, had he answered then and there that morning in the factory? Age was the most damnable thing. There were some incidents from the distant past that he could recall with precision and clarity, that stood out more vividly than events that had occurred only a week ago. He could clearly see Koula singing, Thimios playing the guitar, he could remember the high ornate Victorian ceiling of his friend’s house. But he could not recall what his answer had been to his friend that day. Had he made up his mind by then to propose to Koula? Had it been a few days after that conversation or had it been weeks? Months? It was no good, his memory was incapable of taking him back there. It didn’t matter; sometime after that conversation, he and Thimios had walked to her cousin’s house and Manolis had asked permission to marry Koula.

She had been lost in similar memories as well. ‘We met at Thimio and Paraskevi’s house.’

Manolis nodded and looked across at her. Her plump cheeks were lowered, there were tears slowly falling onto the paper. He leaned over and folded her hand in his. She smiled at him, called herself a foolish old woman, but she did not let go of his hand. Getting old was a chore, a misery indeed, but it did have its concessions. Manolis doubted that there had been a day in his forties and most of his fifties that did not pass without him regretting ever marrying, without him cursing the terrible burden of having a wife and family. But age did silence dreams, did mellow desires, even the most ferocious lusts and fantasies. It was clear to him now that Koula was a good spouse. She was steadfast. How many men could say that of their wives?

‘We must go to the funeral.’

Koula nodded emphatically. Her coffee was now cool enough for her to sip. ‘You could always have a good laugh with him, couldn’t you?’

Manolis grinned. ‘He was a joker.’

‘It would be lovely to see Paraskevi.’

‘Yes, you two were like sisters.’

Koula snorted loudly. Her face tightened into a sneer. ‘Closer than sisters. My sisters have forgotten me.’

Manolis ignored her. He was in no mood to listen to such rubbish. Of course her family had not forgotten her. But they were all too far away, they had all passed through a thousand lifetimes, of marriage, work, children, grandchildren, death and loss, which they had been unable to share with her. Oceans, a half a world separated them. This was fate. No one was to blame.

‘Not one of them can be bothered to pick up the phone.’

‘Maria rang on Adam’s nameday.’

Koula snorted again. ‘Don’t talk to me about that one. She rang me to tell me all about her holiday in Turkey and Bulgaria. She just wanted to show off, tell me how European and cultured she now was.’ Koula drained the last of her coffee and banged down the cup into the saucer. ‘They can all go to hell.’

‘Maybe it’s time we went back for a visit.’

‘Again? Husband, you’re crazy. They can visit us for once. I’ve been in this godforsaken country for over forty years and not one of those bastards has bothered to come to see me. Not one of them bothered to come to bury their brother here. Why should we go? Why should we bother?’ Koula shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Manoli, I’m staying put. Who’s going to look after the grandchildren?’

He felt his irritation rising. He looked over to the garden. It was time to plant the broad beans. Thinking of soil and nature calmed his mind.

But Koula was too intoxicated by her wounded pride and self-righteousness to let the topic go. ‘Who’s going to look after the little ones?’ she repeated.

‘Their parents.’ His tone was gruff, angry, and he was glad when the phone suddenly rang. He was in no mood for an argument. Koula rushed to answer and Manolis grabbed the opportunity to work in the garden. He groaned as he rose from his seat. You damn legs, he swore, you are betraying me. He bent over with difficulty and started digging to make a bed for the beans.

Before long Koula reappeared, standing in the doorway. ‘It’s too early to plant them.’

Manolis kept digging away at the earth, sinking in handfuls of dry broad beans into the earth.

‘That was Ecttora. I told him about Thimio. He says he can’t remember him.’

‘Of course not.’ Manolis gritted his teeth and slowly straightened his back. He banged his hands together, flicking off the soil and grit. ‘Hector was five, six, when we left North Melbourne.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But remember how Thimio would always play with him, swing him up to the ceiling so Ecttora could bang it with his fist? He loved that.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He’s bringing the kids over tonight for a meal. The Indian has to work late again.’

His son had been married to Aisha for nearly fifteen years and still Koula could rarely bring herself to utter her daughter-in-law’s name.

‘That woman cares more about her work than she does her family.’

And you’re a jealous sow. ‘What do you want her to do? She has responsibilities, she’s a professional. She has her business.’

‘It’s Hector’s business as well.’

Manolis turned away from her and a jolt of pain rushed up his left leg. He grimaced and swore. ‘It isn’t Hector’s business—it’s hers. Our son is a public servant, his wife is the business woman. They’re both good workers. They are both fortunate. Stop your complaining.’

Koula’s mouth tightened. Manolis walked past her. At the verandah he took off his gardening slippers and banged them against the concrete. Specks of earth and stone flew into the air.

‘She’s refusing to go to Harry’s party.’

Manolis sat on the edge of the verandah and rubbed his foot. He looked up at the sky. Dark oppressive clouds were slowly rolling in from the north. It was weeks since they had had rain. God willing, there would be some soon.

‘She’s an idiot,’ Koula announced. ‘An ungrateful idiot. Why does she have to shame us, why does she have to shame poor Ecttora?’

He did not answer her. He looked around for the cat. He had kept some fishheads from last night’s meal for her. He started calling out for her. ‘Penelope, Penelope, Pssh pssh.’

Koula raised her voice. ‘Why couldn’t he have married a Greek girl?’

It was not a question. It was a lamentation that he knew he was cursed to hear till the end of his days on earth. He’d ignore her, he would not be dragged into an argument. But he glanced up and Koula’s petulant face disgusted him. Sometimes, sometimes a woman’s foolishness was just too much to bear.

‘Marrying a Greek did nothing for our daughter, did it? Marrying a Greek messed up our daughter’s life.’

‘Go to hell.’ Koula, vexed, raised a contemptuous fist to him before stepping back inside the house. ‘You’re always defending the Indian,’ she cursed him, before slamming the door shut.

Blessed peace. A couple of doves cooed, and he heard a scramble across the back fence. Penelope jumped into the garden and then rushed straight to him. She purred as he rubbed her back.

‘How’s my pretty girl,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t listen to that idiot inside. She’s gone crazy.’

The cat purred. Ignoring the clutch of pain as he rose, Manolis walked into the kitchen. Koula was banging plates together, preparing lunch.

‘Where did you put the fishheads?’

No answer.

‘Koula, where did you put the fish from last night?’

‘I threw them out.’

‘For God’s sake, wife, I told you I wanted to feed them to the cat.’

‘I’m sick of that cat. I want to get rid of her. The kids keep touching her. They’ll get a disease.’

‘That cat’s cleaner than they are.’

‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ? You think more of that cat than you do about your grandchildren.’ Koula shook her head in disbelief, chopping at a cucumber with fury. ‘You are not a man. I’ll say it till the day I die. You are not a man.’

You’ll never die. You’re a witch who will live forever. Manolis searched through the fridge and found the fishheads rolled up in aluminium foil. He took a deep breath and kicked shut the fridge door.

‘Koula,’ he started calmly. ‘You know that I don’t defend her over this stupid trouble with Harry and Sandi. I want her to go to Harry’s party.’

‘Then talk to her. She listens to you, God knows why.’ Koula was not yet ready to make peace.

The Devil take you. ‘Make me a coffee.’

‘I’m getting lunch ready.’

‘I want another coffee.’

‘Are you going to talk to her?’

Manolis looked around the kitchen. Koula had studded the walls with pictures of the grandchildren. Adam, just born, Melissa at the zoo, Sava and Angeliki at the village in Greece, school photos, Christmas photos, the kids all sitting on Father Christmas’s knee. Why couldn’t they remain children? They grew up and they became selfish. It happened to all of them, without an exception. He was weary; man lived too long but clung desperately, foolishly, onto life. If he was a dog someone would have taken him out already and put a bullet in his head.

‘Are you going to talk to her?’

Again. This was going to be a battle.

‘Make me a damn coffee.’ Manolis rubbed at his calf.

‘Are you in pain?’

‘A little.’

‘When are you going to talk to her?’

The unpleasant harsh odour of fish. Thimios had taught him how to fish. On Sunday mornings they would rise at dawn, throw their gear into the back of the station wagon and head straight to Port Melbourne. They were young then, the country was new, and the laws were different. They’d drive with a bottle of beer between their legs, smoking cigarettes, no seatbelts, free men, singing, arguing, telling dirty stories.

‘I’m going to my friend’s funeral,’ he announced, walking out to the verandah. ‘My friend has died. Hector, Aisha, Harry, Sandi, the whole damn lot of them can wait. I’ll bury my friend and then I’ll talk to her. And make me a damn coffee.’

Penelope was clawing at his trouser leg. He smiled down at her and dropped the fishheads on the concrete. He sat back in the old armchair and watched the cat eat.

The service had begun and he and Koula crossed themselves, kissed the icons and moved into the back of the congregation. The church was full, mostly old people like themselves. A woman, clothed in heavy, shapeless black, was weeping quietly in the front pew, supported by a straight-backed young woman also dressed in black. That must be Paraskevi and her daughter. He craned his neck to look at them but he could not see clearly past the rows of people. He looked around, trying to see if he could recognise a face. His memory seemed to fail him. There was a bent-over old man, his hair completely white, who seemed familiar. But he was not sure. He realised that Koula had begun a quiet, dignified sobbing. Manolis reminded himself that he was here to bury a friend, and a good man at that, and he lowered his head. He closed his eyes and pushed back into his memory until he recalled the smiling face of his friend, the laughter they’d shared. When he opened his eyes again the tears fell effortlessly.

He was shivering by the time the service approached its end. Before the altar sat the heavy wooden casket that contained his old friend’s body. It was open; he would have to look at Thimios. The congregation shuffled slowly towards the altar. Manolis was worried that he might faint. He slipped off his jacket and carried it over his arm. He looked up at the forbidding saints painted on the walls. You pricks, he thought to himself, you liars, there is no Heaven, there is only this earth, this one unjust earth. Ahead of him a woman lifted up a young boy to look down into the coffin. The boy was clearly terrified. What madness, what foolishness these rituals were. The bereaved family had formed a line and begun to accept people’s commiserations. He tried to see Paraskevi’s face but it was shrouded by a black veil. Her body seemed tiny, thin. The woman with the child stepped away from the casket. Manolis took a deep breath and looked down into the coffin.

He did not recognise the impassive dead face. Thimios had gone bald, fat, an old man in a shiny brown polyester suit. Manolis felt nothing looking down at this stranger. He made the appropriate sounds, shed a tear, and then walked to where the immediate family were lined up along the altar. He was anxious about having to speak, to possibly have to introduce himself. Would they wonder who he was, why he was there? He waited for Koula to reach him. His wife came up next to him and he looked up at the line. At that moment, the widow turned and looked at them.

And Paraskevi struggled to her feet and fell into their arms. Through the fine mesh lace of the veil, Manolis could see that her eyes were the same as he remembered. She was old, she looked as though her back could no longer support her, her hair had thinned, her face was a mass of wrinkles, but her eyes were the same. She clutched Manolis’s arm tight and though she was unable to say a word, the ferocious desperation of her grip said all that needed to be said. My sister, my sister, she managed to whisper in Koula’s ear and then fell into long, anguished moans. He could see members of the family along the line looking at them, wondering who these strangers were to have such an effect on their mother, their grandmother. Manolis, crying like a child now, choked out a strangled ‘I’m sorry’ and Paraskevi released her hold on him.

‘Please come to the house.’

He nodded. As he moved along the line, the young people shook his hand firmly. They did not know him but understood that it was important he was here. All his doubts melted away. He was glad they had come.

The sun was still shining when he stepped off the back steps of the church into the carpark. An old man in a jacket but with no tie was smoking a cigarette. The man’s face was as wrinkled as an acorn, and his neck was scarred a deep raw pink. A worker’s face and a worker’s neck. His grey hair was cut very short—Manolis guessed that it was the number one on the barber’s clippers—and he had the good fortune to not have gone bald. The man looked across at him and smiled sadly. Then, with a quizzical squint in his eyes, he walked over, breaking out into a grin.

‘Re, Manoli?’

‘Yes.’

‘You damned cocksucker.’ The grin had now spread across his whole face. ‘You don’t remember me?’

Manolis desperately tried to recall who this might be. Panicked flashes of names and faces entered his mind. But nothing concrete, nothing to hold on to. Koula had come up beside him, wiping her eyes.

‘And this must be my Koula.’

His wife offered the stranger a nervous cold nod of her head, but suddenly she dropped her handkerchief and squealed. ‘Arthur!’

The old man hugged her. He winked at Manolis as he peered over her shoulder. ‘My gorgeous, gorgeous Koula. Why did you marry that loser instead of me?’

Manolis slowly crouched and picked up his wife’s handkerchief. As he touched the wet cotton he remembered the man. It came to him immediately, cleanly; sweaty nights dancing at the clubs in Swan Street. Thanassis—Arthur—his shirt would always be drenched at the end of the night. Manolis tried to recall if there was a family connection between Thanassis and Thimios. Second cousins? That did not really matter. What mattered was the friendship they had shared.

Manolis shook the man’s hand, he could not let it go. Thanassis finally pulled it away. ‘You’re going to rip it off, friend.’

Koula smiled up at him, and then looked around at the people milling around the carpark. ‘Where’s Eleni?’

‘Who knows?’ Thanassis laughed at Koula’s bewilderment. ‘We divorced years ago. I think she’s in Greece now.’

Manolis could not think of anything to say. Koula cleared her throat. The last of the congregation was leaving and the pallbearers were preparing to carry the casket. Thanassis stepped on his cigarette butt.

‘Are you going to the burial?’

Manolis shrugged and looked at his wife. They had not decided on what they would do after the service. But they had to go to the house. They had promised Paraskevi that they would go to the house.

Koula answered for him. ‘No. Let them bury Thimio in peace. But we are going to the house afterwards.’

Thanassis nodded sadly. ‘Good. I’m doing the same.’ He dropped his arms across Koula and Manolis. ‘Come on, I’ll shout you a coffee.’

He took them to a small café in the middle of brick-veneer suburbia. The place was run by a Persian family; thick woollen rugs adorned the walls, photographs of 1950s Tehran and Qum were hung between the gaps. Thanassis led them through the dark interior, out behind the kitchen to a small courtyard. Three weather-beaten, cheap aluminium circular tables were propped up tight next to each other; the seating consisted of rickety unbalanced benches, the paint peeled back to reveal the dark hard wood underneath. The café sat on a crest of a small hill and the city loomed in the distance behind the low palings of the fence. Stretched out between them and the city skyline there was an ocean of red-tiled roofs, the soaring spindly foliage of gum trees and elms, little islands of green now and then puncturing that crimson sea.

The coffee was excellent, strong and bitter. Thanassis smoked and talked openly of his life. Manolis was reminded that the man had always been a braggart. One of his sons, Thanassis explained, was a lawyer. The other son—Manolis could not remember if he was the eldest—ran a restaurant in Brighton. Thanassis’s wife had had a breakdown. Slowly her mind had become diseased to the point where she could not leave the house, all she wanted to do was stay in bed. Koula made appropriately distressed ejaculations, but Thanassis raised his hand to dismiss them.

‘Don’t waste your pity on her.’ He then suddenly banged his fist on the table, upsetting Koula’s coffee. Thanassis, apologising, called out to the kitchen. ‘Zaita, bring us a cloth.’

He continued with his story. ‘I paid for the best doctors, I had her in the best hospital in this city. The money I spent on that bitch. But nothing could cure her. She came back from the hospital unchanged. She just lay around the house all day, doing nothing. I’d come back from work, after working like a damned heathen slave all day in the factory, and she would not have lifted a finger. The house was dirty, the bed unmade, nothing cooking on the stove. The house stank. It stank, I tell you. What man can live like that?’ His gaze moved between Manolis and Koula, as if daring them to contradict him. ‘What can you do with a woman like that?’

They were interrupted by the young waitress who silently wiped the table clean. She was petite, dark, Oh God, oh God, she was luscious thought Manolis. If only he were still a young man.

Koula ignored her, she was smiling sadly at Thanassis. ‘A woman who cannot look after her own house is not good for anything,’ she declared. She patted Thanassis’s hand. ‘We’ve become spoilt, Thanassis, we don’t know how good we have it.’

Manolis stifled a laugh. They were flirting with each other. Thanassis had always been a manga, the most hopeless adulterer Manolis had ever met. As a youth the man had been cocky and his burly frame, sly grin and lazy, roguish eyes had always turned women’s heads. Manolis experienced a pang of ancient jealousy, then it quickly disappeared. The waitress brought Koula another coffee and Manolis thanked her. The girl smiled, a smile sweet and indulgent. I’m just a grandfather to you, aren’t I? Just an old papouli. Age, bitter, invincible age. What a monster it was.

‘So I sent her packing.’

Koula was obviously shocked by the rude, dismissive contempt in Thanassis’s voice. Manolis felt a surge of fury. Eleni had been a decent woman, demure, a bit of a coward. She should never have been given to a man as worldly as Thanassis. The marriage had been a mistake. She was not perfect; her worst fault was that she had a spiteful tongue. She had been a gossip, even when they were young. But she was obviously sick, suffering. He didn’t believe Thanassis’s talk of the best doctors and the best hospitals. The bastard had always been tight with his money.

‘What about the children?’

Thanassis cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What about the children? I took them.’

Koula gasped, then quickly looked away. Thanassis laughed and lit another cigarette.

‘Come on, people, of course I took the children. She was crazy, mad, I tell you. I locked her out of the house. I wasn’t going to allow that animal to poison my children with her lies.’

Koula’s brow was set in fierce censure. Manolis could not meet the other man’s gaze.

‘Listen,’ Thanassis sensed their disapproval, ‘I let her see them. Of course I do. I’m not an evil man. They see her all the time, they’re always back and forth to Greece. But I couldn’t leave them with her. No, that was inconceivable. I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances. I raised them myself.’ His eyes flashed, his face hard. ‘What do you think I should have done? Been a martyr, sacrificed my happiness, stayed with the cow?’ Thanassis sneered. ‘Fuck that. There was only one Jesus Christ and he suffered for all of us. I’m no martyr, I love life too much, and unlike the fucking Christ, this is the only life I know I will have. There’s no Heaven, there’s no Hell. This is it. The maggots and the worms have already started on Thimio and we’re not far off from that fate ourselves. I’m not apologising for what I did.’

You did it, Manolis thought to himself, you took the plunge, you dared the opprobrium, the scandal. He looked across at Thanassis and they exchanged a wry smile.

Koula realised that something was being communicated between them that excluded her. When she spoke her voice was smug, cold. ‘Of course, you did what you needed to do. But you can’t deny it, the children always suffer when it comes to divorce.’ Her lips were pursed, tight, she had straightened her back: a vision of propriety, of piety and moral rectitude. Manolis asked himself yet again how he could break her unrelenting sense of conviction. Had she forgotten the long, poisonous years in between youth and age, the years of argument and spite and disillusion and despair?

Thanassis answered for him. ‘Shit happens.’

The cocky English phrase of their children made them all laugh. Koula bit her lip, and blushed. She hadn’t forgotten.

She touched Thanassis’s hand again. ‘Arthur, you smoke too much.’

Thanassis winked at Manolis. ‘Friend, that’s another thing I like about being a single man again.’ He grinned mischievously at Koula. ‘No bloody women telling you what you should and shouldn’t do.’

Koula raised her hands angrily in frustration. ‘Come on, Arthur, you know I’m right. Give it up. Enjoy the time you have left. Enjoy your grandchildren.’

Thanassis’s answer was tender. ‘I should have married you, Koula, you would have made me happy. I’m sorry that cocksucking prick got to you first.’ He slipped his hand away from hers and he knocked a fist hard against his chest. ‘Black death will take me, I know, and it will begin here.’ He blew out a long, exultant spiral of smoke. ‘What can we do? Black death takes us all.’

Paraskevi was sitting in the middle of a long, tall-backed rococo couch, her sisters either side of her. When she saw Koula and Manolis she jumped to her feet.

‘Come on,’ she ordered Koula. ‘Come sit with me.’ One of the sisters obediently moved along to make space. Manolis and Thanassis stood awkwardly in front of the television.

‘Athena,’ ordered Paraskevi. ‘Get some chairs for your uncles.’

Manolis went to assist the teenager but she dismissed him with a simple wave of her hand. ‘I’m okay.’

Papouli, he thought, I’m just an old man. She came back from the kitchen, a chair under each arm. Gratefully, Manolis and Thanassis took a seat. The girl sat on the floor.

‘This is my granddaughter, Athena.’

He could see Thimios in her face. She had her grandfather’s high brow, his sharp cheekbones, his small, round mouth.

Koula also appraised the girl. ‘Are you Stella’s daughter or John’s daughter?’

‘I’m Stella’s child,’ Athena answered, then she blushed. Her Greek was awkward.

‘We were all great friends,’ Paraskevi explained, holding tightly to Koula’s hand. ‘We were the best of friends.’

She turned to Manolis. ‘What happened? How did we drift apart?’

Those questions were asked countless times that afternoon. As more of the mourners arrived at the house, Manolis felt as if he had entered the Underworld and was lost among the Shades. Except that he too was one of them. What happened? Where have you been? Where do you live? Are your children married? How many grandchildren? There was Yanni Korkoulos, who had owned the milk bar in Errol Street. There was Irini and Sotiris Volougos. Koula had worked with Irini in a textile factory in Collingwood and he had worked with Sotiris at Ford. Along with Thimios, he and Sotiris had got drunk the night the junta fell, and went to the brothel in Victoria Street. Emmanuel Tsikidis was sitting in an armchair across from Manolis. His wife Penelope had died two years ago, he told Manolis, from the ‘evil disease’, cancer. First her stomach, then her lungs. They chopped so much out of her she died a skeleton. Next to Emmanuel there was Stavros Mavrogiannis, a still refined countenance, but gone to fat. His hair was thick, jet black. He must be dyeing it. His Australian wife Sandra had gone completely grey and, unlike the other women in the room, did not bother to hide it. She was still a fine-looking woman. They had seemed like goddesses, the Australian women, when they had first seen them as young men: tall, slim, blonde and Amazonian. What had happened to the Australian girls? Now they were all fat, bovine. Sandra was still graceful, straight-backed. She had surprised them all in the seventies by learning word-perfect Greek.

At first conversation was stilted, everyone conscious of Paraskevi’s grief. They asked after each other’s children and grandchildren and then they were unsure what else to talk about. The past loomed enormous, insurmountable. Paraskevi’s children, her nephews and nieces, had come in to greet each new arrival. They were polite, sad, of course, but they drifted back into the kitchen, sitting around the polished blackwood table, involved in their own conversations. They were still young men and women, far removed from death, and so soon they could not help laughing, telling their jokes. The grandchildren were outside, the youngest playing hide and seek, the older ones playing footy. Athena and Stella would come in from time to time with fresh coffee, tea, drinks, cashews and pistachios to nibble. Manolis wanted a beer but he knew it would be improper to ask for such a celebratory drink. Instead, he took a whisky off the tray. From the kitchen, in English, they could hear the kids discussing travel. One of Paraskevi’s nephews had just returned with his family from Vietnam.

Katina, Paraskevi’s eldest sister, shook her head. ‘I told them they were crazy,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I thought they were out of their mind taking the children there.’ She tapped quickly on her breast, then crossed herself. ‘The disease, the poverty. They had no right to take my grandchildren.’

Thanassis made a loud rude noise. ‘Nonsense. It’s a beautiful country. I went last year.’

Sotiris Volougos leaned back in his chair, a suspicious look in his eyes. ‘You’re playing with us.’

‘No I’m not. I went. Great food, good people.’

Katina chuckled. ‘Did you eat dog?’

Thanassis shook his head, then laughed. ‘Katina, I had dog in Athens during the Occupation. I don’t mind dog.’

The women all shrieked in horror. ‘Did you really have to eat dog during the war?’

Thanassis nodded his head slowly at Athena. ‘And not only dog.’ He made a retching sound that shocked them all. ‘I still sometimes wake up with that vile taste of snake on my tongue.’ He turned to the women on the sofa. ‘Vietnam is a great country. Beautiful. I lived like a king there for ten days. Everything is cheap. Of course there is poverty, of course. But they’re a proud race. I went down those holes where they hid from the Americans. They were living like rats. And you can still see where the bloody Americans bombed them, where they destroyed whole villages and towns. They really fucked them up the arse.’

Paraskevi grunted. ‘And who haven’t the Americans destroyed? Look what they are doing in the Middle East. It’s the same thing.’

‘Sure, sure,’ answered Thanassis. ‘But the Vietnamese defeated them because they were united. Unlike the idiotic Arabs—the English set them amongst each other a hundred years ago and they’re too pig-ignorant to see it. If they were united they could conquer the world.’

‘Bullshit.’ Sotiris used the English expletive and then continued in Greek. ‘America is not going to let anyone conquer the world except themselves. They’ll blow all of us up before letting anyone else get the upper hand.’

‘I blame that cocksucker, Gorbachev.’ Thanassis leaned in, excited. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

Paraskevi raised her hand. ‘Outside.’

‘In a minute.’ Thanassis rolled the cigarette through his fingers. ‘If that animal hadn’t dissolved the Soviet Union we’d have someone standing up to the Yanks.’

Emmanuel laughed. ‘Come off it Thanassi, that’s ancient history, that’s like Homer and Troy. No, let it go, the Americans rule everything. ’

‘They destroy everything.’ Paraskevi undid the clasp from her veil, swung her head and let her hair fall around her shoulders. ‘No one dares to do anything to them.’

Emmanuel shook his head. ‘That’s not true, that lad, that Arab, he managed to bomb New York.’

‘And good on him.’

Katina frowned. ‘Paraskevi, you’ve just lost a husband. Think of all the widows who grieved in New York.’

Paraskevi made a loud squishing sound with her lips. It sounded like a fart. ‘Katina, are you serious? With all the suffering in this world you want me to care about the damn Americans?’ They all burst into merriment at the joke of it.

As the afternoon wore on, they fell into argument, and the stiffness, the forced politeness all fell away. Athena fetched more drinks and Manolis drank more whisky. Koula clucked her tongue loudly and tried to catch his eye but he ignored her. The conversation moved from politics back to their own lives, but this time with a frankness that had not been there before. The wine and the spirits had loosened tongues, but so had something else, a stepping back into the past: they were reminded of a camaraderie that was so exquisite, so cherished that only drawn together in grief over their friend’s death could they admit how much they had missed it, how intense their longing for it had been. Conversation returned to the children and the grandchildren, as it always does, conceded Manolis, amongst people as old as us, but this time the men admitted to disappointment, to failure. Tales of divorce emerged, as did curses over a child’s laziness or his selfishness or her stupidity. Wrong choices in partners, jobs, in life. Disrespect was a consistent theme, as were drugs, alcohol. The women fell silent listening to the men, their faces closed, concerned. At first they refused to admit to any doubts about their offspring, saying nothing except an occasional warning to their husbands. Shut up, Sotiri, it’s not Panayioti’s fault he married that sow. There is nothing wrong with Sammy, he just hasn’t met the right girl yet. Not another word, Manoli, Elisavet did not bring it on herself. It was Sandra—of course, it would have to be the Australian—who came over, stood up next to Thanassis, and joined in the conversation with the men. She did not, however, speak of disappointment with her children. She stated plainly that sometimes it was hard with Alexandra, sometimes it was hard having a child who was schizophrenic.

No Greek woman would admit to this, Manolis told himself, looking fondly at Sandra. Greek women are tigers when their children are successes, but they fall apart with failures. The room fell to silence. Stavros was looking down at the carpet. Was the man humiliated? To everyone’s surprise, Sandra let out a loud, honking laugh.

‘You don’t have to pity me. She’s fine, I’m proud of my Alexandra. It was difficult, for years, in and out of hospital. But she takes her medication now, we bought her a small flat in Elwood. She’s fine. Alexandra is happy. She paints now.’

‘That’s right.’ Stavros was smiling affectionately at his wife, nodding his head fiercely, boldly, a wide smile on his face. ‘You should see the icons she paints. They’re beautiful.’

Tasia Maroudis, who had been quiet all afternoon, sighed deeply. ‘We all have our burdens.’ Her voice had not changed in all these years. Soft, almost inaudible, the call of a tiny, frightened bird.

Sandra’s mouth set in a redoubtable iron grimace. ‘I tell you, she’s no burden.’

‘What are her paintings like?’

They all turned to Athena. The girl blushed.

Sandra answered her in English. ‘They are big canvases. She paints women, all different kinds of women—old women, young girls, fat women, thin women, but all painted in the style of old Orthodox icons. The colours are so rich, so strong, completely fantastical. ’ Sandra smiled down at the girl. ‘Do you like art?’

‘I want to be a painter.’

Paraskevi massaged her granddaughter’s shoulder. ‘Don’t let your father hear you.’ She turned to her friends. ‘He says there is no money in art.’

‘There isn’t.’ Sandra shrugged. ‘But that’s not why Alexandra paints.’

‘Athena, go get that painting you did of your grandfather, the one hanging up in our room. Show it to everyone.’

The girl scrambled to her feet, walked shyly across the room. She returned with a small canvas. She hesitated, then smiling shyly, she handed it to Manolis.

He could not recognise his friend in the bushy white hair, the dark wrinkled skin of the portrait. Manolis knew nothing about art and was no judge of the painting. He felt nothing. He passed it to Thanassis.

‘It’s very good,’ Manolis told her.

Athena blushed again. ‘It’s alright.’

The painting was passed around the circle of old people, each of them making appropriately admiring remarks over it. It finally landed in Paraskevi’s hands. She wiped away her tears.

‘Thimio was so proud of Athena.’

‘Why not?’ Koula was smiling at the young girl. ‘She’s a wonderful young woman, of course he was proud of her.’

Silently the girl took the portrait from her grandmother’s hands and left the room.

Tasia leaned forward. ‘Did you hear about Vicky Annastiadis’s oldest boy?’

Here we go, thought Manolis, more gossip. He recoiled from the sound of her breathless voice. She was timid, but she’d always been a bitch. He remembered now, how she’d gloat over misfortune. He turned to Thanassis to begin another conversation but his old friend had a quizzical look on his face.

‘What about him?’

Tasia’s eyes were glinting as she turned to Thanassis. ‘He’s in prison.’

‘What for?’

Tasia shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s a thief. How and what and where I don’t know. But he was always trouble.’

Thanassis snorted in anger. ‘You’re talking crap. Kosta was a good kid. He was tough. You could rely on him.’

Tasia pursed her lips. ‘That may be, Arthur, but he’s still a thief.’ Koula tapped her fingers on the coffee table. ‘Touch wood that our kids are alright.’

‘That you know of.’

She swung around furiously. ‘What do you mean by that, Thanassi? ’

The old man laughed. ‘Nothing, my little doll, nothing. I just mean what do we really know about our children’s lives? What they tell us. But how much do they tell us?’

Tasia started to speak and then quickly stopped herself. The words had been a muttered jumble, Manolis could not be sure he had heard any of them, but her malice was obvious, it suddenly lay heavy in the room. Manolis had not heard the words but he knew exactly what had remained unspoken. That’s why your wife left. It suddenly struck him that it had not been Thanassis who had been brave and walked away. It was Eleni who’d left, who’d had the balls to walk. Had she really left the children with him? Or had he promised to break her neck if she defied him? He would probably never know the whole story; Thanassis was too full of shame and bluster—the story would always be shaped to reflect honour on himself, no, not honour exactly. Manolis looked at his old friend, the thickening waistline, the shaking liver-spotted, wrinkled hands with the nicotine-stained fingers, the folds of fat at the back of his neck. Thanassis was an old man who wanted to believe that he was still a bull. Those days were gone. Lost in his thoughts, Manolis did not hear what his friend replied to Tasia but he saw the reaction: Athena’s shocked gasp, a thrilled grin at the edge of his own wife’s mouth. Koula had never liked Tasia.

‘You’re a blasphemer, Thanassi.’ Tasia crossed her arms and primly turned her knees away from the men.

‘Tasia,’ Thanassis roared with laughter, ‘you’re exactly like my wife. You and she are the kind who walk with God. Which is all I need to know about religion.’

Tasia could not help herself. ‘Atheist,’ she spat out.

Thanassis clapped his hands, a ferocious sound that silenced the conversation of the younger people in the kitchen.

‘Bravo, Tasia, bravo. I am an atheist and bloody proud of it. It’s this one life we have, my little gossip, this one life. Then we become dirt, we become flesh for the maggots to feed on. That’s it.’ He suddenly drew back, his face crumpled, he looked fearful, confused. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and, without looking at her, mumbled an apology to Paraskevi.

The old woman grinned. Her eyes were still moist. ‘Thimio used to say the same thing. Don’t worry about offending me, Thanassi. I don’t know what awaits us after death—all I know is I will never see my Thimio again.’

Thanassis rose, chucked the cigarette to his lip. ‘I’m going for a smoke.’

Manolis followed him, and, flashing a guilty look at his wife, so did Sotiris.

Thanassis lit his cigarette. Sotiris asked him for one.

‘You still smoke?’

‘Once or twice a year. Irini will nag at me all night.’

‘You’re lucky. You’ve got someone to look after you.’

Thanassis inhaled deeply, he was looking out to the vegetable garden in the darkness. In the centre of the yard was a fine, sturdy lemon tree, now barren. But there would be plenty of fruit in spring. It was clearly a strong tree. Manolis followed his gaze. Thimios had always been good with the earth. He’d planted tomato vines when they lived together, and every year the tomatoes would be plentiful and plump.

Manolis looked at the two old men, smoking silently on the verandah. Was it possible that the last time they had been together was at that filthy brothel in Victoria Street, so damn drunk that he remembered he could not get it up? He had ended up sucking on the whore’s tits, pulling his shameful half-erect cock to a pathetic small splatter of a climax. There had undoubtedly been dances, weddings, baptisms afterwards when they had met up, but it was that night that claimed any stake in his memory. He smiled to himself. They had been studs then, confident, virile, strong. They had been lads, palikaria. Now they were all dying. Maybe not ill yet, but death had begun, had started tightening its inexorable grip.

‘So, what’s it like being a bachelor, Arthur? You recommend it?’

At first they thought Thanassis wouldn’t answer. He was still peering out into the darkness of the yard. But he turned, his back against the fence, and smiled ruefully at Sotiris. ‘Lonely. It’s lonely.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘But I’ve got myself a Filipina girl. Antoinetta. She’s a nice girl.’

Manolis was shocked. And jealous. You’re cruel, God, you’re cruel. I am destined to always be envious of this man.

‘How old is she?’ Sotiris looked dubious.

‘Forty-eight.’ Thanassis laughed out loud, delighting in his friend’s surprise and discomfort. ‘I don’t live with her, of course, my children would put me in a mental asylum.’ His voice was suddenly bitter. ‘Not because they care about my mental health—because they’d be worried she’d get some of my money.’ He scrubbed the end of his cigarette against the wood and threw it, high, with determined aim; it landed over the neighbour’s fence. ‘They don’t have to worry. She’s not in the will.’

‘How long have you known her?’ Manolis’s voice was a whisper.

‘Ten years. She’s a good woman, I tell you. She has two children herself. The boy is a man now. The girl turns eighteen this year. They’re good kids. Normal people, not fucking doctors or lawyers or cocksuckers like our spoilt children. Just normal, hard-working, good people. To tell you the truth, they’re the ones who deserve my money.’

Sotiris put a warning hand on Thanassis’s shoulder. ‘Arthur, listen to me, you can’t deny your children your money. They’re your blood.’

Thanassis pushed the old man’s hand away. ‘Do you think I don’t fucking know that?’ He groped for another cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He blew out the first puff of smoke and continued. ‘I’ve opened up an account for Antoinetta, I put money in there from time to time. My kids don’t know. No reason to find out when I go. Anyway, they’ll have my savings, they’ll have my house. They’re fine. Like all our kids, they’ll be fine. They haven’t had to work for any of it but they’ll be fine.’

What can I say, thought Manolis? He screwed up his nose. The whiff of cigarette smoke was vile. What can I say? He’s right, isn’t he?

Sotiris had finished his cigarette and was leaning over the verandah. He turned around and looked at them. ‘Arthur, you’re probably the only one of us left who still gets the opportunity to fuck. I wouldn’t complain if I were you.’

The men broke out into laughter.

Thanassis seemed suddenly sober. ‘How long has it been since I’ve been with you, you damn cocksuckers, you fucking pair of demons? How long? Why? Why did we drift apart?’

‘Life is like that.’

‘Why is life like that, Sotiri?’

‘It just is.’

‘That’s no answer.’

‘We just got lazy. We just got too comfortable and too lazy. That’s what happened.’

Sotiris grinned. ‘That’s right, eh, Thanassi. Manoli was always the philosopher. He had a theory for everything.’

Thanassis was smiling. ‘You’re right, Manoli. We got fat and lazy.’ He put his arm around his old friend. Manolis felt its weight, its solidity. Thanassis had not weakened yet. Soon, but not yet.

‘You were the philosopher. You and Dimitri Portokaliou. We couldn’t get you to shut up.’

Thanassis’s arms felt tight around his neck. Manolis shrugged off his grip. His head felt thick. How could he forget Dimitri? How could memory play such a foul trick on him? There had been Thanassis, Sotiris and Thimios. There had also been Dimitri. At the coffee house, at the dances, at the weddings, the baptisms. At the brothel. There had been five of them that night. Of course there had been five. Dimitri and Manolis had come across the world on the same ship and had moved in together when they first arrived in Melbourne. Was it 1961, the bedroom they shared in Scotchmer Street, the middle-aged, widowed Polish landlady, not good-looking, buck-toothed, but a great body, blonde, a real blonde, they had both fucked her. Dimitri, short, funny Dimitri with two years of high school education, his smattering of French, his pencil-thin moustache that he groomed every morning and every evening. He ended up a mechanic; he’d been too slight for factory work, hadn’t a machine nearly crushed him at GMH? It had terrified all of them. Where the fuck was Dimitri tonight? The shiver passed through his body. He gripped onto the verandah. Black death had just passed through him.

‘Where is Dimitri? And Georgia? Where are they?’

Sotiris and Thanassis looked at one another.

Death was tightening its grip on them all. One by one, they were like rabbits trying to evade the hunter’s rifle. There was no dignity in being human. Not at the end.

But Dimitri and Georgia Portokaliou were not dead. Thanassis answered him. ‘No one sees them anymore. You haven’t heard what happened to Yianni?’

Manolis tried to remember. The son, the one child. It had been feared that Georgia would die in childbirth. She had lost so much blood. Was that right? Koula would remember. And could she not have children again?

‘No, what happened?’

‘He was shot. Ten years ago. In the middle of broad fucking daylight. Outside his own home in Box Hill. A bullet in the head and the young man was dead.’

Manolis could not stop himself. He crossed himself three times. ‘Why?’

Thanassis said nothing.

‘Drugs,’ answered Sotiris.

‘We don’t know that.’

‘What else could it be, Thanassi?’

‘Money. Sex. It could be anything.’

Sotiris shook his head. ‘No. It was mafia, gangsters. It was organised. ’ He looked at Manolis. ‘You didn’t hear about it? It was in the papers.’

‘Maybe I was away. Maybe I was in Greece.’

‘Fuck it.’ Thanassis took another good aim and propelled another butt across the fence. ‘Whatever the damned reason, it’s a tragedy and one that no one deserves.’

Lost in their thoughts, the men wandered back into the house. All that Manolis could remember of Dimitri’s Yianni—Little Johnny, didn’t they all call him that?—was that he seemed always to have a smudge of dirt on his cheeks and hands; that boy loved to climb, he had been fast and agile. Hadn’t Ecttora once kicked a footy with such force that it had landed on the Italian’s roof? Hadn’t Little Johnny scrambled up the side of the house, swung himself over the eaves and climbed fearlessly up the steep, sloping tiles to grab the football which had miraculously come to rest on the one flat stretch of roof on the old house? Signora Uccello had come out screaming, first in fury, then in terror that Yianni might impale himself on her roof. Hadn’t that set off a cacophany of wails as more mothers came out to see what was happening? His own heart had stopped too. And wasn’t his own son open-mouthed, breathless, as he watched his friend reach the ball? The boy had grabbed the ball triumphantly in one hand and beamed down to his mate below. Hector! I got it. Hadn’t Ecttora then let out a desperate breath? Hadn’t he done the same? Hadn’t Signora Uccello started to swear at Yianni in Italian as he slid off the roof? Hadn’t Georgia come running up to her son, hadn’t she held him tight and then released him to bring her hand sharply across his face? The shocked boy had stared at his mother, his lip had started to bleed, and then he had dropped the footy and begun to howl. Manolis remembered Ecttora running behind him, cowering in fear. Don’t be scared, my boy, he had told him, you’re not in trouble. It had been an extraordinary feeling, his young son gripping tight to his trouser leg, finding sanctuary in his height and solidity and strength, protection from the hysterical wrath of the terrified women. So long ago, when he towered over his son. So long ago, little Johnny Portokaliou with smudges of dirt on his cheeks and a triumphant grin on his face. Now dead, long eaten by the slugs and maggots. That was evidence of God’s incomprehensible, monstrous cruelty. That he, Manolis, was alive, and that Little Johnny was dead.

‘Uncle?’

How long had he been staring at Athena’s face, but looking through her into the past? How long had she been waiting for an answer from him? He came to, realised that the whole room had stopped talking, that everyone was looking at him. He was sitting in the chair, next to Thanassis as before.

‘For God’s sake, answer the girl,’ his wife said impatiently. ‘Where were you?’

‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly to the girl, pulling at his collar. He savagely loosened his tie and breathed in deeply. Still confused, flustered, he looked at the girl. ‘What did you ask me?’

‘Would you like a drink, Uncle?’

‘Another whisky.’

‘Manoli?’ Koula’s voice was a warning. He ignored it. He really craved a beer. Stupid useless rituals, all for the benefit of their malicious God.

Thanassis wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘We all get old, my Manoli, but don’t you dare go dotty on me.’

‘Paraskevi, we have to go.’

The old woman shook her head furiously. ‘Stay—you can’t go.’ Paraskevi looked over to Manolis who was reminiscing with the men, laughing at an old joke from Stellio. ‘Mano, tell Koula that you have to stay.’

Manolis took one look at his wife and shook his head. She could not be convinced. Koula did not like to drive; she particularly did not like to drive at night. He would certainly not be forgiven for his drunkeness if he forced her to stay.

He rose from his chair. ‘We have to go.’

The farewell was a blur of hugs and kisses, of shaking hands, of promising to phone, to see one another. Athena showed them to the front door. In kissing the young girl’s cheek—the rejuvenating perfume of a young beautiful girl, this was intoxication, this was paradise, this was the only God worth knowing—he also remembered the occasion. Thimios was dead. He offered his condolences once more, but the words came out an incoherent jumble, from both the drink and his emotions. Athena waved them goodbye as Paraskevi walked them down the driveway. She was holding Koula’s hand.

‘We can’t lose one another again.’

‘I promise, we won’t.’

Paraskevi would not let go. ‘Koula, he was my everything, my sun in the day, my moon at night. I fear I will go crazy without him. I need you. I need you.’ Her last imploring words were lost in a sudden torrent of tears. Manolis watched the two women, now both crying, holding tight to each other. Slowly, reluctantly the old woman pulled herself away from Koula. She kissed Manolis on the cheek, wetting him with her tears.

‘Thimio loved you.’

I know. And I loved him. He knew that.

‘You must visit.’

‘We will.’

With a great effort, a stab of pain tearing through his knee, he climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Koula adjusted the mirrors, made her prayer, turned on the ignition. The car hesitantly reversed in the drive and turned into the street. With effort Manolis turned his head back to see Paraskevi receding, her hand still waving, looking old, weary, spent, out in the cold, in her funeral black.

Koula was in the shower. Manolis shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen. Although they had found peace in the night, his old bones had not miraculously revived.

He grimaced as he bent down to find the briki; gently, he bent his knees, grabbed it, and then, clenching his teeth, forced himself quickly to stand upright. He released his breath and started to brew the coffee. He watched the thick lumps of chocolate coffee slowly dissolve into the water to form a thick black syrup. The warm peace of the dream had not yet deserted him. He had not forgotten that he’d buried a friend yesterday, that pain had not been displaced by the dream. But in being reminded of their shared past, and also of the inexorable finality of life, he found a renewal of his pleasure in the raw, coarse reality of being alive. Maybe that was why his cock had fought for one last stand. This vulgarity, this blood and flesh was life. Thimios had died; he too would soon be dead, God willing, as would Koula, as would Paraskevi, as would all of them. The suffering and the pain and the arguments and the mistakes of the past did not matter. In the end, they did not matter. Was that what the dream had shown him? Manolis was glad that there was no outstanding hatred, resentment or feud that he would take to the grave with him. He doubted Thimios had either, he was not that kind of man. Regrets, of course, only an imbecile did not have regrets. Regrets, some shame, a little guilt. But they had all done the best they could, they had raised their children well, educated them, housed them, made them safe and secure. They had all been good people. Death was never welcome but He always came. It was only to be truly lamented when He took the young, those neither prepared nor deserving of it. Then death was cruel. Manolis watched the foam rise in the briki and he turned off the flame.

Koula walked into the kitchen as he was pouring the coffee into the small cups. Surprised, but pleased, she tightened her bathrobe around her and sat down.

‘How’s your head?’ she smiled at him.

‘Perfect,’ he answered, also with a smile. ‘I’m still tough, don’t worry. A few whiskies won’t incapacitate me.’

It did not, however, take them long to start bickering. He couldn’t believe how much their perceptions of the previous evening differed. Coming home, they had been too exhausted to talk. They’d eaten a small salad, some feta with bread, and gone to bed and fallen fast asleep.

‘Aren’t we lucky, husband?’ Koula’s eyes now shone. ‘Our children are doing so well. We have nothing to be ashamed of.’

That glint in her eyes—yes, it was smugness. Was it also spite? He felt his calm deserting him. Koula didn’t notice. She continued her excited chatter.

‘Of course, one can’t blame Sandra and Stavros for their child being diseased in the brain.’ Koula touched wood and her lips drooped. Then she immediatley cheered up again. ‘But their son sounds like he’s hopeless, has no idea of what he wants to do. I’d be tearing my hair out if I was Sandra. But maybe she doesn’t care. She is Australian. ’

‘Sandra is gold,’ he growled. ‘Always has been.’

‘As for Thanassi, a good man, but he’s become a degenerate.’

Manolis closed his eyes. He had thought in the joyful rediscovery of his past yesterday that all the petty envies and inanities of the middle years could be thrown aside. He believed he had glimpsed a truth, a possibility: equanimity, acceptance, a certain peace—in old age, all men were equal. Not in work, not in God, not in politics, only in age. But it was not so. He tried to drown out his wife’s chatter. He wanted a few more minutes in a world where hierarchy and snobbery and vindictiveness did not hold sway.

‘And poor Emmanuel. Two sons and neither of them married. He must be so ashamed.’

‘What the devil has Emmanuel got to be ashamed of?’

Koula rolled her eyes. ‘The sun hasn’t risen yet. Have you already lost your temper?’

She was right. He should say nothing, keep the peace. He sipped his coffee and let her talk.

‘And poor Tasia.’

‘What about Tasia?’

He had never paid any attention to Tasia. He wasn’t going to begin now.

‘Her oldest is still unemployed. It’s a disgrace.’

He fought the rise of his glee. It served the old gossip right. Then he reprimanded himself. He was not going to get caught up in this. He didn’t know the lad. The poor cocksucker had enough to deal with if Tasia was his mother.

‘Have we got any loukoumia left?’

Koula frowned at him. ‘You’re not meant to have much sugar.’

‘Just one loukoumi.’

Koula leaned over her seat, and opened the cupboard. She brought out the box of Turkish Delight. ‘And her youngest, Christina, she’s divorced.’

‘Our Elisavet is divorced.’

Koula was outraged. ‘It’s not the same thing. Christina was always loose, our daughter worked hard in her marriage. It was not her fault that she married an animal.’

They glared at each other. Manolis lowered his gaze.

Not for the first time, he sighed inwardly at the innate conservatism of women. It was as if being a mother, the agony of birth, rooted them eternally to the world, made them complicit in the foibles and errors and rank stupidity of men. Women were incapable of camaraderie, their own children would always come first. Not that his own children did not come first with him, not that he would not sacrifice for them. He was here, in this house, with this woman, in this particular life: he had sacrificed for them. But he was not blinded to who and what his children were. Of course, there were men who thought as women did, men whose children made them insensible to the worth of others. But they were weak men, not men who belonged in the world. And sure, of course, there were also strong women, women of fire and spirit, women who led revolutions, women who chose martyrdom. But they were rare. Women were mothers, and as mothers they were selfish, uninterested, unmoved by the world.

His wife was still talking, her lips moved, he heard the rush of sounds, but he blocked her out. He read her face instead. There it was: self-righteousness, the flash of mockery, the pleasure in another’s misfortune. Had she forgotten the day he had found her banging her fist against the kitchen floor like a madwoman, flecks of blood spattered over the linoleum, her grief and fury at her daughter’s divorce impossible to stem? How she had not been able to face going to the factory, to the shops, to leaving the very house when Hector told them he and Aisha were not going to marry in a church? Had she forgotten her grief, had she so excised it from her mind, that she could now gloat over another woman’s equal misfortune? Women gave birth to men and hence gave birth to greed.

He finished his coffee and his hand dropped to his lap. He blushed. He was still hard. He looked over to his wife and tried, but failed, to resurrect the girl from the dream. It was years since they had been intimate. It was years since he had been carnal at all, a brothel in Collingwood where a young stoned girl had bitterly, unenthusiastically tried to arouse him. He had just wanted her to sit on his lap, for him to stroke her long hair and tell her stories. It was laughable. His body failed him when needed and now it was taunting him without mercy. What would Koula do if he stood and asked her to go to bed with him? What possible words were left between them to describe his desire?

I want to fuck you, wife.

She would laugh. She would laugh, she would be cruel, as cruel as his mother had been all those years ago in that other world, in the village, when she stripped the quilt off him one morning and found his cock had slipped through a hole in his trousers. She had pointed at it, cackling, What can you do with that poor little thing? His mother’s laughter had awoken his brothers who also began to tease him. They stripped him of his clothes, and he, outraged, had run out crying in to the snow. He had sheltered in the cellar, folding himself among the warmth of the goats. He had wanted to die. He had wanted them all dead, most of all his mother. His poor, hungry, beloved mother.

Well, now she was long dead, as was that life. As was that world. Manolis ordered his cock into a retreat. Damn you, you’re no use to me now. He and Koula would never be husband and wife, not in that sense, not in that way, ever again.

Age was cruel, age was an invincible enemy. Age was cruel, like a woman. Like a mother.

‘What happened, my little doll?’

‘Sava hit me.’

Wearily, Elisavet leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek. Manolis returned the kiss. They were both stiff in their greeting. It had been this way ever since she had ceased to be a child. She was reserved around him and he was the same. Defensiveness had become a habit between them. Neither wanted to be the first to start an argument. Once they started arguing it would always escalate.

‘Sava did not hit you. I told you not to play with his DVD.’

Angeliki’s contorted face was almost demonic in its fury. ‘He did smack me.’

Her temper was like her mother’s. Deep, resentful, nursed till the final ebbing of its force. Manolis received no comfort in realising the patterns would be repeated. They circled around each other, uncomfortable and, yes, a little cautious, but he did love his daughter. He was sure of her love for him.

He made a comical monstrous face at Angeliki and she couldn’t help herself—she laughed.

‘How’s my little angel? Are you glad to be spending the day with Giagia and Pappou?’

Her face went back to its scowl. She was not letting go yet. Elisavet shrugged and sat down next to her father. Her hair was long, greasy, streaked with grey. Manolis knew his wife would want to say something about this, tell her that she should take more care of herself, make herself look younger. She was looking like an old maid—how did she expect to find a man looking like that? Sure, she was still good looking but she was a divorcee with two children. She couldn’t afford to be picky, she couldn’t afford to let herself go. All those things that she must not say. All those things that could infuriate Elisavet.

‘Where are you going today?’

‘I told you,’ Elisavet shot out, in English. ‘To a conference.’

Conference. Both his children seemed to be always attending conferences. He had no idea what they meant by the word. A meeting ? Why couldn’t it occur at work?

Elisavet spoke more gently. ‘It’s a teacher’s conference, Dad. I helped organise it. It’s about literacy.’ Manolis did not understand this word.

His daughter struggled to explain it. ‘To help children who find it hard to learn to read and write.’

‘If they work hard, then they learn.’

‘Mama, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes they haven’t got the opportunity. I’ve told you, many of the kids I teach come from families with no money, or the parents are not around . . .’

‘Where are the parents?’

He watched his daughter inhale abruptly. ‘Prison, hospital, dead. Lots of reasons.’

Koula shook her head at the insanity and selfishness of the modern world.

‘They pay you?’

‘I get time off in lieu.’

Koula snorted. ‘They should pay you.’

Elisavet laughed. ‘Yeah, well they should.’ She reached for a Turkish Delight and popped it in her mouth.

‘You have time for a coffee?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Mama.’

Koula handed Angeliki over to Manolis. The little girl looked over her grandfather’s shoulder, into the lounge room where Sava was sprawled on the floor watching his movie.

‘Why don’t you join your brother?’

She started to wail again. ‘He doesn’t want me.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Kiki.’ Elisavet swallowed the sweet, a shower of icing sugar falling from her fingers. ‘I can’t take this anymore. Go into the lounge.’

The little girl’s sobs increased.

Manolis stroked her face. ‘Why don’t we go chase the next-door-neighbour’s cat?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘She can come in here,’ Sava called out from the lounge. Her tears abruptly finished with, Angeliki rushed into the next room.

Elisavet turned to her father. ‘Thanks for looking after them.’

‘Don’t be an idiot. We’re their grandparents, you don’t have to thank us for that.’

‘I’ll pick them up around eight. That okay?’

He nodded. He would be exhausted by the end of the day. He’d have to entertain them, Koula would have to feed them, scold them. He’d take them for a walk in the afternoon. Sleep would be welcome at the end of the night.

‘Do you want to leave them with us tonight?’

‘No, Mum, their father is picking them up in the morning from my place.’

Koula’s face hardened. ‘How’s that ilithio, that worthless piece of shit? Still screwing around?’

‘Mum!’ Elisavet motioned towards the other room. ‘They can hear you.’

‘Good. They should know what an animal their father is.’

Manolis intervened. ‘Koula, shut up.’

Elisavet looked over to him gratefully. The coffee brewed and Koula brought it over to the table. ‘You have them next weekend, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Good. It’s your cousin’s birthday. Rocco can’t wait to see Sava. Sandi told me over the phone.’

The boy called out over the scream of the television. ‘Is Adam going to be there?’

‘Of course, my little man.’

Angeliki piped up. ‘And Lissie?’

Sava’s answer was scornful. ‘Of course she’s going to be there. If Adam’s going to be there, she’ll be there.’

Koula dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Have you talked to your brother?’

Elisavet’s brow creased. ‘Last week.’

‘Did you ask him about the party?’

Elisavet’s tone was evasive, cold. ‘He’s coming.’

‘And that Indian woman?’

‘She’s got a name, Mama.’

‘Is she coming?’

‘No.’

Koula banged the table. ‘She was sent to this earth to torture me. Every day I ask the Blessed Mother why my poor son had to be snared by that Indian Devil. Why?’

Manolis shook his head. Aisha had been a wonderful wife to Hector, smart, capable, attractive. They were lucky. Couldn’t she see it?

‘She’s not coming, Mum.’

‘Because of that stupid Australeza friend of hers? That one’s also a cow.’

‘Harry shouldn’t have hit that child.’

Sava called out loudly from the lounge room. ‘Yeah, he should have.’

Koula beamed in triumpth. ‘See. Your son is smarter than you. Harry should have belted that little Devil. What kind of child is that? He’s a monster.’

‘That’s not the point.’

Koula raised her hands in disbelief. ‘Then what is the point?’

‘He hit a child.’

‘He was going to hit Rocco.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘No, because your cousin had the sense to stop him.’

‘Well, she’s not coming. Hector told me.’

Koula looked over at Manolis, who shrugged. He could not understand it either. He was surprised that Aisha would be so petty. Harry had been a fool to hit a child, but the little brat had deserved it and it had not been anything, just a slap. That was all it was. All the money wasted on lawyers, the courts, all that rubbish. They were mad, his children’s generation. Was it that they had so much money they didn’t know what to do with it? Was it his generation’s fault for spoiling them? Had they spoiled them?

Koula voiced his thoughts. ‘And to go to the police. What a disgusting low act.’ She shook her head slowly.

‘Why not? He hit a small boy.’

Manolis tightened his mouth. He should not speak. But what foolishness was his daughter talking? The fucking police, the fucking pigs? Over a slap.

Koula tapped the table. ‘I’ve hit Sava.’ She crossed her arms, daring her daughter. ‘Are you going to call the police on me?’

‘You shouldn’t hit him.’

‘Not when he swears at me, not when he hits his sister?’

‘That’s different.’

‘You’ve hit him.’

Elisavet’s eyes darted from her mother to her father. ‘I’m not going to talk about it. Aish is right. No one has the right to hit a child. No one.’

‘Not even when they’re misbehaving?’

Elisavet hesitated. ‘No.’

Koula threw back her chair in disgust, rose and walked over to the sink. ‘And you’re paying someone thousands of dollars today to tell you why children don’t read, why they don’t write. You should give me the money. I’ll sort it out for you.’

Elisavet swore under her breath. ‘So it’s alright to bash a child, is it?’ she hissed in English. ‘Bashing a child is fine, eh?’

Manolis had enough.

‘For God’s sake, no one bashed anyone. He gave him a slap, one fucking slap. That’s all. And now Aisha won’t talk to Harry and that stupid Australian whore calls the cops and what’s the result? Her child is probably still causing trouble everywhere he goes. It’s nonsense. ’

‘How would you feel if a stranger slapped Sava in front of you?’ Elisavet was yelling as well.

‘I’d be furious. But if Sava was going to hit his child I’d understand. I’d take an apology and that would be it. Finished. Maybe I’d punch him a few times. We’d deal with it like men, not like animals the way those filthy Australian degenerates did.’ Manolis was shaking. He remembered the crowded formality of the courtroom, Sandi’s fear, Harry’s shame.

He rose. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to talk to Aisha. She’s coming to the party.’

Elisavet rolled her eyes. ‘Good luck.’

Koula shook her head in disgust. ‘You should be supporting your brother, you should be helping to fix this madness. But you support her. I’m ashamed of you.’

‘Aisha is in the right.’

Koula pointed to the door. ‘Go. I’ve had enough.’

Elisavet picked up her handbag, went into the lounge to kiss the children goodbye. She came in and kissed the top of Manolis’s head.

‘You’ll see. She’ll come, she will listen to me.’

‘Dad, she won’t.’

He wouldn’t answer her. Aisha would listen to him. He’d be calm, reasonable. His reasons were sound. She respected him, she loved him. She would listen to him.

Elisavet leaned over to kiss her mother. Koula turned her head, offered a cold, disdainful cheek.

‘Thanks for looking after the kids, Mama.’

Koula made no answer.

‘I’ll see you at eight.’

Koula had got to Elisavet. Her farewell was melancholic, resigned. They both waited till they heard the slam of the car door and the engine start up.

Koula put her hands over her head. ‘They’re mad, husband, they’re all mad.’

He got up, rubbing his knee. Koula looked up eagerly as he picked up the phone.

‘Are you going to speak to her?’

He nodded. Excitedly she rushed into the lounge room. ‘Sava, Kiki, turn down the television. Your pappou is on the phone.’

Sava groaned. ‘Do we have to?’

Koula wagged a stern finger. ‘Now. Or I’ll spank your bottom a hundred times.’

The boy scrambled for the remote and turned down the volume.

Manolis took a seat at the back of the busy café and ordered a cappuccino. It would be too milky for him but it was the one English coffee he liked to drink. It arrived promptly. He thought back to the incident at the door. Manolis was almost certain that the young man had wanted to apologise to him, that he was even forming the words when his girlfriend rudely swept him aside. If Koula had been with him, she would still be complaining about their rudeness and selfishness. He too had thought this for a long time, that the abandonment of respect for the aged was an indication of moral emptiness and materialism. He was not so sure now. He wondered if the youth had a father. Did the woman? When there was no father one did not learn respect. Often on the tram or the train he would be taken aback by some clear lack of civility in a young man and then realise that the boy had no notion of how crude his behaviour appeared, how dishonourable. As for the girls, they seemed distrustful of any adult. It used to anger him, it used to want to make him grab hold of their ears and punish them. He no longer felt that way. Now he felt pity for them. They had no fathers and they had not learned the meaning of honour, of respect. The mother was everything, of course, everyone knew that: women gave life and sustained life. But women were too selfish to teach honour. He felt sorry for the young couple, felt compassion for them.

That’s no good, he mused to himself, no good at all. Something is wrong in the world when the old pity the young.

‘You’re deep in thought.’

He kissed his daughter-in-law twice on the cheek. She smelled scrubbed, he could detect the clean antiseptic odour of soap on her. She looked beautiful and, as always, her clothes were simple and elegant. He was proud of her. As a child Manolis had grown up knowing little if anything about the manners and sophistication that came from money. The first film he had ever seen was in Patra when he was on leave from the army, a French comedy set in some distant past. A man with a moustache had kissed a woman’s hand and the gesture had made the young Manolis burst out laughing. What the Devil, he’d said to his army comrade next to him, does the idiot think she’s a Priest? But when Ecttora had first introduced him to the Indian he’d recalled the film and wanted to lean over and kiss her hand.

‘How was work?’

‘Friday is always busy.’ Aisha placed her jacket over the chair and took a seat. She looked around for a waiter and ordered. ‘Hector said that you went to a funeral yesterday. I’m sorry. Were you close?’

He sometimes thought her deep-set eyes were too big for her face.

‘An old friend. What is there to say? We all have to die.’

‘Was it cancer?’

He nodded.

‘Hector hardly remembers him. But he did say that when he was born you and Koula and your friend all lived together. Is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I am sorry,’ she repeated.

The coffee arrived and they sat drinking in silence. They had never been alone in such a way before, and he felt awkward. She must be feeling it too. But he could not bring himself to speak. He realised that he’d given the conversation no thought at all. From the beginning, he and this woman—why, she was still a girl when Ecttora first brought her home—had seemed to fall into an easy friendship. They never did have to talk much, Aisha knew no Greek and he, even after all his time, could not always make his meaning clear in English. But that did not matter. Their immediate trust was something that both of them had been thankful for, allowed them to distance themselves from Koula’s anger and Ecttora’s stubbornness. Manolis had simply wanted to talk to Aisha and convince her to come to the party. He had no doubt of her love for him. She would agree. But now, watching her sip her coffee, noticing the quizzical look in her eyes, he felt uncertain of his hold on her. He did not know what to say.

‘Manoli, why did you want to meet with me?’

Her eyes gave nothing away. However, they seemed to penetrate right into him. She knew, of course. She knew.

‘Aisha, I want you to go to Harry and Sandi’s house for his birthday.’

She placed her coffee cup on the table.

‘Please,’ he added suddenly.

‘I thought it was going to be about this.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not going.’

He tried to read her eyes, those dark, alluring cat-eyes. They were unfathomable. Did she pity him? Was she angry with him?

‘What he did was bad, terrible, very terrible, but it was a mistake. He is very sorry. Please, Aisha, it is no good for Adam and Melissa. They want to visit Rocco, they are cousins—’

‘They can see their cousins whenever they like,’ she shot out, crossing her arms. ‘I’m not stopping them.’

‘It makes problems for Hector.’

‘Hector understands my reasons.’

He was getting confused. What were her reasons, how could she maintain such a rage? It creates a problem for me, he should answer, how about the problems you are creating for me?

‘Harry and Hector are close, very close. Like brothers.’

She was unimpressed with his play on family loyalty. Her eyes flashed and this time he detected her anger. ‘This is not hard for Hector. You don’t have to worry about him. Isn’t the real issue that this is a problem for Koula?’

This was dangerous ground. His damned knee started to ache, and he lowered his hand under the table to massage it. He was frustrated with Aisha. This was another battle between the women, another petty crusade. He refused to discuss his wife.

‘Harry is very sorry.’

‘He’s not sorry at all.’

She would not budge. Why the fuck should Harry be sorry? Though that idiotic fool deserved a hiding for hitting that boy. Though it was not good to speak ill of the dead, he was exactly like his cursed father, no self-control.

‘He is very very sorry. He told me again and again. He is very sad that you are angry with him.’

‘You went to the courthouse with him, Rosie told me. She was very hurt.’

This took him by surprise. Of course he’d gone with Harry to the court. What did these crazy Australian women expect? The boy’s parents were dead, he was obliged to be there supporting his wife’s nephew. If he hadn’t been there his wife would not have forgiven him for not standing next to her brother’s child. Surely Aisha understood that. She wasn’t a bloody barbarian. Did he have to remind her of loyalty and honour?

‘I was disappointed myself, Manoli. You shouldn’t have gone.’ There were too many people in the damn café! The heating was intolerable and he could not concentrate. He became aware that he was sitting across from his daughter-in-law with his mouth wide open, like some imbecile. Foolish old man. He quickly closed his mouth. Did he understand her correctly? He was unsure of that perplexing English word: disappointed. Was she angry because he had made it difficult between herself and her stupid friend, that mad Australeza, Rosie? All this was ridiculous. It had happened, forget it. Too much time and too many tears had already been wasted on this silliness.

‘Aisha, you are family.’

She laughed, a short, scornful burst, her eyes not moving from his face. They were the black of a winter night. ‘I have known Rosie much longer than I have known your family.’

He forgot the pain in his knee, the incessant rumble of noise in the café. He straightened his back. He must have looked fierce because instantly she perceived her mistake and she recoiled from him. He wanted to grab her hair, pull her face to the table, beat her as if she was a little girl.

‘This is not about our family,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s about my friendship with Rosie. Harry humiliated me in my own home. And he did something unforgivable to my friend and her son.’

That poutana, and that moulkio of a child. He remembered the Australian’s words to him in that crowded hallway outside the courtroom. You should not be here. Shame on you. He had been embarrassed, rendered mute by her unforgiving self-righteousness. The sense of shame still stung, but he now knew exactly what he should have said to her. He should have grabbed the poutana by the hair, and shouted at her, You created this, you dragged all of us into this. You are a bad mother. He saw the waitress hovering near the table and he drummed his fingers loudly.

‘Another coffee?’

Aisha shook her head.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Harry was wrong. He make mistake. He is very sorry.’ He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting him. ‘But your friend was also very wrong. Why she not look after her child?’

‘Rosie loves Hugo.’

‘Why she no stop her son when he was very bad?’

‘Hugo is only a child. He doesn’t know better.’

Exactly. Exactly the damned problem. He doesn’t know better because he has not been taught to know better.

‘She is terrible, a terrible mother.’ He didn’t care anymore, he was no longer interested in conjoling Aisha, in being gentle. He marvelled at her blindness. She was defending the indefensible. This mad woman Rosie should have disciplined the boy herself. And if not her, that fool alcoholic of a husband. Harry was no saint, they all knew that, far from it, but for the first time since the incident had occurred Manolis understood, felt, believed, that his nephew was innocent.

Aisha would not look at him.

‘You are going to the party next week.’

She turned to look at him in disbelief. There was a glimmer of an astonished, respectful smile. ‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ He wanted to insist until she agreed. He was right. He had never been more right in his life. This time he could read the flashing fire in her eyes.

‘You are not my father.’

He wished he could slap her. So it all meant nothing, all those years of shared jokes, of affection, of defending her, of caring for her children, of assisting her and Hector with money and with time. Love and family meant nothing to her? Nothing mattered to her at this moment but her pride. Did she think she was being brave in disobeying him? She, Hector, the whole mad lot of them, they knew nothing of courage. Everything had been given to them, everything had been assumed as rightfully theirs. She even believed her defence of her friend was a matter of honour. One war, one bomb, one misfortune and she would fall apart. He meant nothing to her because like all of them she was truly selfish. She had no idea of the world and so believed her drama to be significant. The idiotic mad Muslims were right. Throw a bloody bomb in this café and disintegrate the whole lot of them. Her beauty, her sophistication, her education, none of it meant anything. She had no humility and no generosity. Monsters, they had bred monsters.

He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, slurped back his coffee and stood. ‘Let’s go.’

She rushed to her feet. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Koula is at your house.’

He walked ahead of her, ordering his weak leg to outdistance her. He heard her rapid steps coming up behind him. She called out to him and he turned. She was standing by her car on High Street, the keys in her hand.

‘Tell Koula I go shopping.’ He could not bear to be with the women. He could not bear his wife’s scorn once she realised he had not succeeded. Old, old fool, to believe they cared for him, respected him, would listen to him.

‘I think you should come home with me.’

Go fuck yourself.

‘I go shopping.’

She beeped open the car.

‘Manoli, I am sorry.’

He turned his back to her and walked away. The words dropped easily from her lips but they meant nothing. Australians used the word like a chant. Sorry sorry sorry. She was not sorry. He thought she loved him, respected him. He’d nursed this hope for years. He wanted to strike himself for his vanity and foolishness. He had never asked anything of her before and she must know that he would never ask a thing of her again. Sorry. He spat out the word as if it were poison.

He thought she loved him. He was just a silly old man.

You’re lucky, Thimio, he whispered to the wind, to the shade of his friend, how much longer must I wait till death comes for me?

‘What the fuck do you want?’

The girl beside him giggled and leaned back into the embrace. The boy seemed so young, his freckled white face was smooth, had not quite shed the last vestige of infancy.

Manolis shook his head and walked away. They spoke to him with the language of evil. It was not their fault. This was not a time of good men.

The smaller girl watched him walk away and he just caught her hiss. ‘You shouldn’t swear at him. He’s no one, just an old man.’

She was right. He was no one, just an old man. Not a parent to avoid, an uncle to fear, an older brother to escape from. He grinned to himself. That boy had nearly pissed himself, he must have thought that Manolis was the girl’s father. He sat on the empty bench at the end of the platform. He could smell nicotine, the kids in the vestibule were smoking. He himself had not smoked for over twenty years but these were the only moments when he missed the habit. Waiting always made him feel like a cigarette.

He stopped at a traffic light and a young Australian woman, a ring through her nose, wheeling a pram, was looking at him oddly, disconcerted. He nodded to her and she tentatively smiled back. He turned into a small street. There was the factory he once worked in, now an apartment block. There was the house in which Ecttora and Elisavet attended Greek school as children. It now had a Vote Green sticker plastered on its front door. He turned into Kent Street.

He stopped in front of Dimitri’s house. The homes around it had all been renovated, their facades looked clean, they looked unlived in, like houses in the movies. Dimitri and Georgia’s front garden was crowded with the tender stalks of young broad beans, the first thick leaves of spinach and silverbeet. It smelled of the approaching spring. Two torn plastic bags were tied around a thin stick to scare away the birds. A fig tree towered as high as the house. Manolis hesitated. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Surely this house, this garden, belonged to the past? If he were to push open the gate, would it be real in his hands? Would the door disappear as soon as he began knocking on it? It was impossible that they still lived here. They too must have joined the exodus out of the city, pushed far out to the ends of Melbourne’s seemingly endless arteries. He did push open the gate. The rusty iron frame scraped across the concrete. The squeal it made was real. He knocked on the door.

‘Who is it?’ An old woman’s voice, accented.

He called out his name, loudly, almost shouting. There was a pause and then the door flew open. It was Georgia. She was dressed in bereavement black, and her hair, cut short, was silver. But it was her. She stood there, blinking at him. He saw surprise flush in her eyes; she had recognised him. They were sharing the same thought, he was sure of it. Oh, how we have aged.

The kiss she offered was polite but warm. ‘Come in, my Manoli, come in.’

He had indeed stepped back in time. The house smelt of food, of the solid earth, of flesh and bodies. The dark, narrow hallway was cluttered with small cabinets and bureaus, and he had to squeeze up close to the wall to make it to the end. On the small hall table was an old-fashioned red dial-up phone.

A gruff voice called out from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Who is it? It was followed by a fit of pained coughing.

‘Dimitri, it’s Manoli. Our Manoli has come to visit us.’ Georgia pushed open the bedroom door.

He had not stepped back in time. Cruel time was joking with him. Dimitri, his pyjama top unbuttoned to the navel, was lying in bed. He was skeletal, the ribs pushing ruthlessly through the loose folds of the skin on his chest.

‘You haven’t forgotten Manoli, have you, my Dimitri?’

The old man in the bed seemed stunned by the intrusion. A plastic mask hung over the bedpost, attached to a thin gas bottle on the floor. The man started to cough again, his body seemed too frail for the spasms racking him. Georgia pushed past Manolis, took the mask and placed it over her husband’s nostrils and mouth.

Manolis walked over to the other side of the bed and took the man’s limp, cold hand. ‘Mitsio,’ he croaked, unable to stop his tears flooding. ‘Mitsio.’ He repeated his friend’s old nickname, unable to say more.

Georgia lifted the mask off Dimitri. His fear had vanished. He managed a small, weak laugh. ‘Friend,’ he whispered. ‘I hope you’ve come to finish me off.’

Georgia slapped his arm. ‘Don’t talk such foolishness.’

‘Why? Who would want this life? What good am I to anyone?’ His breaths were short, laboured, puncturing his sentences with staccato gasps.

Manolis looked across to Georgia. Her expression was determined, calm.

‘It’s the evil disease,’ she said softly. ‘It is in his lungs.’ She slowly bent down and pulled a folded-up wheelchair from under the bed. Expertly, rapidly, she assembled it. Very slowly, with his arms around Manolis’s neck, with his wife taking his legs, they moved Dimitri off the bed and onto the chair. Georgia hung the mask around her husband’s neck, and pointed to the oxygen bottle. Manolis lifted it into his arms. It was surprisingly light. He followed Georgia as she wheeled Dimitri out of the room. She led him through the lounge and kitchen and into a small, cluttered sunroom that overlooked the backyard. An icon of the Virgin and Child was in a corner, a lit wick floating in a saucer of oil before it. The tiny flame managed to throw a flicker of warm yellow light around the room. Georgia hitched the chair to rest, and indicated a sofa for Manolis to sit on.

‘I’ll make us a coffee,’ she announced, and walked back into the kitchen. Manolis, afraid that any words would be wrong, looked down at his shoes. He had not even brought them a gift, an offering, he had come to their house empty-handed. What an uncivilised animal he must seem. He was surprised by Dimitri’s hoarse, rasping laugh.

‘Come on,’ his eyes were twinkling, ‘stop with that fucking long, miserable face. I’m not dead yet.’

‘Of course you’re not, my Dimitri.’

‘What made you look us up?’

The question did not seem to contain any element of threat or resentment. Still, Manolis felt ashamed. ‘I went to Thimio Karamantzis’s funeral yesterday.’

Dimitri stared out ahead, to the cold grey garden outside. ‘I wanted to go.’ He took a long breath. ‘But, of course, how can I go anywhere?’

‘Of course, of course.’ Manolis struggled to find words. ‘I saw so many people from the past, and it made me ashamed of how long it had been since we had seen each other. Forgive me, forgive me, Dimitri.’ Sweet Jesus Christ, Sweet Saviour, Sweet Lord, Sweet Eternal Mother, do not let me cry.

Dimitri turned back to him, smiling. He placed his hand on Manolis’s knee. ‘You sound like a woman. What the fuck do you want my forgiveness for?’ He was wincing as he forced the words out, struggling for air. ‘I should ask your forgiveness for not coming to visit you and Koula. There, we’re even.’ With obvious effort, he stopped the beginning of a ragged cough. He banged his thin weak chest in fury at his pain. ‘Life went too fast and fucking death goes too slow.’ He smiled again. ‘But you look good, you look healthy. You were always an ox.’

‘I’m so sorry about Yianni, I only heard about him at the funeral.’ The words rushed out of him, almost incoherently. He just wanted them out, he just wanted them out of his body.

Dimitri’s smile waned. His face fell, his body slumped. Manolis wondered if he had ever seen anyone so exhausted.

‘God is a cocksucker.’

‘What are you saying?’ Georgia stepped into the room, balancing a tray. Manolis rushed to assist her but she motioned him back to his seat.

‘You know what I said.’

Georgia ignored him. She offered Manolis a coffee, and placed one in her husband’s hands. They began to shake and she steadied them.

‘God did not kill our son. It was those gangsters who did it.’

‘Then maybe God is also a gangster.’

Manolis was mortified. There was nothing—certainly not words—he could offer his friends. He sipped his coffee, choosing to remain silent. He was conscious that Georgia was looking at him and he looked up. She was nodding her head sympathetically.

‘We understand, Manoli, what is there to say? Fate chose us for misfortune. Fate blackened our hearts.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Fate has sickened him.’ Her words fell out of her mouth with astonishing lack of emotion, as if she was reciting a story memorised by heart, one she had tired of telling. She told him how Yianni had become involved with bad people, bad people who sold drugs. How they had led her son into that life. How they had shot him in the head outside his home, how his young children had found the body. She spoke about drugs, narcotics, gangsters, used the English word ‘dealers’, and they all sounded ridiculous coming from this old woman’s mouth. ‘He got in over his head,’ she finished, using someone else’s words. ‘He was destroyed by evil men.’

Dimitri grunted, coffee dribbled from the edge of his mouth and Georgia went to wipe it. He slapped her hand away and wiped his own mouth and chin.

‘He was a fool. He wanted the big house, the villa, the swimming pool, the new Mercedes Benz, the best televisions and the best furniture. He wanted his kids in private schools, he wanted his wife in jewels, he wanted it all. He got it all and it killed him.’

Georgia started to cry. Of course, of course, such pain would never go away.

‘Stop it, Georgia.’

The old woman brusquely rubbed her eyes and attempted a smile. ‘How’s Koula? How’s Ecttora and Elisavet?’

He could speak now, he knew the words for this conversation. They tumbled out in relief. He spoke about his children, his grandchildren, their successes, and yes, even their failures. Georgia squeezed his hand as she listened to the story of Elisavet’s divorce. Her eyes shone as he described Adam, Melissa, Sava and Angeliki.

‘You should see our grandchildren. Yianni’s children are angels.’ She rose and took framed photographs from a bureau at the back of the room. ‘This is Kostantino. He’s at university.’ There was awe in her voice.

Manolis took the photograph and examined it. He did look a fine lad, about eighteen, in a shirt and tie, a real gentleman, and smiling cheekily in the camera.

‘A handsome lad.’

‘A good lad.’ Dimitri gripped the arms of his wheelchair and breathed deeply. He snorted, and continued. ‘He’s cleverer than his father. I’m proud of him.’ Manolis handed the photograph back to Georgia.

‘We’ve done alright.’ Dimitri coughed, gripped the chair again. His spasm subsided. ‘We did alright, didn’t we, my Manoli?’

He looked at his dying friend. Was there a question in the man’s eyes? No, it was a fact, not a question.

‘We did. We survived.’

‘A cognac?’

Manolis looked out to the garden. Darkness was creeping over the yard.

‘Why not?’

After the drink, he helped settle Dimitri back in bed. He leaned in to kiss him, twice in the Mediterranean manner, and smelled the man’s foetid breath. He was being eaten from the inside.

At the door, he turned to Georgia, ‘He should be in hospital. He needs doctors, nurses to look after him.’

‘A nurse comes twice a week. I can look after him.’ Georgia shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s fate, Manoli, I can’t fight it. Do I want a stranger washing him, cleaning up after him? No. I’m his wife, he’s my responsibility.’

‘I’m going to come again. Soon. And I’ll bring Koula.’

‘Please. I’ll make a dinner. It will be good for Dimitri. He misses his friends.’

Are we friends? ‘You don’t have to make dinner. A coffee, something to drink. That’s all we need.’

‘Of course I’ll make dinner. What do you think, that you’ll come to my house and I won’t feed you?’

His head was beginning to ache. They were losing each other again, trapped in damned politeness and etiquette. Let’s just talk, let’s just spend time together, let’s make up for losing ourselves in the petty distractions and foolish pride that occupied so many decades of our lives. The rituals of being Greek; sometimes he hated it. Sometimes he wished he could be an Aussie.

‘Have you got a pen?’

She squeezed through the corridor and arrived back with a pen. He took his travelcard from his shirt pocket. ‘The phone number?’

‘Nine-four-two-eight.’ She stopped, hesitated. ‘I’m an idiot. It’s been so long since I’ve had to remember it.’ She rushed through the final four digits and Manolis scrawled them across the ticket.

When he walked through the door, Koula was standing in the hallway, her hands on her hips.

‘Where the devil were you?’

He pushed her aside, walked to the cabinet and poured himself a cognac.

‘Are you drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Ecttora rang. He’s furious with you. You’ve upset the Indian. What did you say to her?’

‘That she should go to Harry’s party.’

‘Good. What did she say?’

‘She’s not going.’ Manolis drank the spirit in one shot. It tasted disgusting, then sweet, and feeling began to return to his limbs. He took off his jacket.

Koula bashed her palms over her head. ‘Why does she want to humiliate us?’

‘She’s young.’

Koula stared at him in astonishment. ‘Are you going to defend her?’

‘No.’ He poured another drink.

Koula eyed the glass warily. ‘Elisavet has rung as well. She’s angry at you too.’

‘What for?’

‘For making that bitch cry.’

He closed his eyes. A fine, cheeky lad in a shirt and tie. Surely there was a limit to misfortune, surely the fates had dealt enough blows to Dimitri and Georgia, surely the next generation would be spared. There must still be some good in God.

Aisha had cried? She had cried.

‘I’ll ring Ecttora tomorrow. I’ll deal with it.’

He’d apologise. He’d say the word sorry. He would not mean it but she would latch on to it, appreciate it, forgive him. What the hell? It was one lousy little word.

‘Ring them now. He’s really upset.’

‘Fuck it, Koula, I’m ringing all of them tomorrow. They can be upset for one night. If they think this is trouble, they don’t know how lucky they are. Fuck them. We’ve looked after them, we’ve educated them, we’ve done everything for them. And I’m glad to have done it, to have given them a good life. But for one night I want to act as if I never had children. For one night I want to forget them.’

Koula crossed herself. She looked at him with contempt. ‘What rubbish are you speaking? You should be ashamed.’ She knocked on the frame of the door. ‘Touch wood, may God forgive you.’

‘I visited Dimitri and Georgia.’

The disdain was replaced by a look of pure pity. ‘How are the poor things?’

‘Dimitri has the evil disease. He’s dying.’

Koula sank heavily onto the couch. It was ridiculous how lavish, how grand the objects in their house were. Koula looked like a doll on it.

‘Why do we need such a big couch?’

Koula snorted dismissively and nodded towards the drink cabinet. Manolis poured her a cognac, handed it to her and sat on the armchair opposite.

His wife looked down at her glass. ‘There is no justice in this world, is there, Manoli?’

He swirled the golden spirit around in the glass. He breathed in the harsh, pungent fumes.

‘No.’

The phone rang and they both jumped, shocked out of their reveries.

‘That will be one of them.’

‘Probably,’ he answered.

‘They’ll want to know whether you’ve come home. They’ll want to speak to you.’

‘Probably,’ he said again.

She smiled and sipped at her drink. ‘Why don’t we just let it ring out?’ Her grin was mischievous, she was a young woman again.

‘Yes,’ he smiled at her, ‘why don’t we?’

The phone seemed to ring for minutes, inexhaustible. When the noise finally ceased he realised he’d been holding in his breath. He exhaled.

Koula stood up. ‘I’ll heat your dinner.’

He nodded.

From the kitchen he heard the sound of the buzzer lighting the oven, the clink of cutlery. Koula began to sing, and he leaned forward to hear better. It was an old popular song, a classic; he’d first heard it as a conscript getting drunk in Athens, drinking cheap ouzo with the workers and the soldiers in the square at Kaiseriani.

He mouthed the words, then clasping his hand over his knee, winced, and lifted himself to his feet. He downed the cognac and placed the glass on the coffee table. He walked into the kitchen, and helped his wife set the table.