The Mimosa Tree (5 page)

‘So, Via tells me you've always wanted to be a teacher.'

‘That's interesting.'

‘She's always talking about you.'

‘I can believe that.'

‘From what she says, I think we have a lot in common.'

‘Oh yeah,' I say with a chuckle. ‘Like what?'

‘We both like music, for instance.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And we're both good at school.'

I nod. We go to the same university. We are both Italian. We were born in the same city. We are both eating lunch. We are both digesting our food. On and on it goes, but really, she's just missing the big picture the whole time. We couldn't be more different.

‘You don't make it easy, do you?' she says after a while.

‘I don't make what easy?'

‘Being your friend.'

I put down my Coke, wipe my face with the back of my hand because I've somehow lost my serviette. I don't usually waste time explaining myself, but this isn't really her fault. It's Via's. If she hadn't decided she couldn't be bothered driving me around anymore none of this would be happening.

‘Look Felicia, you're a nice person, but I really don't need a friend my aunt had to organise for me.'

‘Is that what you think this is?'

‘Come on, Felicia. I think you know I'm not stupid.'

‘Nobody asked me to be your friend, Mira.'

I laugh. ‘I'm sure she made you feel like it was all your idea.'

She crosses her arms and swivels her knees to the side. ‘I'm not that easily influenced. If you actually tried to get to know
me instead of just assuming what I'm like you'd find that out about me.'

Oh God. Don't start crying.

‘You really don't have to take this so personally.'

She laughs. ‘Are you kidding? You've been rude to me all day and all I've been is nice to you!'

‘I'm just being realistic. We aren't each other's kind of people.'

‘What does that mean? I hang out with all kinds of people.'

‘Yeah, and I am sure you'd rather be with them now so just go, okay? I'm all right, really I am. I absolve you! You don't have to sit here with me anymore. Really.'

Felicia's eyes open wide and for a moment she just stares at me. She should be angry or upset, but the expression on her face is more curious, like she's trying to figure me out. Good luck. I pick up my Coke, slurp at the remains as I wait for her to make the next move. I've said what I have to say. It's up to her now how long we drag this out. After a moment she leans forward onto the table and looks at me in earnest.

‘Look,' she says. ‘Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. Will you hear me out for a minute?'

I shrug.

‘Via talked to me about you, but not like you think. Most of the time she said, well ... she didn't say a lot of nice things, put it that way.'

‘Now that I believe.'

‘But everything she said about you, all the stuff she thought was really frustrating, or difficult, well, to me it kind of made sense. I guess what I'm saying is, I think I understand you.'

‘Oh God,' I say, rubbing my eyes and trying to take this all in.

‘Sorry, that probably sounds a bit weird,' she says with a laugh. ‘Via wanted me to think you were some terrible person, but I got a different picture of you.'

‘Oh yeah? And what's that?'

‘Just that you were someone who didn't really fit in.' She leans in conspiratorially. ‘You're someone who doesn't fit in because you don't want to fit in. I have lots of friends, Mira, and they are all really good at doing what they are told. But you are someone who wants to find your own way, not just follow and I respect that. Actually, I really like it.' She is looking me straight in the eye, and there isn't a single trace of the giddy girly that's been annoying me all day. Her gaze is sure and solid.

‘Wow,' I say, returning her stare easily. ‘Via really fucked up.'

‘Not completely. She was spot-on about you being sad and mean.'

I lean back in my seat. I should be offended but instead I am trying to keep the corners of my mouth from smirking. I'm starting to think this Princess may be gutsier than I first gave her credit for.

‘So what makes you so sure there's something about me worth knowing? Sounds like you're giving me a whole new set of expectations to live up to. I hate to disappoint you by turning out to be just normal and boring like everyone else.'

‘God, you really are full of yourself aren't you? I only just met you this morning remember? You're not that important to me.'

Far out! Where did this morning's do-gooder airhead go? I don't even mind that she is insulting me. Maybe I'm weird, but this kind of nasty banter puts me more at ease than her sycophantic sweet-girl act.

‘Can I ask you something?' I say leaning back in my chair and folding my arms.

‘Sure,' she says all blinky-eyed and lip-glossed.

‘What's your opinion of Ronald Reagan?'

‘Well,' she says leaning over and picking up her handbag. ‘I would say that Ronald Reagan is a good
actor.
'

‘Right,' I say as a smile creeps across my face. ‘Doesn't sound like you have a high opinion of him.'

She scoffs like I've said something obvious and her brow furrows. She's like an angry Barbie doll. ‘That fool is hell-bent on steering us towards a war. His insistence on keeping the Strategic Defense Initiative open killed the disarmament talks. It's a good thing for us that Gorbachev is still calling for a treaty or we would all be goners.'

‘You really think there's hope?'

‘Of course! There's always hope. Life would be unbearable otherwise, right?' She stands up suddenly. ‘You coming or what?' she says and without waiting for an answer she's already out of her chair and moving. I pick up my bag, tripping a chair in the process, then try and look casual when I am really hurrying to catch up with her. She waits for me at the door, holding it open for me.

‘I'm not, you know,' I say quietly.

‘Not what?'

‘Sad and mean.'

‘See? There's another thing we have in common.'

Her long fingers curl out to wave me out of the door. There's a crowd of people outside and the sound of their conversations is deafening but all I see are five shiny peach-coloured nails
glinting in the sun and all I hear is the tinkling sound of her bangles. As I follow where those fingers guide me, I start to realise that Princess Felicia may have just delivered my first real lesson of the day.

In preparation for ravioli making, Mum has removed some flyscreens from the windows, soaped and dried them, and laid them across the backs of two chairs to form a drying rack. The old tablecloth, faded and torn, has been spread across the table. The pasta machine has been floured and bolted tightly to the table's edge. It's early morning, the windows and sliding door are wide open. A soft breeze lifts the edges of the tablecloth and dries the beads of sweat already forming on our faces. Via is late, but Mum is not concerned. She starts on the pasta, humming a tune as she works, occasionally singing the lines she remembers then falling back into a soft hum. Into a small volcano of flour she cracks a dozen eggs, then with a twisting movement of her fingers she begins to combine them with the flour a little at a time.

‘You should pay attention.'

‘Flour, eggs. I got it. No big deal.'

‘It's not enough to watch. You have to get your hands in to really know how to do it. Try.' She waves me over with her
flour-encrusted fingers. A drop of yellow yolk slides onto the faded red tablecloth.

I sigh, get up and walk over to her side of the table. She takes some flour, uses it to wipe her fingers clean over the unformed pasta dough, then she plunges my hands into the mixture before I have time to think of an excuse. She places her hands over mine, squeezes them to show me the motion I should be using.

‘Then scrape in from here,' she says, moving my hand over to the flour that has escaped and pushing it back into the pile. ‘You see?'

I shake her hands away. ‘I get it.'

She puts her hands on her hips. ‘It took me years to learn this from my mother and I still cannot get the pasta as good as hers. What makes you think you can learn so quick?'

I roll my eyes.

‘Look,' she says, pushing in beside me and poking the dough with a finger. ‘You think you are so smart, but you don't see that it's getting dry, do you?' She cracks another egg over my hands, and the pasta begins to squelch and stick to my fingers. ‘You want us to break our teeth on it?'

‘I'm getting crap all over me,' I say, looking down at the flour line across my jeans where my thighs are rubbing against the table. Mum tries to fasten an apron around me, but I wiggle my hips away from her. After a while she gives up, throws the apron down on a nearby chair. I step back so that I have to lean over to reach the dough, and the excess flour falls soundlessly to the floor. Mum shakes her head like she can't believe I'm her daughter. I grin back at her as I work.

By the time Via arrives I have shaped the flour and eggs into a pliable mass that doesn't stick to my fingers anymore. I cover it with a damp cloth; go over to where Mum is standing at the door shouting her good mornings across the steaming concrete driveway. Via exits Bambi like a spongy ball that's been forced into a tight space. She leans on the car, shouts something into the open door, then stands back and waits a few seconds. When nothing happens she starts slamming her fist on the roof and cursing. On the fourth slam the Datsun expels its dallying occupants. It's Via's grandchildren, Marco and Sera.

‘Inside!' she shouts, and they run obediently up the stairs towards us.

Mum catches them both in a floury hug. They plaster her in sloppy, toothy kisses before running and catching me around my legs with such force I almost fall over. We enter the house as a tangled, tumbling mess.

Via sits at the table with a farty flop. ‘Bloody kids,' she moans wiping sweat from her forehead. ‘They never
stop.
Oh, make me a coffee, Mira.' She leans back in her chair, holds her head like it's going to fall apart, then without warning, she springs upright, eyes wide. ‘MARCO! WHERE ARE YOUR
SHOES?
'

‘In the car,' Marco shouts back from the lounge room where he and Sera have started an intense game of Operation.

‘Mira, go get his
shoes,
would you?' says Via, flopping back into her chair. ‘What is wrong with these children? Why can't they keep their shoes on their bloody
feet?
On and off, on and off. Do YOU THINK IT'S A BLOODY HAT?' she shouts over her shoulder. Marco and Sera play on, unperturbed. ‘Oh,
Sofia, some cake? I feel myself fading.' She pats her cheeks like she's checking she's still actually there, then her eyes flip open again and she starts screaming. ‘SERA PULL YOUR SKIRT DOWN, I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERPANTS! LEAVE IT MARCO SHE WILL DO IT HERSELF. I SAID
LEAVE
IT! DO I HAVE TO COME IN THERE?' This last effort drains all her reserves and Via is red with sweat and heat. She begins fanning herself with her skirt, revealing dimpled thighs that meet comfortably even though her knees are quite far apart.

‘You're so lucky,' says Mum looking longingly at Marco who is sandwiching Sera's head between two sofa pillows. ‘I can't wait to have grandchildren.'

‘Don't hold your breath, Sofia. You'll probably be dead by the time
Mira
gets a boyfriend.'

I curl my lip at her then go get her precious coffee. It's clear her mood is not going to improve until we get some caffeine into her. Via smiles gratefully as I place the steaming cup of espresso in front of her, and I leave the two of them to discuss ravioli technicalities and go join my cousins in the lounge room. When they see me they immediately want to start a new game of wars. I'm the good guy, Marco is the bad guy and Sera is the war nurse. There are dramatic battles punctuated by lengthy forehead wiping and temperature taking on the couch. The long, soft pile carpet allows for dramatic falls and tumbles. At one stage my arm gets blown off, and Sera tourniquets my empty sleeve with one of her hair ties before sending me back to battle again.

‘You are a brave soldier,' she explains as she wipes an imaginary tear from her cheek. She promises to marry my
lonely husband and look after my orphaned children if I die in the next battle.

‘Enough salt?' says Via, stepping onto the battlefield and plunging a coated finger into my mouth. Her apron has a yellow daisy print on the belly and the ends are tucked into her skirt waist because they aren't long enough to tie around her.

‘Sure,' I say automatically, like I always do, but then I notice something. ‘Not enough nutmeg.'

I think I am as shocked as Via.

She looks at me suspiciously, sucks on her other finger to taste the mixture herself. ‘You're right. It needs more nutmeg.' Then she grabs me by the shirt and drags me into the kitchen.

‘I want to play!' I say looking longingly at my cousins who have already evolved the storyline to accommodate my sudden departure.

‘You're too old for that,' she says tying an apron around my waist. ‘Time you learnt something useful.'

‘Mum?' I plead.

‘Via is right. You're old enough to help now.'

The table jiggles as Mum turns the handle of the pasta machine, flattening a fist-sized ball of pasta thinner and thinner until the sheet is as long as her arm.

‘Via, show her how to do the filling.'

Via nods and thrusts her hands back into the mixture for a final stir. Mum lays a long sheet of pasta across the table and Via begins to lay down walnut-sized dollops of mixture, carefully explaining the desired distance, texture and shape. She does one entire sheet before another is ready and hands over to me.

She licks her fingers as she watches me work. ‘Not bad,' she says.

‘Good girl,' says Mum, and she has her dreamy face on.

‘We learnt from our mother,' says Via. ‘Just like you are now.'

‘Dear God, what ravioli she made!' says Mum.

‘Yours are pretty good,' I say but they both dismiss this instantly.

‘Hers were the best,' says Via.

‘So this is the same recipe?'

‘Of course,' says Mum.

‘Exactly the same,' agrees Via.

‘You ever thought about making it different?'

Mum stops turning the handle of the pasta machine. ‘You don't like my ravioli?'

‘Of course I do. I'm just wondering if you can make other types.'

‘Types?'
says Via, beginning on another sheet. ‘Ravioli is ravioli. What are you talking about?'

‘But surely there are other fillings you could try?'

‘Oh sure, but this is the best.'

‘Delicious,' agrees Mum and tries to force more mixture into my mouth.

‘Don't you want to try something different? Just to see what it's like?'

‘I like spinach and ricotta,' says Mum.

‘But you could be missing something really good.'

‘These
are
really good,' says Via. ‘Now look, this is how we finish them.'

She dips her finger in a glass of water and wets the spaces
between the rows of filling. She picks up a fresh sheet of pasta, lays it carefully over the top, then she starts pressing it down firmly around the raised areas of filling so that they stick up like little pillows. ‘But don't leave any air in there!' she warns.

Next she runs a cutter along the pressed bits, and it separates the rows of ravioli from each other with neat serrated edges.

‘Great,' I say, actually happy to see the little pillows finally take shape before me. I go to take another sheet from Mum but Via slaps my hand away.

‘Oh no you don't, that's
my
job darling.
This
is your job,' she says handing me a plate. ‘As I finish a sheet you pick each one up, one at a time. Don't let them touch or they will stick and I will kill you, and you take them over there to dry.' She motions to the flyscreens on stands. ‘I want nice, neat rows, understand? We have to count them.'

‘Oh come on! I want to make little pillows.'

‘Listen to your aunty,' says Mum. ‘Making ravioli is not all fun and games you know. Now hurry up. I need more room.'

‘This sucks,' I say, but I'm picking up ravioli already and they have started on a new conversation. There is never any point arguing with them. By the time I have the first plate on the drying rack, Via has another three sheets waiting for me.

‘You're going too fast,' I say.

‘You're going too slow,' says Via.

‘This is going to take all day,' I moan. ‘How many do we have to make?'

‘Three hundred,' says Mum pinching my cheeks.

‘
Four
hundred,' says Via.

And they both laugh like it's the funniest thing they ever heard.

Thankfully it doesn't take all day. Within a few hours the flyscreen is covered in neat rows of fresh ravioli that will be left to dry for the afternoon before freezing them. I am washing my hands now, free to go watch TV with my cousins as Mum and Via finish up the cleaning. I take my Coke to the couch where Marco and Sera are putting the final touches on a cubbyhouse they have made with bedsheets. They peel open a doorway for me and I climb in happily with them. We take turns holding back the sheet so we can watch the cartoons together.

Then the phone rings.

‘MIRA!' shout Mum and Via even though they are standing right beside it.

‘Just answer it!' I shout back.

‘But I don't know who it is!' protests Mum.

I hand my Coke to Marco and stomp angrily to the phone.

‘Hello,' I say, when I answer it. ‘I don't know who you are, but now that I have picked up the phone and I can hear your voice, I will probably be able to identify you.' I look over at Mum and Via making sure they are getting my lesson on how a phone actually works.

‘Hello?' says an uncertain voice at the other end.

‘Who is it?' says Mum.

‘Tell them we don't want any,' says Via.

‘Hello?' I say trying again to place the faintly familiar voice.

‘Is that you, Mira?'

‘Yes. Who's this?' and then it clicks. ‘Siena?'

‘How are you Mira?' says my aunt Siena, but before I can say any more Mum has snatched the phone from me.

‘Hello?'
she says nervously. Via moves closer, dishcloth slung over her shoulder. I'm not sure if she's about to cry or get angry. Mum's emotions on the other hand are clear – she speaks softly, words catching on tears, both hands clutching the phone as though Siena will disappear if she lets it go. When she's done she puts the phone down.

‘I wanted to talk to her!' I say, disappointed. Aunt Siena is nothing like my aunt Via. Aunt Siena is nice, and I haven't spoken to her in ages. ‘Why did you hang up?'

Mum ignores me, walks to the table and sits down.

‘Don't tell me she remembered your birthday?' says Via, pulling off her apron and sitting down at the table with Mum.

Mum shakes her head. Via pulls a cigarette out from her pocket, looks at Mum with suspicion. This is obviously big news. Via steadies herself with a long drag. ‘Well, what then?'

‘She has left him, Via. Siena has left Robert.'

‘Is that all? I thought it was bad news.'

‘Your sister getting divorced is not bad news?'

‘She's better off without him, Sofia. He is a bastard.'

‘Via!' says Mum, indicating that she shouldn't be saying these things in front of me.

‘He is a bastard,' I say.

‘Mira!' says Mum, indicating that I shouldn't be swearing.

‘He took Aunt Siena away. He is a bastard and I'm glad she's finally left him.' I never liked Robert. Even in those early days,
when they had just met and he was all sickly nice and trying to impress us. He would make this big show about how great he was, but it always came off like he thought he was better than us.

‘Smartest thing she's ever done,' agrees Via.

But Mum does not look convinced. She cannot conceive of a grown woman being able to survive without a husband. From what I can tell, it doesn't matter much about the quality of that husband, just that they are a man and that they are around.

‘But what will she
do?
' she says.