Fava Beans For Breakfast

by Suzanne Salem

  ‘Can’t keep your woman, can’t keep your head together,’ Big Jack had said to Tom, with scornful lips.

  The cuckold may have left the fool behind, but Tom’s innards remained scorched. If only he could forget. Let them all slink into that dark well of memory. Bottomless. Let them tumble.

  ‘Veronica and my brothers … they can go to the hell,’ she said.

  He remembered Neema’s living room, how those double-lion guardians faced away from each other, their backs touching. He thought of the border with his brother, the local folk, there were borders all around him. The borders between darkness and light, remembering and forgetting, today and tomorrow, they followed him, hunted him. He was trapped in the spaces between things. So was Neema.

  He reached for Neema’s little hand. Wrapped his hand around hers, almost swallowing her cold, stiff fingers whole. The heat from his hand splintered into hers. She squeezed his fingers then released from his grip. They both turned their heads to the right to watch the last pale embers of the day shiver into the hillside.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nayeema inhaled the houseboat’s new scents. A sweet infusion of fresh paint, cut pine, garlic, cheese, butter, sesame seeds, yeast, and something vaguely leathery. Tom’s transformation of Big Bertha from tired old lady to the queen of Bishops Bay proved he was a big man of business, no matter what Goldie said. Nayeema had learned that when it came to Tom, Goldie’s loathing had become habit, just like the belly dancer that had died but her waist kept moving.

  It had been Tom’s idea to convert the interior of the houseboat so that customers could eat inside. To create the space he had instructed a crew of men to pull out the bed-bunks, the built-in seats, and the two small tables. Now, there were six wooden tables, three on each side of the houseboat, running perpendicular from the wall like three fingers from each hand. A narrow aisle separated them. There was seating capacity for twenty-four people inside the houseboat. Each table could accommodate up to four people. Stools around the tables were bolted down. On the deck outside, there were three small round tables and some fold-up chairs. All the outdoor furniture had to be carried back inside at the end of each day. Even though seating was more cramped on the deck than inside the houseboat, it was the first choice for their customers.

  The crowning glory of the remodelled houseboat was the kitchen. No longer just an L-shaped afterthought, the kitchen now took up almost a third of the interior space. True to his word, Tom had replaced the old appliances with new. The oven was a marvel. Nothing had been forgotten in the houseboat kitchen. There was a fridge and a griller and a toaster. There was space for making tea and coffee, for displaying Goldie’s cakes, for plating up the meals. On a wall near the kitchen there was a blackboard displaying the menu of the day. Nayeema could have burst with gratitude.

  She was becoming a good student. Tom was happy with her disciplined spending, her cashflow management. She learned that one worry soon replaced another. This was the nature of running a successful business, according to Tom. It was perfectly normal to worry because that meant staying on the first foot. Tom liked this expression a great deal and often stressed to her its importance. She gathered it meant anticipating the risks before they happened, being prepared. Tom had taught her all sorts of things about business. She was starting to feel confident about bookkeeping and ledgers and credits and debits. She was learning a new vocabulary of words that crept in without too much effort. Words like revenue and profit-margin and dodging the tax man bastard. She had lots of stresses now that filled her abdomen and her chest. Tom’s attentiveness to the floating cafe surprised her. In comparison to his property development project at Serpentine Heights, the floating kiosk was a single feather from a large turkey. She alluded to this once, and Tom had answered that when it came to business, ‘you need to beat the yield out of all capital invested, no matter how small’.

  The transformation of Big Bertha had supercharged Nayeema and she was suffused with pride every morning when she walked down the long pier towards the houseboat. She had managed to surprise herself with just how much this new partnership with Tom had revolutionised the way she thought about every decision for the kiosk. She was a coowner of something that had been created out of nothing.

  One day, she would tell Fawzy about her loan arrangement with Tom. Not yet. Hadn’t Fawzy lied to her about living in Burraboo for two years? ‘A stepping stone, my little duck,’ he’d said. She’d found her own stepping stone—a very useful one that was teaching her how to run a business and could take her all the way to Sydney and a piercing palace. Fawzy’s words trembled in her chest. ‘In this country, you make your own luck … with hard work and commonsense. Anything is possible.’

  It was hard to keep her joy contained, hidden away from Fawzy, when surely it showed in every movement, word and idea she expressed. How she ached to tell him about her partnership with Tom; every minute was a struggle to keep the words from pouring out of her lips.

  She looked over to Goldie, who was preparing to write the day’s menu on the blackboard, her tight shorts wrapped around her bottom like pantyhose around an apricot. It was still early; they had at least another hour before the first of the lunch customers arrived. Two trays of velvety moussaka, layered with spicy minced beef and topped with a thick béchamel, were cooking in the oven.

  ‘So we have two hot meals today?’ asked Goldie as she prepared to write the day’s menu on the blackboard.

  ‘Yes, the moussaka and the stuffed peppers.’

  ‘Ooh, I love those stuffed peppers of yours. You’ll have to put one aside for me. We can’t have the staff going hungry,’ she said laughing as she twisted at the waist to look at Nayeema. ‘Can we, honey?’ and in a flash her mutable face had given way to deep contemplation.

  The houseboat bobbed with more force than usual. White peaks skimmed the top of the water. Nayeema usually enjoyed this part of the morning but the slightly erratic rock of the houseboat was making her feel queasy. She stood still in the kitchen for a moment, pressing her body weight down into the floor, against the bucking movement of the waves. ‘Maybe people will stay away today. Weather is too crazy for coming to the bay,’ she said.

  Goldie wiped some remaining chalk dust off her fingers and onto the back of her trousers, leaving white finger marks on her bottom. ‘Nah, I reckon we should be okay. It’ll blow over soon. We’ll be as busy as always.’

  ‘What you think about these crazy winds? You like?’ asked Nayeema.

  ‘I love the wind. Makes me feel a bit wild, you know, excited … primal, you could say. I think everyone, to some extent, must feel primal when the elements are in your face like this.’

  Nayeema knew primates were apes or chimps or something like that, so she guessed that primal was something related. Why Goldie felt like a chimp during these crazy winds made no sense to her.

  ‘When I was little,’ said Goldie, ‘I used to love being outside just before a big storm. I’d run up and down the street, all of us kids did, and we’d holler and the wind would kind of just drown us out, so it was an excuse to let rip and just scream and scream. Then we’d all come back inside, the boys and me, and our hair would be all over the place … especially mine, with it being so long … and my mum would scream at me for getting it all so tangled. She hated that because it took her ages to get all the knots out. She always wanted my hair short, like a boy’s. Once, she chased me through the house with a pair of sewing scissors in her hands, screaming that if she got her hands on me, she’d cut it all off.’

  For Nayeema, the occurrence of wild winds created a whirr of feeling that instantly returned her to Alexandria, to her child self. She lightly patted down the final spoonfuls of stuffing mixture into the last capsicum. She carefully placed it among the other peppers at the bottom of a deep pan, laid a slice of tomato over the tops of each pepper, added water to the pan, and placed the pan on a hotplate to cook over a low heat.

  ‘All done. Now we wait,’ said Nayeema, pleased to
have the cooking out of the way. She looked through the window and down the pier, followed its line until she was looking at the inlet.

  Goldie was watching her. ‘You really love that inlet, don’t you, honey? This bay has really got under your skin. It’s kinda weird how you should feel this kind of pull.’

  ‘Why weird? It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Hmm … guess so. There are so many chill places for you to experience, why get especially attached to this one? There’s no point getting especially attached to anything, you catch me?’

  ‘Sometimes, you have no say in the attachment … it just happens.’

  ‘You always get to choose just how much of a thing or a place you want. Like your earring parlour … you’ve chosen that to be your thing. You’ve grown an attachment to the idea that this parlour is your path to happiness. You get what I’m saying? You chose it … it didn’t choose you.’

  ‘Not true.’ Nayeema smiled as she thought of little Dalia’s screams as her ear was pierced. ‘The ear chose me.’

  ‘Well, that’s not how I see things. Your way of thinking is a bit too, you know, fatalistic for me. Makes me wonder about your earring place ever getting up … in fact, I reckon I’m closer to opening an earring parlour in the city than you are.’ Goldie’s voice was all tea and honey.

  ‘Why? Are you leaving?’ said Nayeema, her chest rising into her mouth.

  ‘Chill, honey. I’m just making a point. You’ve got to get out there and take what you need in life, because no one hands you anything.’

  Nayeema contemplated the choppy waves. Wasn’t that exactly what Tom had done? He’d handed her this coownership of the kiosk, in this serene bay, without her wanting it or asking for it, as easy as though it were a plate of roasted potatoes, seasoned with a lie and a scattering of deceit to Fawzy.

  * * *

  ‘Youse doing real well with your kiosk, pet.’ Wendy’s voice had the quality of a shipwrecked sailor: blunted and resigned to the practicalities of everyday living but fused with a shrill optimism that had not been tempered by her entry into middle age.

  ‘Yes. You know, we give it a proper name and whatnot, yesterday. We get rid of kiosk name. Now we call it a cafe. The Fossil View Cafe.’

  ‘Gawd, that’s a bit cheeky. Can you see any of the excavation site?’

  ‘No.’ Nayeema laughed. ‘Tom decides that this is a good name.’

  ‘Well, you’re putting in bigger orders every week that passes. Doesn’t matter what you call the joint. People love it. I’ve heard only good things about your cafe … I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I had my doubts about all this type of food, ethnic food, they call it. I guess people like adventure.’

  ‘People like garlic … what a surprise.’ Nayeema winked.

  ‘Kev’s told me Goldie Pritchett makes a fine pastry. She must be giving his bakery a run for his money. Reckon he’s getting nervous that no one will want to buy his neenish tarts anymore.’

  ‘Plenty of customers for everyone.’

  ‘You might be right about that.’

  ‘His neenish tarts are delicious. I think you should come visit at the houseboat, have lunch, have some cake and whatnot. My shouting.’

  ‘Your shout, pet? That’s sweet. Ta. I’ll take you up on that … I’m curious to see what you do with all those different dried beans that you order. Tell me, what do you use them pine nuts for?’

  ‘Oh! I use them for the kofta, meatballs, for savoury pastry fillings, for garnish, even for cakes.’

  ‘Geez. Whoever thought the pine nut was such a hardworking nut, ay? I can appreciate a hardworking nut.’ She gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘Thank you … for finding new suppliers and letting me order through you. Is very good that Stan brings in all this new food. You save me a trip into Jean dee. I appreciate you, so much, but … just one small thing … I don’t like the olives your supplier gives. Can you ask him to try again? Please? In Sydney, there are many places you can find the Greek olive.’

  ‘No problem, pet. I’ll give it another go.’

  ‘Will Stan be angry?’

  ‘I do all the ordering. Stan doesn’t even know I’m doing these extra little orders for you. As long as the ship isn’t sinking, then Stan’s good. What he doesn’t know, ay? Anyways, Stan is doing very nicely these days.’

  ‘Tell me, why does he not put these new foods on the shelves?’

  ‘I guess he’s not one for adventures.’

  Nayeema wasn’t surprised. She had spoken with Stan only a few times. He was always loading or unloading boxes, having a cigarette outside, or working in his office at the back of the supermarket. He was entirely unremarkable except for the way that he regarded Wendy—with warmth and tenderness and gentle eyes. He laughed and joked with Wendy as though her voice was a tinkle of wind chimes and not a foghorn. Nayeema wished she could know what Wendy knew of being enveloped in an embrace that was unabashed and perfect.

  She remembered one of her neighbours in the apartment block in Alexandria where she had grown up. Her name was Hayfa and she was the most unkempt woman in the neighbourhood. Her hair was always neglected, kohl ran down her cheeks, and her crushed clothes were stained in a rainbow of paint. She spent her days drawing and painting and smoking cigarettes. ‘Bohemian,’ Soraya would assert with a disdainful whisper when they caught her looking hazy and distracted. Despite her unconventional and controversial ways, it was widely known within the apartment block that Hayfa’s husband was utterly besotted with her. ‘Whatever the crazy wife cooks, her blind husband eats,’ Soraya used to tell Nayeema. Stan would probably indulge Wendy on almost anything.

  ‘If I’m completely honest with you, Stan did get pissed off about something.’

  ‘Fawzy’s new merchandising?’

  ‘Yeah, pet. All of that new stuff that Fred’s got in the pharmacy … Stan was ticked off that he hadn’t thought of doing it first. He’s a clever fella, your man. He’ll go far. Stan’s okay about it, now. Says he’s got his hands busy keeping the shelves full for all those scientists and media folk. Speaking of hands full, I was wondering …’ She pulled out a cigarette and popped it behind her ear. ‘If you ever need a hand in that cafe of yours, like … say if Goldie Pritchett were to leave all of a sudden, then you let me know.’

  ‘Goldie isn’t leaving. Why would she leave?’

  ‘No reason in particular … it’s just that, she’s a bit of a drifter. She’s young, has no kids, no fella, she’s free to do as she pleases. In my experience, drifters don’t stay long in one place.’

  ‘She is looking after her sick uncle. Helping him until he is better.’

  ‘He has a nurse for that! Which is strange, that he still has a nurse. Franky Pritchett hasn’t looked this well in a long time. Saw him the other day. The man is fighting fit. I don’t think he needs any looking after. Not by nurse or niece. If Goldie is staying put, that’s not the reason.’ Wendy leaned forward as though to say something else. She changed her mind and straightened up.

  ‘You hear something bad about my friend?’

  ‘No, pet. Just letting you know I’d be happy to help out, if you ever need it. I know a thing or two about bookkeeping, too. I do all that jazz for Stan. He gets lazy with all of that, my fella. Still, ya gotta love him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nayeema cautiously, unsure if she was also required to love Stan.

  ‘So, when will Fred be buying the pharmacy from Pat?’

  ‘Maybe in a few months, he thinks.’

  ‘Real lovely what he’s done with the joint already. It’s been a breath of fresh air. The pharmacy was looking as tired as a pair of old trousers.’

  ‘Tell me, Wendy, I want to know … what does Bev think about Fawzy being the new owner, soon?’

  ‘Bev? Oh, she’ll come around. I guess she’s always reckoned the pharmacy was her birthright.’

  ‘Pat will get good money from selling it to Fawzy.’

  ‘Exactly. She shouldn’t be worrying about her inheritance.�
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  ‘Fawzy has agreed to keep Bev for at least six months after he buys.’

  ‘Oh. She’s kept that to herself.’

  ‘You think she will make problems for Fawzy?’ asked Nayeema, with contained excitement as she considered the possibility that Bev might be an unwitting ally in opposing Fawzy’s purchase of the pharmacy. She had been resigned to Fawzy buying the pharmacy. She had hoped that after she paid off her loan to Tom, after she saved enough money, after she established her piercing parlour in the city, she would flit between Sydney and Burraboo. It was a flawed logic, but it was comforting. The truth was that Fawzy would never agree to her spending half her time in Sydney as long as his roots were entrenched in Burraboo. It would be so much easier for her dream to bloom if he were unencumbered by his own dreams. That was a possibility. Fawzy would fall out of love with Burraboo if he missed out on buying the pharmacy. Yes, that was entirely likely. He would abandon his idea of being the king of the regional pharmacy and agree to return to Sydney. No, that was probably fanciful. She thought of Goldie’s chastising words. Go and get what you need.

  ‘Youse two will be here forever,’ said Wendy, in a mimicry of Nayeema’s thoughts. ‘Don’t worry yourself about Bev. She doesn’t like it when things get shaken up. Some people are like that.’ Wendy shrugged and pulled the cigarette from behind her ear.

  ‘Thing is … youse gotta roll with the times or else get left behind.’ She lit her cigarette and took a long, appreciative drag. ‘Besides, she has no choice. Pat’s ready to retire.’

  Nayeema liked Pat Morris. He wore stylish neckties over crumpled shirts. He had a wheezy laugh. He moved and spoke like he had never experienced a day of anxiety in his life. Nayeema was beginning to think that he was vulnerable to suggestion from his daughter. Fawzy was underestimating Bev.

  According to Fawzy, Bev was lazier than the engine of their ’61 Datsun on a cold morning; the very smell of her was indecent. She whistled a lot and acted as though she wasn’t paying any attention to him, but he knew that she was watching him the way a pauper watches his last penny. ‘Ya butta, I treat her just like I would treat a government bureaucrat in Egypt … with caution and courtesy. I do not concern myself with the trivialities of Beverley’s conversations. This is the simple rule I follow for working with Beverley.’ For Fawzy, rules provided structure, and structure delivered a path through the woodiest of forests. He had survived a childhood of hardships with rules and structure.