by Brian Smith
Conscious of how the three of them stood out among the casually and, in many cases, poorly dressed players, Mike’s mood darkened, but his father shared none of his embarrassment, striding along with an easy gait and gazing about with the confidence of a celebrity walking among admirers. His father had an air of distinction about him, whether wearing his suit or serving in the shop, similar to that which defines a good headwaiter. Mike wondered whether he shared this distinction. Earlier, when knotting his tie in front of the bedroom mirror, he had seen a younger version of his father examining him – the same build, the same open face with the deep shadow of a well-shaven, heavy beard and the same thick hair. Just the other day he had seen a couple of silver strands among the dark waves.
They walked beyond the blackjack tables and entered the food court where he could hear the plaintive call of a country and western singer – Mike’s least favourite form of music. They passed a row of ATMs and entered a wide corridor, which became increasingly elegant the further they went along it. Large, glossy, black and white paving tiles formed a pleasing pattern on the floor, recessed lights shone from above and, to one side, boutique shop fronts displayed exclusive brands while stylish restaurants appeared opposite them. Mike’s mood lifted.
‘This is more like it,’ he said. ‘Café Filipo should be along here.’
‘Café Filipo,’ his father repeated. ‘I didn’t know we were going there.’
‘Didn’t you? Very upmarket. Shane’s sparing no expense,’ Lissa told him.
The further they went the more hesitant Demetri became, the confidence he had earlier displayed ebbing away before the opulence of their surroundings.
When they arrived at Café Filipo, his father hung back, signalling with his hand that Lissa and Mike should precede him. The restaurant was not large, but given a spacious air by the reflections from the full-length windows, which looked out over the Yarra. The other walls were covered in a soft white fabric that matched the crisp coverings of the tables, where small silver vases carrying single red roses stood in the midst of the settings. This otherwise severe decor was softened by colourful abstract paintings on the walls and boxes of indoor plants separating the tables. For Mike this was but indistinctly perceived background for the sound of Thelonious Monk playing Round Midnight. Monk could capture him at any time, but the quality of the reproduction and the dampening acoustic allowed the sound to transcend the buzz of the other diners without appearing to intrude. Thelonious was never a background musician, but in Café Filipo he pulled it off with great success. Mike was brought to his senses by his father bumping into the back of him and the sight of Lissa, turning to find what had become of him. A waiter dressed from head to toe in black approached them.
‘A table in the name of Shane Francis,’ Mike said.
‘Certainly, sir.’
He did not hesitate but turned and began to lead them to where Mike could see Shane rising from his seat and Mary waving a hand. Already the table carried a glass of sparkling wine and a tankard of beer. Just as Mike was beginning to look like their father, Mary was growing increasingly like their mother. She had her dark good looks, more angular than their father and more subtle – a beauty, Mike would have said, more suited by discreet rather than blatant display. To judge by the neckline of her blue dress, Mary did not agree with him. As expected, Shane was jacketless, a yellow cotton shirt tightly enclosing his strong shoulders and chest, the short sleeves revealing his muscular, tanned arms. Reluctantly, Mike understood how attractive he would be to some women. Mary was obviously one of them.
The greetings complete, they moved to take their seats. Shane, clearly in charge of the evening, insisted that Demetri sit at the head, facing into the body of the restaurant, flanked by Lissa and Mary with the men opposite their partners. ‘Now that’s settled, what will you have to drink?’ Shane asked.
‘Some bubbly, please,’ Lissa replied and she and Mary grinned at one another.
Mike waited for his father to order and, when he did not speak, Mike turned to look at him. Demetri was staring fixedly across the restaurant as though finding something of intense interest. As Mike focused on him, he dropped his head and appeared as if trying to sink into his chair. Mike turned to see what had caused this strange behaviour. A tall, heavily built man was making stately progress among the tables, any waiters in his path nodding a welcome and adroitly stepping away to allow him an uninterrupted passage. A navy polo neck smoothly followed the bulk of his torso. A cream jacket hung from his shoulders. He had a wide forehead, an aquiline nose, full lips and the expression of a man who was well used to the deference the waiters were paying him.
Mike noticed none of this. His attention was taken by the woman who followed behind. For an instant he suffered the discomfort of seeing someone he thought he knew but could not recall. Then he realised who she was – Carla Rossi did indeed have the face and figure of the film star his father remembered with such fondness. Glossy dark hair, cut quite short, framed her oval face with its high cheekbones. Her sleeveless, high-necked dress, in crimson satin, embraced the contours of her body, and a wide silver bracelet clasped her right wrist. Earlier the restaurant had been merely a setting for the music of Thelonious Monk; now it was a backdrop against which Carla shone. What transfixed Mike was not only her beauty, but also the serenity of her expression, her stillness and the straight-backed grace with which she held herself, like a ballerina, gliding effortlessly between the tables.
Mike would have continued to stare had not the man leading Carla hidden her as he changed direction to come straight towards their table. The man was smiling broadly, his eyes on Demetri. When still several paces away, his voice boomed out, ‘Demetri, my old friend. You will not speak with me but you come to my restaurant. You cannot hide from me here.’
He held out his right hand but, when Demetri made no attempt to stand or to take the offered hand, he spread both arms wide and spoke to the whole table as though addressing a meeting he had called.
‘I must apologise. My name is Mario Mancini. Demetri and I knew one another back in those distant days when we were together at the market, the Wholesale Market.’ He looked around the table and smiled indulgently. ‘We first met before any of you were born.’ He swept his arm around in the manner of a master of ceremonies introducing the next performer. ‘And this is my daughter, Carla.’ He paused and managed to look almost apologetic. ‘I welcomed you to what I called my restaurant, but it is really hers now. It was an ordinary Italian trattoria in my time, but she has transformed it into what you see today.’
Carla bobbed her head and offered a tranquil smile, her eyes staying with Mike until Mario turned to speak directly to Demetri. ‘Unlike you, I have no son to follow me, but Carla is my son; she has taken over a number of my interests. I retain my transport business – not something she wanted to take on, regrettably.’ He turned back again to address the whole gathering. ‘And my son-in-law, Angelo.’
Mike focused for the first time on the third member of their party. Angelo Rossi was also a handsome man with rugged good looks akin to those of Shane, although he was dark and Shane fair. However, he lacked the presence of his father-in-law and the elegance of his wife.
‘Angelo runs Rubicon Development. It has the superb Riverside project just down the Yarra from here,’ Mario said. ‘I like to think that each of us played a part in bringing the Riverside complex to fruition, but Angelo no longer has need of us there.’
His attempt at maintaining a jokey tone failed to hide the feeling that he missed being involved with Rubicon. And, Mike wondered, was he using the royal plural or did he mean Carla was on the outer as well?
Mario looked enquiringly at Demetri who belatedly struggled to his feet and spoke hesitantly to Carla and Angelo, ignoring Mario as he went round the table. ‘I am Demetri Georgiou. This is my family – my daughter Mary, my daughter-in-law Lissa, my son Mike and Mary’s partner Shane.’ The word ‘partner’ brought Mike’s eyes away from Carla and to h
is father, who had often complained about the casual nature of Mary’s liaisons and never before acknowledged her relationship with Shane in the way he had just done.
‘Hello, Shane,’ Angelo said.
Shane nodded an acknowledgement but looked rather awkward, as if caught out doing something wrong. Mike had not seen him look like this before – Shane was usually full of bluster when accused of any wrongdoing. ‘It’s Demetri’s name day on Sunday. We’re here to celebrate,’ Shane said as though offering an excuse.
‘Ah, Sunday,’ Angelo said knowingly. ‘You hadn’t told me you were part of the Georgiou family.’ Shane looked even more embarrassed.
Mario considered he had been out of the conversation long enough. ‘Your name day? I offer my warmest congratulations and good wishes.’ He paused and his tone changed. ‘You don’t have your son with you in the business?’ he asked, sounding too unbelieving for his enquiry to be anything more than a chance to have a gentle dig at Demetri, a challenge that brought an immediate response.
‘My son will lead the business when we are ready for him to take over from me. Already, he is involved.’
‘Ah, when you retire, perhaps.’ Mario became thoughtful and spoke earnestly, leaning forward towards Demetri. ‘My offer to you would be so helpful in securing your future.’ He paused to glance across to Mike before returning his gaze to Demetri. ‘Particularly if your son prefers to stay where he is and not commit all his time to the business.’
Demetri sat stony-faced and Angelo spoke, this time to Mike. ‘I believe you’re Findlay’s project manager at CityView – one of our rivals.’
‘I doubt we have anything like the size we need for you to consider us a rival.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ Angelo said.
Carla touched her father lightly on the arm in an unspoken reminder.
‘Yes, of course,’ Mario said. ‘We must go to our dinner and let you get on with yours. It has been a pleasure to meet you all. I hope you enjoy yourselves to the full tonight.’
The commanding figure continued on his way, his retinue behind him. He paused to speak briefly to one of the waiters and then disappeared through a door beside the entrance to the kitchen.
The Georgiou family sat in awkward silence until Mary giggled and asked, ‘Do they eat in the kitchen?’
‘No,’ Shane replied quickly. ‘There’s a private room up a few stairs.’
‘You seem to know this place well,’ Mike said.
Before Shane could reply, a waiter arrived, carrying several champagne flutes and a large bottle. ‘Mr Mancini asks you to accept this Moët et Chandon with his compliments.’
‘Yeah. Some of us would like to order something else to drink, and how about some menus, mate. We’d like to eat sometime.’ Shane had become his old, aggressive self.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Pay no attention to him,’ Lissa said gaily. ‘Some of us would certainly like some of that champagne before you go any further.’
By the time Mike had returned from seeing their baby-sitter safely home, Lissa was in bed but not asleep. As Mike hung up his suit jacket, she said, ‘That was a funny kind of celebration.’
‘You thought?’
‘For a start, did you know your dad was an old pal of Mario Mancini?’
‘I wouldn’t say they were pals,’ he replied as he began to undo his tie.
‘You’re right there. More like old enemies circling one another. What was that about an offer Mancini had made your father?’
Mike waited until he had fully removed his shirt before replying. ‘It was the bit about me taking over the business that got me. I’ve told Dad a million times I’m not interested, but he won’t give up.’
‘And why was Shane so coy with his boss?’
‘Was he?’
‘Of course he was. Seemed like he was apologising for being there and ashamed of being called a member of the family.’
Mike removed his socks and shoes before stepping out of his trousers. ‘Shane certainly hit the grog tonight. I’m glad Mary persuaded him to take a taxi home. He was in a wild mood. I hope she’ll be OK with him tonight.’
Lissa sat up revealing to Mike that she was wearing his favourite, black nightdress, the lacy one with the shoestring straps. ‘You were hitting it pretty hard yourself. Your dad was the only one to hold back. He seemed quite dispirited after speaking with Mancini.’
Mike hung up his trousers. ‘You had your eye on all of us tonight; didn’t miss a thing.’
‘You didn’t notice because you couldn’t take your eyes of the lovely Carla.’ Lissa raised an eyebrow, a trick Mike had always found enticing but never mastered himself. ‘I don’t blame you, though,’ she lied. ‘She’s gorgeous.’
‘A bit cool for me,’ he lied in return as he removed his jocks. ‘I like a woman with a bit more bubble.’
Lissa, content to believe or willing to forgive him, smiled and gazed at his nakedness. ‘The champagne was delicious. And the food was very good, too. But it wasn’t the celebration I was expecting.’
Mike clambered into bed beside her. ‘We’ll just have to have our own celebration,’ he said as he embraced her, crushing her to his chest.’
‘What’s got into you?’
‘I liked that restaurant,’ he said.
‘If this is the result, you’ll have to take me there again soon.’
They kissed, his tongue searching for hers, and she reached down for him. He wondered if Angelo and Carla were making love. What would she be like in bed? He would have to be more restrained than he was now, fearful she might break in his hands.
Afterwards, with Lissa asleep beside him, Mike could not settle. What was it about Mario Mancini that had turned his father, renowned for his affability and courtesy, into the man he saw in the restaurant? His father had never mentioned Mancini before. And what was the offer Mancini mentioned – an offer that promised him security in retirement? Surely it had something to do with the business. Why would he reject it out of hand, without even mentioning it? Mike smiled ironically in the darkness. After all, his father claimed he was involved in the running of the business. And Lissa had been right about Shane. Angelo seemed to know him a good deal better than he would have expected, but Shane had clammed up later on when Mike tried to get him talking about the job he did for Rubicon.
Mike turned on to his side. He must get to sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day, preparing for Sunday. To judge by the music in the restaurant, Carla liked jazz, too.
7
When Mike came slowly awake his head was fuzzy, the light streaming in the window hurt his eyes and there was no sign of Lissa. He levered himself from the bed, put on his cotton dressing-gown and wandered into the kitchen. There he found Lissa fully dressed with a mug of coffee in her hand.
‘Ah, lover-boy, just the man I need.’
‘In that case why didn’t you stay in bed?’
‘Oh no, that’s not why I need you now. You have to help me prepare for the feast tomorrow. Make food, not love.’ Mike who, in his rather fragile state, found Lissa’s robust good humour hard to take, was relieved to see her become more serious. ‘Mary just called. She’s not well.’ Lissa watched him carefully as she gave him the news, but he had the good sense to remain silent and look enquiringly at her. ‘It appears you are not the only one with a hangover, but she has bad period pains as well. I guess they’re not troubling you, which is just as well because, without Mary, I need you to help me out. Have a shower – that should help you rejoin the human race – and I’ll get you some breakfast. We need to be off to the market in twenty minutes.’
Slightly rejuvenated by the shower if not the breakfast, Mike sat beside Lissa as she drove her Forester into the car park above the South Melbourne Market. She took out and assembled the four-wheeled trolley with practiced skill.
‘There you are. That’s your responsibility,’ she said, and set off with Mike trailing behind her.
Usually Lissa shopped on a Friday
, so it had been some time since he had come with her to the market and he enjoyed the cosy proximity of the stalls lining the concrete floored aisles. On another day he might have been tempted to browse at The Merchant of Fairness, the second-hand bookstall, but Lissa moved straight past it and was not delayed by the display of colour at the neighbouring florists, either. When they reached the lower end of the market, where the meat and delicatessen stalls clustered, Mike was struck by the number that carried the first name of the proprietor: ‘Theo’s Deli’, ‘Steve’s Deli’, ‘Tony’s Meat Supplies’, ‘Ralph’s Meat Company’, ‘Jim’s Fresh Fish’. He had not noticed this before and was amused by the thought of such an approach in the construction industry. Somehow ‘Jim’s Construction’ and ‘Angelo’s Development’ didn’t strike the right note.
Lissa was not diverted by such musings, but moved confidently from stall to stall, collecting hefty quantities of pork and lamb, on the bone and minced, substantial supplies of pita bread, walnuts, almonds, spices, flour and eggs, and a range of cheeses.
As the silent trolley-wheeler, Mike was able to observe a side of Lissa he had forgotten. Each of the stallholders greeted her with the warmth due to an established customer, yet appeared slightly edgy, as though undergoing some kind of test. Certainly she let them know if they offered anything she considered not up to her standard. When the man in the delicatessen, after searching through the shelves of the cheese room at the side of his stall, told her he had the fetta and kasseri she wanted but was out of graviera, she left him in no doubt he needed to do better in the future.
The detailed knowledge and the easy authority she brought to her task sat well with her. Showing none of the irritability she sometimes displayed at home, she demanded and most often received high quality, attentive service. On the odd occasions it was lacking, she expressed her disappointment as if schooling children in how they should behave. She also took careful note of the amount she spent at each stall, something Mike had not seen before.