by Anita Heiss
'He's obsessed, you know. All he talks about is his music and CDs and new bands.'
'That's it?' I asked seriously. 'Nothing else?'
'Oh, and the Saints. Loves the footy of course, but he is a bloke.'
'He sounds really lovely.'
'Yeah, he is, I've learned to live with him being in the studio till all hours and having no money. We'll probably never own our own house. But we love each other.' At that moment, Rick looked over and motioned to Sylvia to see if she wanted a drink. 'I'm right,' she mouthed back.
'I don't know if loves me more than his music, but I know I can tell him anything and he'll always be there. And he reads my poetry.'
'Well, that must be love!'
'Yeah, that's what he says.' And then the band walked on stage and people started moving from the bar towards the front. Sylvia went off to talk to Rick and I found myself a spot up the back near a massive wall fan. It was already hot and I hadn't even started dancing.
A few songs in I found the drummer standing next to me. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a beer.
'Hi, I'm Peta,' I said over the music.
'Hi, Timmy.' He offered nothing more.
'You a local?' I asked.
'Nah, Bundjalung, a Jones from Iluka, up Grafton way.'
'Me too. Bundjalung, that is. I'm a Tully from Coolangatta. The Joneses are a big mob, I hear.'
'Yeah, pretty big.'
'So what brings you down south?'
'I'm just here gigging for a week, doing some studio work, then back home.'
'So, you're a drummer?' And he looked at me as if to say, How did you know that?
'Oh, sorry, just . . . a guess.' Could he tell I was lying? 'What do you play?'
'Yeah, I play the tubs. What about you?' I didn't want to kill the conversation by saying I was a top-ranking departmental bureaucrat with aspirations of being Minister for Cultural Affairs. Would a drummer even understand what that was?
So I massaged the truth a little. 'I work for the public service, in cultural affairs, so I know a little about music, but learning more every day. So, do you sing also?'
'No way! When I do, I sing like a bee.' He laughed and took a swig of beer.
I wasn't sure if he was kidding or not. Trying to be funny, I said, 'Oh, kind of like Muhammad Ali?'
'No, sis. I'm pretty sure those song words are "floats like a butterfy and stings like a bee".' Shit, he was right, and bigger shit, I looked like a complete knob.
'Of course, clearly I know nothing about song lyrics or boxing.'
'But Ali is Black, so I can see how you might confuse us.' And he flexed his muscles.
I laughed; he was funny. Then a younger girl asked him for a cigarette and they headed outside. I was a little jealous – I wanted to talk to the muscly bee-singer some more. Then I suddenly thought about James and felt guilty. I went into the dimly lit ladies' toilets and sent him a message.
Just 2 say hi, hope ur well. Miss ya, Px
♥
We left Revolver as the groovy younger crowd started to file in, long legs and all. As we stumbled down the stairs and out the door onto Chapel Street, I saw Mike across the road and immediately caught my breath. I'd bumped into him too many times now and it was just getting weird. It was too much of a coincidence – especially when I didn't believe in coincidence. I didn't know if I should avoid him or go and say hello. He was with another cop and I was with Josie and Sylvia. But it wasn't my decision anyway, as Mike saw me and sung out straight away. People in the street stopped to look and Josie had a sly look on her face.
He waved to get my attention and jogged across the road. 'Hi. Do your parents know you're out this late?' he said in his usual cheesy way, then kissed me on the cheek, which made me feel uncomfortable and tingly at the same time.
'Hi,' I said awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do next.
'Hi Sylvia,' he said, with the correct pronunciation, and he kissed her on the cheek as well, which made me feel less special. 'Josie, nice to see you again. Good night, was it?' he asked the three of us.
'Excellent,' Sylvia answered.
'Deadly,' Josie added.
'Yeah, really good, but it's late so we should probably get a move on, eh girls? Been a long day – long week actually. So, guess we'll be seeing you round then.'
'Yes, hope so – you make the beat look much better, all of you.' The other girls laughed, while I rolled my eyes, wondering why he was flirting with them as well.
♥
When I woke in the morning and turned my phone on there was a text message from Dannie:
Hi everyone – we're having bub #3. Due April. Very excited. Love D&G
I couldn't believe it, Dannie and George had finally conceived. I was happy for them, because having a family was their thing and they were good at it, but I was really hurt and disappointed that she'd sent me a group text and didn't call. By my calculations she'd been pregnant for three months, which meant it was twelve weeks she'd not said anything. Was I now so out of the loop? First Liza breaks up with Tony and I don't know, then Alice and the girls make decisions about the dresses without me and now Dannie sends me a text to say she's pregnant.
I called her straight away to say congratulations and to hear all about it, but I got her voicemail and assumed that she was on the phone taking calls from other people.
'Hi darl, it's Peta, I am soooo happy for you and George. Great news. I'll see you next week for the Melbourne Cup and we'll celebrate. Well, you'll be on mineral water, of course, but we'll make sure it's the best sparkling we can find.'
thirty-seven
My Melbourne Cup floweth over
I was excited about the Melbourne Cup. Alice and Dannie were coming down, but Liza had to work. The girls had sent me pics of what they were wearing and I was looking forward to seeing them and their men. James was also meant to be coming, but at the last minute he couldn't leave the office as there was a problem with a job for Lane Cove Council. I was slightly relieved, though I felt bad about it – I'd gotten so used to doing my own thing and flying solo, and with just three months left on my contract, I didn't want to start thinking about going back to Sydney and into the same confused rut I was in when I left.
I was looking forward to my first Melbourne Cup as well. I'd bought a new dress, shoes and a hat. I'd opted for the hat because I didn't know what was so fascinating about wearing a fascinator.
The night before the race I took everyone, including Sylvia, to the Hofbräuhaus, a kitschy German family restaurant in the city. I knew the boys would love the beers and the schnapps, and I thought the girls would like seeing the male staff in their lederhosen.
Alice burst out laughing as soon as she entered the restaurant. 'This is so . . .'
'What, can't find the right adjective, Alice? That's not a good sign, what with you being a teacher and all.'
'It's a bit like Mum and Dad's place, is what I was thinking.' She scanned the room. There were wooden plaques with greetings in German, and flower boxes in the windows in true German countryside fashion.
'I thought you'd like a bit of European heritage – closest thing I could get to Austrian, but they're nearly the same anyway, aren't they,' I said, proud of my efforts to please my best friend.
'Actually, Peta, they're two different countries, like Australia and New Zealand, or should I say like Wiradjuri and Bundjalung?'
'Okay, okay, I get the point. No need for the history lesson at dinner, Miss Aigner.'
We were soon seated in heavy wooden chairs. Blue tablecloths overlaid white linen and Lufthansa posters lined the wall. Oompah-pah music wafted through the restaurant as the band dressed in traditional garb entertained us with the occasional yodel. Behind the stage two Australian flags rested against the wall as a reminder that we weren't actually in Bavaria, while steins of beer were delivered to table after table.
When Sylvia arrived minutes after us, she puffed as she sat down.
'Hi, sorry, got caught up with
some rels in the street.' The Greeks were as bad as Blackfellas for community and family and having to stop and gossip.
'Everyone, this is Sylv-eye-a,' I announced.
'Like Sylvia,' George said, clearly not having been briefed by Dannie.
'Actually, it's Sylv-eye-a,' she said in automatic pilot mode.
The girls all smiled, friendly, but a bit wary of my new mate and how she'd fit in.
'So, is this your favourite place, Sylvia?' Alice asked, as if the choice of dinner venue might be her fault.
'Hell no, this is my idea of a nightmare meal – I'm a vegan.'
'I like you!' Alice exclaimed, and it seemed that Sylvia had immediately been let into our circle.
The waiter came to take our orders.
'So I guess you won't be having the giant Wiener schnitzel then, Sylvia?' Dannie asked.
'No, I'd prefer just the giant wiener.' The girls laughed and the men raised their eyes at each other as if to say, We've got a live one here.
'Look, if we're going to do this, we should do it properly.' Alice happily took control and looked at the menu, then the waiter.
'We'll have the Frankfurter, Bratwurst, Weisswurst, the goulash and some venison, please. And a side of Kartoffel. Enough for the whole table, except one. Actually, do make it for the whole table – Dannie, you're eating for two anyway.' I was impressed by her accent: she sounded just like her dad. Then we all looked at Sylvia, wondering what she would order.
'And you, Fräulein? What will you be having this evening?'
'Right, can you make me a platter of sides? I'd like the potato dumplings, sauerkraut, red cabbage, potatoes of the day – I don't care what they are – and the fresh vegetables. And I'll have the Spätzle without the pork gravy.' She didn't look up once from the menu and rattled the order off like a woman who knew her mind, and her stomach.
'But it won't be Spätzle then,' said the waiter. 'It'll just be fried noodles.'
'That's okay, can I have that please?'
'I'll ask the Koch,' the waiter said, unsure, and walked off.
'What's a Koch?' Sylvia asked Alice.
'That's a man who can cook,' she said matter-of-factly.
'What? As opposed to a man who can't cook?' Dannie said, nudging George, who wasn't known much for his culinary ability. 'I really should just call you Koch.' She pinched his cheeks like a little boy.
'Yeah, well it beats you calling me cock all the time.' The table erupted with laughter, drowning out Dannie's protestations. 'I never say that word! I never call you names – not to your face anyway.'
When the laughter subsided, Alice said, 'You know, Sylvia, you shouldn't really bastardise another culture's traditional food. Let me guess, you're going to Aussie-fy it and add tomato sauce.'
'Actually, I was thinking I might Greek-afy it and flame it with ouzo.' And she continued to endear herself to my Sydney friends. I was glad, because it showed them I was doing all right in Melbourne and had nice, supportive people around me.
After dinner everyone was full of meat (except Sylvia) and potatoes. It was time for schnapps.
'The tradition my dad taught me was that either everyone at the table has schnapps, or no-one does,' Alice said. 'Is there anyone who doesn't want one?' Silence fell on the table; no-one was going to miss out, except Dannie.
'I'll have the Mozart liqueur, cos it's dark chocolate like me,' Alice laughed.
'I'll have the Killer Schnapps, cos it's extra strong like me,' Gary added, the two of them cuddling close and laughing at their own lame jokes.
'I'll have the Stonsdorfer,' Sylvia said.
'Because it's herbal!' I couldn't help myself, but she laughed and so did the whole table.
The band got into full swing and the men started slapping their thighs. We all clapped.
'I love the Schuhplattler. My dad would never do it at home.' Alice was enthralled by the cultural activity up front.
'A schu-what-ler?' Dannie asked with a glow in her cheeks. She wasn't drinking but she said her hormones were going crazy.
'It looks like Bavarian aerobics to me,' Gary laughed, slapping his thigh, then Alice's. For some reason I thought briefly of Mike: he would've fitted in really well with the group, with funny one-liners and lots of laughs. I should have asked him along.
We stayed at the restaurant until stumps and the happy couples went to their hotel, where we agreed to meet in the morning for a pre-race bevie before heading to Flemington.
♥
Back at St Kilda, the house was empty. Shelley was at a pre-race ball with friends from her firm. One thing they knew how to do well was party. I didn't expect to see her home before sun-up, so I put a bottle of water next to her bed, knowing she'd need it, and crawled into my own. I was thinking about all the meat I'd consumed and wondered if it would appear on the scales in the morning. I laughed when I remembered George and Gary trying to yodel and do the Schuhplattler and I suddenly find myself skiing on the Katschberg mountain in Austria. I've never actually skied before and I'm terrified of breaking bones and my skinny Murri ankles are in really big boots and I'm glad that there's heaps of padding so people can't see how scrawny my legs really are.
Little skiers are going right through my open legs with no fear at all. And there's something called a black run, and I wonder if it's especially for Blacks, because most of the people here are white – actually, they're nearly all white, probably because it's such an expensive sport and Blackfellas can't afford it. And I look at the black run and it's whoa, really steep, and I'm chanting, I ain't goin up there, I ain't goin up there.
My ski instructor Gerhard is dictatorial like Hitler and he hates me. I don't know if it's an Aryan thing or because I can't ski or because I'm a woman or because he seems to hate everyone. He watches me fall over time and time again and refuses to help me get up, not once, and I'm crying with the frustration of it all. 'This is bullshit!' I say, but Gerhard just laughs at me.
Where's the schnapps and gluhwein and schnitzel and where are the sexy ski instructors I can be love fickle with? I can hear the oompah-pah music; I know there's a party somewhere and I'd be happy to have pork gravy Spätzle and to eat as many potatoes as they give me, just to get out of the skis and the cold. It's freezing, and I don't have thermal underwear, but really I should.
The desire to get my arse out of the snow gives me a burst of inspiration and I lean uphill and get myself to my feet. Gerhard says, 'See, it's not that hard after all. You need to not be so much the princess.' Fuck you, I want to say, but I don't know if he knows who I am and what department I work for in the waking world and I don't want to risk a complaint to the director, so I just smile a pathetic, I-can't-ski smile.
I find the party and enjoy the après-ski, but I'm partying in my ski gear, because it's the only outfit I have with me. Everyone else is in ski gear as well, though, and as the Austrians aren't renowned for their fashion anyway, I needn't worry that I've got little edelweiss flowers embroidered on my beanie and I'm in red and white rather than black, but I laugh out loud at what the Melburnians would say.
I'm still in my snow boots as I land in Vienna at the Prater fun fair, and I'm on the Riesenrad. The guy working the ride says, 'This is one of the world's biggest Ferris wheels, Fräulein. It has fifteen cabins,' and he lets me have a cabin all to myself for three spins until a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Viennese man gets in. He looks too much like Timmy the drummer, but with an accent.
