The shop is crowded with Asians, sandwiched along the narrow aisles, poking their way through, shopping baskets slung across their elbows or shoved against other people to make way. She shifts her eyes to another item in the shop, then across countless shelves and counters of coloured tins and packets, and everywhere ordinary details leap out at her—the brightly coloured type on tapioca chips labels, the drawing of an Indian woman on the chilli sauce bottle, dried anchovies, palm sugar, and dried mushrooms pre-packaged instead of being sold loose as they are back home.
The strangeness of living in a foreign country falls away. She feels born again in Australia. Suddenly the door has opened back to a place she thought she would never re-enter. She finds herself smiling. Beside her, Jim is poking or picking up packets of food, smelling them, examining them.
Jim holds four shopping bags in one hand and cradles a five-kilo sack of rice in his other arm. He staggers into Wah Hing, surveying the crowded tables. Beside him, Laila lugs two shopping bags in each hand.
‘Bought the whole of Chinatown, did we?’ Peter calls, standing up to greet them and smiling.
Jim walks towards the table, sets the shopping on the floor and slaps Peter on his shoulder. ‘Hiya, how’re you going?’
‘Yeah, good, good. Grab a seat.’ He gestures towards the chairs, then says, ‘So, you must be Laila. Hi, I’m Peter, and this is my wife, Marietta.’
The background noise disappears. Everything seems to stop. Laila looks at Marietta. The glow of the cheeks, the broadness of the smile. Upper teeth gleaming, full lips. Marietta’s eyes are dark, like hers, eyebrows thin and finely arched, a wisp of hair falling over her right cheekbone. Mane of full black waves resting on her shoulders. Even the hustle and bustle of the restaurant seems to freeze. Laila feels this pull, this energy coming from the woman looking directly at her.
‘Hello.’ Laila smiles at them.
Marietta stands and moves towards Laila, touches her lightly on the upper arm. They are the same height. Marietta’s smile spreads to her eyes, and up close, Laila sees how large they are, even though they look half closed, partially covered by eyelids, dark lashes sweeping above them.
‘So pleased to meet you finally. Heard so much about you,’ Marietta says.
‘Have you?’ Laila shoots a quick glance at Jim standing beside her.
With a sheepish look, Jim extends his hand to Marietta. ‘Hi, I’m Jim.’ As she takes it, he gives her a peck on the cheek.
Marietta looks at the shopping bags in Laila’s hands and points to the trolley standing beside the table.
‘See this? Great for putting your shopping in. We use it every time we come to the market. And Peter gets to push it too.’
‘Yeah, it is my main ambition in life,’ Peter says.
‘You love it. Every time I push it, you grab it from me.’
‘That’s because it gets heavy and you know what the crowd’s like in the market, shoving and pushing like maniacs.’
Everyone laughs, and they all sit down.
‘So, you like Australia?’ Marietta asks. She and Laila are opposite each other.
‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ Laila says, faking enthusiasm.
Marietta rests her palm lightly on Laila’s hand. ‘It takes a while.’
Laila nods. ‘How long did it take you?’
‘Long time.’
‘What, weeks, months?’
‘More like years.’
‘Wow.’
‘But my situation was different.’
Laila looks at Marietta curiously. Then she glances briefly at Peter.
‘How different?’ she says to Marietta. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, not at all. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time. Promise.’ Marietta smiles, and pats Laila’s hand.
Marietta has a kind way about her. Besides, they are both Asian. An instant friend. Laila throws Marietta an urging, questioning look, eyebrows arched, mouth half open.
‘So, all ready to order?’ Peter glances their way.
Laila shifts her gaze to the menu. She leafs through the pages, scanning the items. There are countless dishes. She has no idea where to start.
A discussion follows. Names of dishes fly in all directions. They decide that each person should choose a dish. But then Jim wants chicken with plum sauce all to himself.
‘Stop being such an Aussie. When you’re in a Chinese restaurant, eat like the Chinese,’ Peter says.
‘I am Aussie,’ Jim says, ‘and what’s wrong with chicken in plum sauce?’
‘Only Aussies order that crap. Besides, we should order dishes to share.’
Marietta cuts in. ‘Let him order what he likes, dear.’
‘No, we get better value sharing dishes,’ Peter says.
‘Alright, alright…’ Jim says. He turns to Laila. ‘Anything in particular you’d like?’
‘Still trying to decide,’ Laila says, studying the menu.
Marietta throws her a smile and Laila feels warmth enveloping her. ‘Let me help you choose, Laila. Do you like squid?’
They finally settle for Drunken Chicken, kangkong with belacan, stir-fried beef with ginger and black bean sauce, and clay pot tow foo. Laila sits back and watches. At the stalls in Kapit and even in Kuching, you just ordered what you knew, no menu needed.
The dishes arrive, aromas wafting around them. The men pour beer into glasses and take large gulps, wiping away froth from their lips. They tuck into the food. When Marietta talks, Laila takes in the rise and fall of her eyebrows, the excited tones in her voice. Watches the way she flicks back the strand of hair falling over her eye. When Marietta describes her village in Baybay on the island of Leyte, Laila listens with awe and imagines her in the thatched-roof hut.
‘Your hometown sounds just like my village in Kapit,’ she says. ‘The only difference is that we live in longhouses.’
‘Longhouses?’
‘Yes.’ Laila stretches out her arms. ‘A long house with a row of many houses within it. Ours had over thirty families.’
‘Wow. Have you got photos? I’ve got plenty of photos of my village. You must come over to our place one day and I’ll show you my albums.’
‘Yes, that will be nice,’ Laila says.
‘I’m a fifteen-minute walk from you, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, our caravan park is on the other side of Renmark.’
‘You live in a caravan too?’
‘Yes, all the time we’ve been married.’
‘And how long is that?’
‘Two years.’
‘How come Jim didn’t bring me to meet you earlier?’
‘We’ve only just moved back from Kapunda. About 150 kilometres away. We were in Waikerie before then, after we got married. Peter does all kinds of work and we move where work takes him.’
Laila lowers her voice and angles her body away from Jim. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, not at all. We don’t move that often. The caravan’s comfortable and I get to see different places.’
Laila pictures Marietta doing her chores in the tiny space of a caravan.
‘Girls getting along just great, as we expected,’ Peter says, looking their way, grinning.
Jim shoots them a quick look, the smile never leaving his face. ‘Enjoying the meal, sweets?’ he asks Laila, touching her elbow lightly.
Laila takes a bite of the chicken, and the flavour of Chinese wine and ginger explodes in her mouth. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, leaning towards him.
She continues sampling the other dishes, tow foo swimming in a thick sauce, slivers of succulent and tender beef, steamed rice done just right. Beside her, Jim is in his element, drinking beer, slapping his knees and breaking into laughter every now and again.
‘Nothing like an authentic Chinese meal. You’re right, Peter, this beats chicken in plum sauce,’ he says.
‘Now we’re talking. You got loads more to sample, mate.’ Peter picks up a serve of kangkong w
ith his chopsticks.
As Laila chats with Marietta, her landscape shifts. She’s found an ally, and they can talk about their villages, the caravans.
After the meal, while sipping jasmine tea from little teacups, Marietta reaches into her handbag and takes out a notepad and pen. She scribbles on it and hands a sheet of paper to Laila.
‘Here, this is a map to the caravan park.’ She marks a cross on it. ‘And this is where our caravan is. No need to make an appointment. Just call over, okay?’
Laila takes the piece of paper and studies it. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
Leaving the restaurant, she slides her hand into Jim’s. Surprised, Jim looks at her. When he sees the smile on her face, he laces his fingers through hers. Laila leans against his shoulder.
Laila peers through the windows of the caravan to see if anyone is home but the curtains are drawn. She knocks. Patter of footsteps, the door creaks open and Marietta greets her with a smile.
‘Hi, what a lovely surprise. Come on in.’
Marietta draws the curtain and light floods the caravan.
‘I was changing earlier and forgot to open the curtains.’
Marietta’s caravan is slightly larger than Jim’s, and in much better condition. The kitchen cabinets are light blue and newer. The sink is shiny, benchtops uncluttered and clean. Pictures hang on the walls, little ink sketches of a Filipino village, people in traditional outfits. A multicoloured quilt with floral motifs is draped over the bed. Laila’s eyes rest on two framed photos of Marietta and Peter, one on the bedside table and another on the wall above the two-seater. She touches the wooden frame of the wall photo, takes in the elaborate lace on the bodice of Marietta’s wedding gown. Peter’s face is angled towards her, eyes half-closed and dreamy. Sunlight falls on their hair.
‘You look beautiful there, Marietta.’
‘Oh thanks. I was a bit thinner then.’ She pinches her waistline and makes a face. ‘Let me finish with this and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’
Marietta quickly folds the last of some tops and underwear. Laila watches her, looks at the stack of garments sitting on the chair, the mix of male and female clothing. Her eyes scan the little postcards and cut-outs stuck on the fridge. A note, hand-written with a thick red felt pen, jumps out.
Will be home latish tonight, darling. Don’t forget your appointment with the hairdressers. I love you, P.
‘Peter at work?’ Laila asks.
‘Yes, he leaves real early in the morning, especially in summer, sometimes before I even wake up.’
Laila quickly shifts her eyes to other items stuck on the fridge so as to appear as if she hasn’t read the note. The kettle hisses. Marietta spoons coffee powder and sugar into two mugs. Then she takes Laila by the hands and sits her down on the bed.
With her hands still clasping Laila’s, she says, ‘Now, how are you?’
‘I’m well.’ Laila smiles.
‘I’m so glad we met. There are so few of us around here, we must stick together.’
‘How many Asian people are there here?’
‘Not sure, but Peter tells me there’s a few of them. One of them apparently is married to the butcher in town and is a seamstress. I’m sure we’ll get to meet them one day.’
Marietta lightly touches Laila’s hair. ‘You have beautiful hair. I hate my waves, I wish my hair was straight like yours.’
Laila grimaces. ‘Urgh, I hate my straight hair.’
‘Typical. We women are never happy with what we have.’ Marietta laughs, gets up and pours hot water into the mugs. ‘Want to see my photos?’
‘Yes, sure.’
As Marietta bends and pulls out the albums from the drawer under the bed, Laila breathes in the sweet fragrance of the potpourri sitting in a bowl by the bedside. Leaning back, she floats in the radiance exuding from the four walls of the caravan.
‘Wow, look at that candlestick.’ Laila pushes her nose against the glass.
Teddy bears, fake sunflowers, vases, wooden trays with painted roosters and an array of gifts and crafts adorn the four-panelled glass shopfront of Country Delight.
Marietta pulls Laila by the hand. ‘This shop is expensive. I’ll take you to Bargain Basement. They have similar things that cost half the price.’
It is their fifth rendezvous since meeting in Adelaide two weeks ago. Laila tells herself she should give Marietta some breathing space, that she too has a life and can’t devote all her free time to her. But each time they say goodbye, she can’t help but suggest another meeting soon after.
It is around three in the afternoon and they are walking along Lefty’s Mall. After turning a corner they approach a row of shops. Laila gazes at the front of a dress shop. Something about it is vaguely familiar. She stares at the mannequins, checks out the clothes and immediately remembers the blonde wigs. She stops, pauses for a few seconds, then attempts to make a turn. A frown passes over her face.
‘What’s the matter, Laila?’
Laila looks at the shop, then faces Marietta. ‘The shop. That was where it happened.’
‘What happened? Tell me.’ Marietta looks puzzled.
Laila takes her friend by the hand and walks ahead. ‘Let’s go somewhere where we can sit down.’
They head towards Renmark Avenue, cross the road to the wide, lawned median strip and find a park bench. They sit facing each other.
‘Marietta, promise you won’t tell Peter what I’m going to tell you.’
‘You know you can trust me,’ Marietta says.
Laila swallows. ‘I told Jim I’m not ready to marry him.’
Marietta’s eyebrows gather. She remains quiet.
‘That shop there? He took me there to get a wedding gown. That was when I told him I didn’t want to marry him,’ Laila continues.
‘What’s your reason?’
Laila bites her lower lip. ‘The caravan. I can’t live in it. It’s worse than the bilik in my longhouse. Like a chicken coop.’
Marietta nods. ‘I can understand how you feel.’
‘He cheated me, Marietta. He didn’t tell me he didn’t have a house. Brought me all the way here to find out he lives in that caravan. It’s horrible. I was so disappointed, so angry.’
‘How do you feel now?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Jim is really sweet and he tries hard to please me, but…’
‘What would make you want to marry him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Laila turns away.
Marietta rubs Laila’s shoulder. ‘I know the caravan is small, but it can still be a home.’
‘I know…I guess I wouldn’t mind if it was only for a little while.’
Marietta leans back. ‘There you go, you’ve found the answer yourself.’
Laila shakes her head. ‘I’m still not sure.’
‘Things don’t stay the same forever. Things get better. Did Jim pay for your airfare here?’
‘Yes, he did. And there was some money left over for the suitcase and some clothes as well.’
‘Well, if Jim can afford to bring you over here, it means he must have been able to save. It’s a question of making sure he continues saving so eventually he can afford to get a house.’
Laila keeps silent. Nearby, church bells ring. She looks in the direction of the church, sees the bell above the statue of Saint Teresa swinging back and forth, notices the sharp slope of the roof above the brick façade, and her thoughts return to that first day she arrived in Renmark when Jim pointed out the church to her.
She faces Marietta again. Marietta gives her a hug.
‘Why don’t you give him a chance, Laila?’
10
‘LAI-LA,’ SHE SAYS, DRAGGING both syllables, mouth open, curling her tongue.
Jim imitates her. ‘Lie ler.’
‘No, no, not LER. It’s LAH. I’ll say it again—LIE LAH.’ She shifts her position on the bench so they are sitting face to face, knees almost touching. ‘LAH as in lah lah lah, you know.’
‘Okay, I’ll try a
gain—LIE LER, I mean LIE LAH.’ He drags the ‘lah’.
‘Yes, you got it.’ She claps her hands like a child.
‘Lie lah, lie lah,’ Jim repeats over and over, grinning. ‘I keep saying Layla, from the song, you know. Hey, maybe I could learn to speak Aiban, huh?’
‘No, no.’ She waves her index finger at his nose. ‘Iban, not Aiban. Say, ee-bahn.’
‘Right, ee-bahn. Cool.’ He clutches both her knees with his hands. ‘So, what do you reckon. You think I could speak Iban?’
She mocks a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe. But you will still sound very Australian.’
‘What do you expect? I’m Aussie.’ He raises one eyebrow, curls his lips and grimaces in a laid-back manner. ‘As Aussie as you get them, mate.’ Then he gestures with his arms, resting his hands on his waist in a tough-guy posture. Laila giggles.
From where they are sitting, at the end of the jetty at Glenelg, they have a sweeping view of the sea, clouds lingering on the horizon, pinks deepening to warm orange. The wind is light and the smell of the sea has crept across the shore, veiling the jetty in salty mist. Speckles of light fall on the water, the sun a shimmering golden ball.
It is Laila’s second trip to Adelaide. Her rice vermicelli from last time has run out. They’ve spent the afternoon shopping and lunching in Chinatown, followed by a quick visit to Rundle Mall, the main shopping hub of Adelaide.
Jim breathes in the saltish sticky odour, feels his body relax in a way it hasn’t done in weeks. The pleasure of lunch lingers on his taste buds. He turns and looks at Laila, notes the glow of the first day returning to her face. Golden light bounces off her hair and cheeks. She looks more gorgeous now than he’s ever seen her.
He stands up and gestures towards the railing of the jetty. ‘Let’s go over there. We can catch a better view of the sunset.’
Laila follows him and they stand side by side facing the horizon, bodies leaning against the railing. The upper levels of clouds have turned a hard pink, small white plumes feathering out as the colours merge with the grey-blue of the sky.
‘This is so beautiful,’ Laila says.
‘Isn’t it just,’ Jim says, feeling the openness on his face. The wind sings in his ears.
Handpicked Page 7