Fava Beans For Breakfast

by Suzanne Salem

  With her earring palace, she could publicly rejoice in the sight of an immaculate ear in its perfect Fibonacci formation. Oh, the Fibonacci! She had learned about the Fibonacci sequence from Fawzy. She was no mathematician but she had almost stopped breathing when Fawzy explained that this sequence was a set of numbers that increased in size rapidly. Each number was the sum of the two numbers that preceded it. She begged Fawzy to show her how the Fibonacci sequence worked and to prove that it formed a spiral shape when graphed using a set of rectangles. He showed her drawings of the inner ear, the cochlear, which confirmed that it, too, was aligned to the Fibonacci spiral. She was fond of secretly mapping the Fibonacci shape on any ear of distinction. Soon, she would no longer need to suppress her fascination with this spiralling formation.

  Fawzy had rejoiced that she could share in his pleasure at observing the beauty of a recursive number series, and had nibbled at her Fibonacci ear, vowing that her face was the picture of the Golden Ratio.

  ‘What’s the Golden Ratio?’ she asked, pushing him away gently.

  ‘The Golden Ratio is something quite magical. So … if you take the two successive numbers in the Fibonacci sequence and calculate their ratio, you will find something very peculiar happens with the answer.’

  ‘Yes … go on,’ she urged, her heart jumping with excitement. Why was he taking so long to explain something so important?

  ‘As the numbers get larger in the Fibonacci sequence, the ratio always approaches the same answer … which is basically phi.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Can you say that again, Professeur?’

  ‘Once the numbers get large enough, the ratio of two straight Fibonacci numbers will always give you 1.618 … if you round to three decimal places. This number also happens to be the Golden Ratio.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  He showed her on his calculator, using the very Fibonacci series that they had just written together, that 1.618 was the recurring answer. ‘The data doesn’t lie, ya butta. The concrete facts are here on this page.’

  This was startling information for Nayeema. She understood that this useful piece of mathematics had the power to change everything she had ever thought about the world.

  She went to the library and looked up the Golden Ratio. Mathematicians represented the Golden Ratio through phi: 1.618, and showed that its decimal moves towards infinity and never repeats. The Golden Ratio constantly appeared in the design of nature, the bodies of animals and the human body. It was everywhere, not just in nature, but also in art and architecture. She could see it in the proportions of a beautiful face and in the proportions of her own body. The human head formed a golden rectangle with the eyes at the midpoint of the rectangle. The mouth and nose are located in golden proportions from the eyes and the bottom of the chin.

  Renaissance artists called the Golden Ratio the Divine Proportion. They believed the most beautiful and balanced faces matched the dimensions of phi. She learned that Leonardo da Vinci used the Golden Ratio to define the proportions of The Last Supper, with every important detail: the table, the walls, and the background using the Golden Ratio. The Mona Lisa, some say the most perfect woman painted, was also composed according to proportions of phi.

  Once she knew what to look out for, she saw phi and the Fibonacci spiral everywhere. In her beloved ear, the Fibonacci sequence confirmed to her that the ear was a celebration of life and beauty.

  Her earring parlour would be her life’s work; her creative magma storming to find its place in the world. She had to find a way of accepting Tom’s offer without denying the very breath for expression she needed. She could pay back Tom’s loan, in just over half a year, then save, quietly. No one but Tom would know. Then, when she’d saved enough she would find a space in Sydney for her piercing parlour. She could organise staff for the houseboat, she wouldn’t need to be in Burraboo to keep the kiosk running. Tom hadn’t worked a single day in the kiosk and yet, wasn’t he a partner? As hard as she tried to get Fawzy off her mind, she couldn’t; not because she imagined him to be angry in this constructed future of hers, but mainly because she couldn’t see him in it at all.

  She would design her own perfectly proportioned story, first with the floating kiosk, then with the piercing palace. Her secret deal with Tom Grieves was the key to bringing her closer to the very pulse of beauty, of mathematics, of divinity.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tom stood in Robert Grimshaw’s opulent office with an oddly detached smile on his face as the formalities took place. You could smell the leather polish and the musk, the dust and the disarray as soon as you walked in. It was as noticeable today as the first time Tom stepped into Grimshaw’s office fourteen years ago.

  Grimshaw teemed with energy and a faultless economy of purpose as he ushered Neema towards a large, deep-seated leather armchair, one of three organised in a subtle arc formation. He stood behind the chair and waited there until Neema lowered herself cautiously onto the seat. He then walked behind his opulent mahogany desk, which would not have been out of place in the home of a colonial conquistador, and sat himself down on his own resplendent chair.

  Neema’s hands were clasped together tightly. She declined all offers of water, tea, coffee, butterscotch, and mints. She cleared her throat a few times and fiddled with her hair. During their drive up to Grimshaw’s office in Gosford, Tom had noticed her fidgeting with her cuticles while folding and unfolding her legs.

  ‘Right then,’ said Grimshaw. ‘I believe you would like to have your financial arrangements formalised through legal documentation today. You wish to ensure that you are both singing out of the same prayer book, as it were, which is a sensible course of action.’

  Neema squinted.

  ‘That’s right, Rob. As we discussed on the phone,’ said Tom.

  ‘Based on that conversation, I have taken the liberty of drafting up a document for you both to review.’ Grimshaw pulled out a folder from one of his desk drawers and opened it with a flourish. He solemnly handed them each a draft contract.

  Neema’s eyes widened with something like horror. She clasped the contract with both hands outstretched slightly in front of her body, as though it contained a deadly contaminant. She eventually placed the papers on her lap, muttered her thanks and fumbled through her small leather handbag. When she looked up, an awkward smile had insinuated its way onto her lovely face.

  ‘Am sorry, I forget my reading glasses at home.’

  Ah, she was quick. He’d never seen her wearing reading glasses during any of the bookkeeping tutorials he had given. Neema, Neema … he had to admire that sort of spunk.

  ‘Why don’t I quickly cast my eye over the contract?’ Tom offered quickly.

  She frowned. ‘Maybe … if it is okay, Mr Grimshaw, I can tell you what I think should be in the papers and you can tell me whether you have included?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Grimshaw, smiling gallantly.

  ‘Number one,’ she said, the sudden authority in her tone making Tom look up in surprise. She tapped her right index finger against her left index finger. ‘We want to say that Tom is giving me loan for fifty per cent of value of kiosk. No interest charges.

  ‘Number two. We want to say that Tom is landlord for the house in Hungerford Place that I rent with my husband.

  ‘Number three. We want to say that Tom agrees to reduce our rent by thirty per cent. The condition is that I must spend thirty minutes every day learning about the bookkeeping and the balance sheet.’ She stopped for a moment and cleared her throat again.

  ‘Number four. The thirty per cent I make in rent savings is automatically used for loan repayment.’

  He nodded his agreement.

  ‘Number five.’ She tapped her right index finger against her left pinkie. ‘Term of loan is two-hundred-and-seventy-seven days. From today, twenty-five days is already paid. We already begin our agreement, Mr Grimshaw. All this we must have in the papers.’

  Grimshaw then proceeded to correct Neema’s calculations.
Tom charged her rent weekly, but she was required to spend five nights out of seven per week receiving tuition on bookkeeping or accounting, either from Tom or one of his employees. It came down to the treatment of the five-sevenths. Neema’s tuition obligation would equate to something far greater than she had originally estimated. Tom stared at the wall. Something about three-hundred-and-eighty-eight days equating to fifty-five weeks. Less the obligation already fulfilled, of twenty-five tuition days. Tom closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘A nice tidy point in time, isn’t it? This means, of course, that as of today you have exactly fifty weeks outstanding before the loan is extinguished,’ said Grimshaw.

  Tom was intrigued by this interchange, which had Neema looking like she’d been hit with a stun gun. Her normally impressive pout was sagging. Clearly she had not thought about their agreement the way Grimshaw did. She turned to look at Tom, her eyes large and lost. He nodded his head and offered a reassuring smile. ‘That calculation is pretty much right.’

  ‘One full year.’ The way she said it was almost a whisper.

  ‘Perhaps you would like me to go over the figures one more time?’ suggested Grimshaw. ‘You could take the document home and think about it before you sign. Read it properly when you have recovered your glasses.’

  Neema turned to Tom again. ‘You say this is all okay?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I reckon this document has everything that you wanted, but maybe seeing it all in black and white is making you have second thoughts …’

  ‘I want to own this business. Yes.’

  Rob Grimshaw took off his glasses. ‘There are some clauses relating to what happens should you not renew the rental lease at Hungerford Place, if for instance, your husband decides that he would rather buy a house than continue renting. This will have implications for your agreement with Tom. Would you like me to explain what happens then?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Neema.

  Tom balanced Grimshaw’s carefully drafted contract across his knees. These legal documents bored the bejesus out of him, partly because he trusted Grimshaw’s thorough eye and methodical approach. Grimshaw had been affiliated with his father’s companies, for years, until they had a spectacular falling out over some deal, which Grimshaw had regarded as too shonky to endorse. Not surprisingly, the mighty glasshole Jack Grieves instantly terminated his relationship with the respected firm of Grimshaw & Warren. After the death of Jack Grieves, when the responsibilities and obligations of Grieves Inc fell like a brick shithouse on Tom’s lap, it was one of Tom’s greatest pleasures to sack his father’s in-house chief legal counsel. Re-appointing Grimshaw was one of the best decisions he’d made in the past fourteen years. You could never question the man’s integrity. Tom had needed an operator like that to stamp out the putrid stench at the heart of his father’s complicated company structures.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Mrs Ikram, with your rights and obligations as laid out in this document?’ said Grimshaw.

  Tom snapped to attention. Grimshaw was wrapping up proceedings.

  ‘I think so. Anyway, is better to have contract than no contract.’

  He handed her a silver fountain pen and with his wiry finger indicated where she was to sign. Neema leaned forward, errant strands of hair tipping onto the page as she clasped the pen tightly. She drew a short, tight breath, looked up to regard the wall, returned her gaze to the document and quickly signed. Hallelujah. Their deal was done.

  The kiosk now had every chance of doing well and although Goldie Pritchett’s presence troubled him like a ghost, the kiosk would be nothing without Neema. He saw something of himself in her and he wanted her to see that she had built something great from nothing. But most of all, he wanted her to stay.

  * * *

  She gnawed on the end of her biro while the frigid wind ruffled the scarf around her neck. She shivered and hugged her hardcover notebook.

  ‘You want to go inside?’

  ‘No. There’s still crimson,’ said Neema, and nodded in the direction of the Kollala Ranges.

  ‘Coral.’

  ‘You’re colourblind.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  She smiled smugly. ‘Of course.’ She hesitated a moment before adding, ‘All my brothers were colourblind.’

  ‘Ah, your brothers … tell me about their crimes against colour.’

  ‘They have many crimes. Colour is one,’ she said curtly.

  ‘What exactly did they do to get their little sister so angry? You’ve never told me, you know.’

  ‘Ah. It’s simple. They cheat me. They forget that the blood in my veins is the same as theirs. They ignored Fawzy’s concrete facts.’ She took the end of her biro into the side of her mouth and chomped with ferocity.

  Tom reached over and touched her lightly on the elbow. ‘They sound like shitheads.’

  ‘Yes, shitheads and whatnot.’

  ‘I know a thing or two about family spats.’

  ‘My mother, she comes from a wealthy family. My father, he comes from a poor family. Her parents didn’t approve of him. They had a groom for her, a respected man, an older man with money and connections. My mother refused him. My grandparents were angry with her. They stopped speaking to each other.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Because they didn’t approve of her marriage?’

  ‘Maybe there was more. But this is all she tells me. It’s different over there. Disobedience is serious. It means no respect. This is a big thing.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Then, one day, my mother gets a letter. Her father is dead. He leaves her almost everything. How do you say …’

  ‘Inheritance?’

  ‘Yes. But my mother and father, they don’t tell me and my brothers about this letter or the inheritance. We don’t know why. Maybe they were in shock. Suddenly, they are rich. Three months later, they are dead, also.’

  ‘The tram accident?’

  Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away. She steadied her voice. ‘Before they could organise anything, they have the accident … they are taken. There is no will.’

  ‘Ouch. I think I can see where this is going.’

  ‘While we are all in mourning, in grief, you understand, we find out that we are very wealthy.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Tom shook his head and watched the tears gush down her chin and neck. Her nostrils flared as she struggled for composure but her voice was remarkably even. She turned away from him and buried her face in her scarf. He rose to his feet and went indoors to grab the box of tissues from the kitchen bench. She cleaned up her face then scrunched her nose at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s okay,’ he mumbled. Wasn’t sure where to look. Her cheeks were red and splotchy and the end of her nose had swelled into a bulb. With baleful eyes she blew loudly into the tissue and looked at him. She placed a hand on her shapely hip and smiled. Damn, she was a marvellous woman.

  ‘So, my mother inherited lots of land. Cotton farm. Wheat farm. Some office buildings. A factory. But she made no will. There was no document to say that her five children would inherit what she owned. My brothers …’ her voice hardened, ‘they made it a competition … to see who got what. They had fights with my mother’s cousins. Every day was a bad wind blowing. I was the only girl and the youngest. I just finished school … I was lucky to get a few pieces of my grandmother’s jewellery.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Three years ago.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to them in three years?’

  ‘Fawzy told me the concrete facts would protect my rights. He was wrong. I couldn’t stay there, under their roof. I married Fawzy. We came to Australia.’

  ‘How did you meet Fawzy … er, Fred?’

  ‘He lived upstairs, in my apartment building.’

  ‘Childhood sweetheart?’

  ‘They are like wolves, my brothers. They give me nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Family and business are a terrible
mix. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’

  They sat in silence and watched the crimson strokes soften as they slid across the sky.

  ‘Why do you not marry, Tom?’

  ‘I was. Once.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t tell me this before. When were you married?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. We didn’t last long.’

  ‘How old were you … when you marry.’

  ‘Straight out of uni. I was twenty-one.’

  ‘Same age as Fawzy when he marries me.’

  ‘Same age, yes … but different circumstances. And a very different woman.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Veronica. We met at uni. As soon as we graduated, we married. I was crazy about her.’

  ‘She was very beautiful?’

  ‘Yup. She was what you call a rotten beauty.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were young. We weren’t ready.’

  ‘Fudge buckets … is this all you tell me? After you call her a rotten beauty?’ Neema’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

  Tom focused on keeping the weight of his feet even against the sandstone block beneath him. Veronica. Cripes. Just the thought of Veronica made his breath shorten.

  ‘She wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She chose money over love.’

  ‘A wolf like my brothers?’

  Oh, much worse, Neema.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She left me for another man. A much wealthier man.’

  ‘Wealthier than you?’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yup.’

  He’d had the shortest marriage anyone in Burraboo had known. One tender year. Cripes, goldfish live longer than a year. Tom’s humiliation was torn open for everyone in Burraboo to examine. He loved Burraboo. But he couldn’t forget the cruel remarks behind his back, the jokes at his expense after his wife had left him. He’d kept the folk of Burraboo at bay. Even now, almost two decades later there was an invisible border between him and the townsfolk. Everywhere he turned he saw the borders that separated him from others.