Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  ‘In Melbourne?’

  ‘He says he’s in some trouble with the law.’

  ‘The law? What kind of trouble?’

  She read over that paragraph again. ‘He doesn’t really say. He just asks you to come.’ She read the whole letter again. ‘Melbourne is a long way.’

  ‘It is.’

  Italo retreated to his thoughts but then prepared to leave on his nightly walk.

  She breathed in. ‘You didn’t write your letters to me, did you?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ He met her glance and then turned away. ‘I would say them to Dante, and he’d write.’

  She felt a wave of embarrassment. Dante knew every intimate hope, every desire, every grievance. Dante knew the moves of their courtship. He’d penned those two special letters in which Italo asked and she agreed. And then an even worse thought flicked into her mind.

  ‘How do you know he wrote what you said?’

  ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘How do you know he read what I wrote?’

  He raised his hand and dismissed her, opening the door and leaving. She stood still as the ramifications rained down on her. Signora Pina would have known Italo couldn’t read or write and would have known the letters were written by someone else. Was she still laughing at foolish Amelia? No wonder the farm’s accounts were in such a mess. Nothing had ever been done. But the worst, the most awful thought, was that Dante had tailored Italo’s words, sculpted whatever he’d said into writing. The beautiful lilt of his language, this thing that had exerted such an effect on her, wasn’t his at all.

  Had Dante won her heart? Or at the least cajoled her consent to this life? She’d fallen in love with someone else. Not Italo at all. And how would she ever be able to face Dante again, knowing now what she knew? This was unbearable. She felt brittle. And Maria knew. She was involved in the deception.

  Having fed the horses, Italo came back to the room.

  ‘I will go to Melbourne,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounds urgent. There’s not much work now. In the next week or so, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ Amelia said.

  ‘It would cost a lot for the two of us to go—’

  ‘I’ll be left on my own.’

  ‘Someone has to stay to look after the farm.’

  Her face flushed, not just with anger but with disappointment. She’d been planning Christmas. She’d made him a present. But she wouldn’t fight. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  ‘Angelo has only just arrived,’ Italo said. ‘You know what that’s like.’

  ‘It’s our first Christmas.’

  ‘If it’s as urgent as you say it is, I must go. He must be in trouble.’

  For days, she seethed. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t speak to him and kept her words to the most basic. At night when he touched her, she shrugged her shoulder from him, told him she was still bleeding though it had finished two days ago. At least he had the grace not to press himself to her. How could he choose to spend Christmas with someone else? For days she entertained the idea that she too would leave the farm and go to Clara in Brisbane. But he pointed out again they couldn’t both be away, as someone must tend the farm. She ground her teeth to stifle her anger.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  With Italo gone, despite his insistence on her needing to mind the farm, her days were her own. She still rose before dawn and made coffee. She waged her war, dusting the tables with an old shirt, sweeping the hall, the breezeway, the verandah and all the rooms. She had no need to go to Babinda for supplies, as without Italo there was little need of food. And her garden had started to produce, thinning the first baby carrots, as sweet as sugar, and the first lettuce, and she lifted some small potatoes from the rich earth. One of the borlotti beans grew, a coiling vine she trellised on an improvised system of poles. After all these weeks there was no sign of the other two. But one plant was all she needed. Already it had flowered. Next year she’d have more seed.

  She avoided Maria and Dante, unsure what she would say to them of her embarrassment, anger and sorrow. Ben came and went, noticed only by the jug of fresh milk left in the kitchen, the distant cows’ lowing and their cold pats along the trails, which she dug into the vegetable patch. But the lack of another soul gave an expanse of free time. She read and wrote letters, but they took so long to be answered that all semblance of conversation was lost. She worked on the farm’s accounts, devising her own system of simple debits and credits, well aware it wasn’t completely accurate. She needed help. But who was she to ask? In the Cairns Post she saw an advertisement for an accountant. She’d contact them in the new year.

  And wells of disappointment opened when she least expected them. How could Italo have left? Was it true he’d always do whatever he wanted without thinking how that affected her, or anyone else, for that matter? Except for the men he worked with: he would never fail them in whatever work had to be done. She couldn’t say Signora Pina hadn’t warned her. Clara and Maria were wrong. Answering this call to responsibility didn’t mark Italo as a responsible man if he didn’t answer hers.

  To keep these thoughts at bay, she made herself busy. At the back of the vegetable patch, higher on the hill, she planted a mandarin, an orange, a lemon and a papaya, hoping they would like the humidity.

  When Italo had been gone three full days, when she looked out across the fields, she thought the seasons had little effect on the vista. Unlike at home, where in a year leaves came and went, the rainforest retained the same blend of greens. Only the canes were gone, the green and tan and white waving heads replaced by the rich red earth. Did these English words she’d acquired do any better job of describing it? She looked closely at the verge of the field and the rainforest. How do you describe such a border? In many ways, the verge was unnatural, as just a few years ago the thick forest heaved (the word seemed apt) over the plain. Italo had cleared the ‘unusable’ land. No doubt his success was yet another source of envy and suspicion from the British Australians.

  Something moved. She looked closer. Someone walked out of the forest. It was a man wearing khaki shorts, a billowing white shirt and curious slouch hat, the brim raised on one side. She walked to the verandah rail. Fergus. He’d seen her, she was sure, but he walked uninterrupted, almost marching, his step showing no ripple of the excitement she felt. She remained at the rail, her heart and interest piqued. Thank God he was all right. No harm had come to him. He marched on, straight across the furrows of the fallow fields.

  He was on the rise now, the small hill past the stables, on the path to her steps. A cigarette burned in his hand. She remained fixed, stolid, but then a smile bloomed across her face. He stopped at the base of the steps. His slouch hat cast a shadow across his face, but his dark eyes were dulled.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. She tried to make her voice indifferent, but she didn’t know how to in English, and it tumbled out as it wanted.

  He nodded.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said.

  ‘Clearing forests. Up north.’

  He’d cleared forests, blown out the huge stumps from the earth, but for someone else. Yet neither Fergus nor his family had worked this hard to clear Italo’s land before they sold it to him. The first farmers had had the choice to use the more easily cleared land. They were savvy, leaving the more difficult terrain to the gullible newcomers. She could almost imagine their snickering.

  He’d lost weight, but the loss didn’t disquiet him, his cheek and jaw carved sharper. She waited for him to speak, but that wasn’t in his nature. Then a fear he might leave gripped her.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  He drew his breath and paused. ‘Yes.’

  She nodded and turned back into the house. The still-warm water took little to reboil. She placed cups on a tray with the teapot, some sugar and a small jug of milk. She returned with the tray, the cups rattling in their saucers. He sat at the table, said nothing
as she approached and made no move to look at her as she served the tea.

  ‘Italo is away,’ she said.

  Why would she say such a thing? Her mind rattled. Her hold of English loosened. She thought in Italian.

  ‘I know,’ he said, momentarily meeting her eye.

  ‘Is that why you returned?’

  He shook his head. ‘You speak English now.’

  ‘Is better, but still with problem.’ She poured the tea.

  He sat in silence, defiantly looking at the view. ‘You took my photograph.’

  ‘Oh …’ She put down the tea and looked at him. ‘I am sorrow.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She stood, turned back to the house, carried the dictionary to him, ran through the pages until she found the photograph.

  ‘I knew you’d taken it,’ he said.

  ‘You left it.’

  He reached for the photograph. It remained held between them. Though he’d come to retrieve it, he displayed no anger she’d taken it. And she held on, not wanting to give away that thin slice of happiness. But it belonged to him. After some long moments – in which his eyes, cast to the side, wouldn’t meet hers – she let it go. He pulled back his hand, placed the photograph in his breast pocket. She flinched at his uncaring, his disdain for something so precious.

  ‘You must not tell anyone,’ she said.

  His face remained impassive, and she feared she’d not said what she’d set out to.

  ‘What do you think I am?’

  Her heart raced. She took this phrase back into Italian: Cosa pensi che io sia? He reached out his hand and covered hers. A glove of warmth. Their hands remained so until his warmth bit like a naked flame. She pulled back.

  ‘I don’t want,’ she said.

  A question came to his face.

  ‘I do not feel for you that.’ She looked at her lap. ‘I sorry what happened. But no again.’

  Slowly, he removed his hand from the table. The silence hugged them. There seemed no answer to the humidity that clung to her, pasted her clothes to her skin, took all her energy. He too was heated, a layer of sweat shining his face.

  ‘Let me take you somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to show you a place.’

  The thought of turning him away left her unnerved. In that moment, more than anything, she wanted some time with him.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  Fergus rose from the table and walked from the verandah. A few paces from the house he turned back, nothing gleeful on his face, and waved to her to follow. She stood, skipped the stairs and followed him all the way to the stable.

  With great ease he chose a horse and saddled it, leading it outside. He mounted, swinging his right leg over the horse’s back with grace. He lowered his hand. She hesitated, but he took her arm and pulled her from the ground as if she were a doll. She sat behind him. She placed her hands on the back of the saddle, but he took her forearm and placed it around his waist. She pulled away, but he jiggled the reins and the horse jolted, and she grabbed at his waist with both hands, the practicality of the gesture absolving the indecency, but not his warmth. He raised his buttocks from the saddle, took the horse to a canter, a practised rider.

  They started towards the west, towards the early afternoon sun. The breeze felt fine on her face. But the warmth, sticky as it was, between her chest and his back felt finer. Mingled with the scent of the horse, she found Fergus’s and inhaled deeply. Once they’d cleared the edge of the field they took a small path, cut between two sections of the rainforest, continuing for a good half-hour with no need to speak.

  When they finally stopped, she could hear the rush of water. In one forward kick of his leg over the horse’s neck, he dismounted. He reached to her, grabbed her waist and lifted her to the ground. He’d not let go, their faces within centimetres of one another, and she twisted to free herself. He took the horse and, without a word, walked off down a path. And she followed. Once clear of the forest, the water ran over large, smooth grey stones, pooling in places, small pockets worn in the rock, in which water eddied and twirled and spilled. In other places it opened to shallow beds, surging through small apertures from one higher pool to a lower.

  He tethered the horse near some calm water. They sat separate and, with no words, watched the river pass, always changing and the same. The river had met its match, the stone, whatever type it was, resistant to its wearing action.

  He untied his shoes, removed his socks, placed them to the side and shuffled forward to let his feet drop to the water. And after some silent while, he stood on the rock, and in one motion pulled off his shirt, folded it and placed it on the rock. And he turned his back to her and removed his shorts, folded them and placed them on his shirt. She couldn’t help but look at his pearl buttocks and ridged back, the outer reaches of his four limbs stained that odd red-brown. He walked, stepped into a pool and then leant forward, his thighs doubling in size, pushing off into the water. His momentum carried him forward until he rolled onto his back.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  She’d not take off her clothes. There might be people. And she couldn’t swim, and in places the water rushed deep. But he moved to a small pool to the side, a weak spot in the rock, a hollow, ground round and smooth. It wasn’t deep – nothing more than a bath. But she wouldn’t take off her clothes, not here outside, not in front of him.

  The humidity coalesced, the first drops of rain on her head, the large drops warm. She was parched. She closed her eyes and leant back. These were old thoughts, old rules, old Italy. Why couldn’t she be free? Why couldn’t she take off her clothes? The water offered relief.

  She stood, pulled her dress over her head, the underclothes falling in an uneven pile. Naked, she walked to the shallow, round pool, the air sliding over her skin, slipping between her legs, the rock warm to her soles. The rain tingled her skin, blood-hot drops thrown from the sky, not at all like the sleeting rains of home. He stood, reached out his hand. She regarded it. There was consequence in this palm. She took it. They stepped into the shallow pool, the cool water running over her feet, around her ankles and calves. He crouched, looked at her and invited her to sink.

  Any fear she’d felt was gone. Nothing could harm her with his secure hand. She lowered into the water. It nipped her buttocks. She pushed her feet out in front. The cold stung her nipples. He sat back in the water, which buffeted, whirled and swelled and fell. She laid back, the rain dancing on her face, and closed her eyes. How could she feel so unbridled? How could she express this liberation, from clothes, from anxiety, from memory, from distress, from anything? She raised her head, looked at him, his head resting on the side of the pool, his eyes closed, facing the rain. The water took him, wound round him. In the churning, he was erect. He felt as she did. She reached out a hand to his.

  ‘I’m glad you stole the photograph,’ he said.

  The closing day settled on the small hut. She lay with her back to him. They were the first words spoken all evening. How could he be pleased she’d stolen something? Especially as he’d come to retrieve it.

  ‘Why?’

  He exhaled onto her nape, the air far warmer than it should be.

  ‘It showed you care.’

  How could he be so cruel? What could she say? Such a simple thing brought the past and the present and the future – the trouble – to the room. She wanted to remain suspended on that edge between great pleasure and tedium, that small instance that, if treated well, danced in the air like a soap bubble. He ran his coarse hand over her belly. She wouldn’t have taken the photograph if she’d not wanted a memory. But what did he want?

  She removed herself from the narrow bed. She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see that lightness returned to his eye. What was the cost to place that there? She began to dress.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said.

  ‘I have work.’ Although she had none.

  ‘Let it wait
.’

  She’d not be dictated to. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She glanced at him. ‘What if someone sees you?’

  The ramification rocked between them. Was it guilt? Judgement? If the wealthy could absolve themselves of guilt, as Mancuso had done with Emma, why couldn’t she? She’d tried so hard to free herself from this iniquity, wash it out, but now, when it was tested, it remained, a three-day-old fish on a platter.

  ‘Stay a while,’ he said, getting out of the bed, standing naked in front of her.

  So, this was how it was to be: he knew his power and would use it as a weapon. Everything – thought, breath, tissue – wanted only to touch his pearl skin again, wanted the honest scent of his neck. But she turned her back, the strength required depleting her.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ he said.

  ‘I am all right.’

  ‘Just to the edge of the forest. No-one will see.’

  She could stand this no longer, and so picked up her boots and left the hut. In the clearing, she sat on a log by the ring of fire. The tethered horse glared at her. She dusted the leaves and dirt from one bare foot and put on her sock and then her boot. She heard him move about the hut. By the time she had her second boot on, he hurried from the hut, dressed, as always, in khaki shorts and boots. When he saw her, still seated on the log, he stopped in the doorway, slouched his weight over to one hip. He said nothing, his chin down, his eyes tucked under his brow. A chastised boy. He rammed on his slouch hat, the brim turned up to the left side and pinned with a badge.

  ‘Why do you wear it like that?’ she said, motioning to the hat.

  He looked at her. ‘A rifle.’ He made as if he held a rifle across his chest, the imagined barrel rising to the side of his head, and she could see why the hat’s brim was out of the way. But she resented the hat, that it covered the light in his hair, and he was no longer a combat solider, no longer held a rifle, no longer fought in war, and yet this pin and the habit remained.

  She stood. She must go. Too much had happened. He fell in behind her, taking her walk’s step and rhythm. Why he thought he had to accompany her, she didn’t understand. Italo could leave her alone – why couldn’t he? What could she say? She’d shown how much she wanted him, and to say otherwise would be to voice an obvious lie, yet she’d voiced it. The irony was she’d known him as long as Italo but felt something far stronger towards him.