Authors: Anita Heiss
'Okay, I didn't mean anything by it, Missy. Don't get all
defensive.'
'And as for dinner, I don't think you should tell me about
guys you're wining and dining with. I know you too well,
Peta. You've still got a bit of that naughty party girl inside
you.'
'What does that mean?'
'It's me you're talking to. I've known you for a decade
and for the most part you were a serial dater. I don't know
what's going on with you and James, but I've got him here
every other week, telling me how much he misses you, so
if you're cheating on him, I don't want to hear even a hint
about it. That's not something I'd feel comfortable with,
okay?'
'Back up a bit, Alice. No-one's cheating on anyone, so
stay comfortable.'
I kept telling myself that dinner with Thomas wasn't a date,
because it couldn't be. I loved James, and I was faithful or
celibate, whichever one was going to keep me from giving in
to any urges, but Thomas had suggested Jacques Reymond
in Prahran, which even I knew was a bit too flash for an arts-related
business meal. Shelley dropped me off, threatening
to push her face up against the window during the meal.
I wore a black dress and boots and I looked hot, although I
knew I shouldn't have gone to so much effort. As I walked
up the side of the building I adjusted my bra and was then
surprised to find the door open just as I got to it.
'How did you know I was here?' I asked the fresh-faced
waiter.
'Camera, ma'am.' I was mortified that they'd seen me
adjusting my bra through the security camera.
Thomas was waiting, looking at the menu and sipping
on what I imagined was a scotch. It was a nice, bright space
with orchids above the fireplaces. There were a few couples,
two small groups and one table of eight with AFL legend
Ron Barassi as the star.
I read the menu and there wasn't much that I fancied
at first glance: lamb sweetbreads and tongue, young pigeon
and saddle of venison.
'What do you feel like?' he asked.
I hesitated. 'What about the degust—'
Without letting me finish, he cut in. 'Degustation
menu . . . it's just a way of getting to sample a wider variety
of dishes. They're only small serves though.'
'Thank you, Thomas, but unlike installation art I did
know what it meant. Just hard to get the tongue around
sometimes.' I kept reading the menu, course after course,
but there was nothing that really screamed out at me, and
I had to stop and read twice the 'ten-hour suckling pig'.
It reminded me of the terrible meal I had with Mike. I
hadn't thought about him for a while.
'Who wants to eat a pig that's only ten hours old? That's
just not right, it's almost cannibalistic.' Thomas smiled at
me; the waiter standing by our table smirked too.
'What?' I wasn't prepared to be sitting there looking hot
but being mocked.
'The pig is actually about three weeks old, not ten hours
old. It's just slow cooked for ten hours,' Thomas said.
'Ten hours, three weeks – same thing really, and anyway,
that's not how it reads.' I was repulsed by the thought of
eating a piglet.
'I'll give you some more time to decide, shall I?' The
waiter walked off.
'You're sexy when you correct people, and you're
absolutely right, it does read that way.' Thomas was backpedalling.
'I don't care how it reads, I'm not having that disgusting
– I mean degustation – menu.'
'What about the vegetarian menu?'
'Hmmmm, yes, that looks tasty.'
'Do you want the matching wines?' I thought hard before
I responded. Seven courses, seven wines, seven deadly sins
and seven reasons why I could sleep with him – he's hot,
young, fit, generous, smart, loaded, and here staring at me.
'Why don't we just order a bottle to share and see how
we go? I don't feel like drinking much tonight.' I was lying,
of course. It was Friday and I wanted to unwind but I
needed to keep my wits about me and my knickers on.
He ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon to start and then
a Merlot to go with the first course, a French raclette – a
dish of vegetables smothered in a creamy, strong-smelling
Alpine cheese.
He smiled at me as he poured me more wine and lifted
his glass. 'To beauty,' he said, and I knew we were in
dangerous territory.
'So, raclette. I've never heard of it before,' I said. 'Which
part of France does it come from?'
'It actually originated in Switzerland, but the French
have truly mastered the art, don't you think?' Thomas said
knowingly, and put a boiled potato covered in melted cheese
in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed luxuriantly.
I was about to ask what 'raclette' actually meant when
he changed the subject completely.
'Someone should paint you for the Archibald – your
beautiful smile would bring any canvas alive.'
'I wasn't a fan of this year's winner, but I thought the
portrait of Cathy Freeman had soul,' I said, nervous.
He kept going, course after course. Was he just young
and brash, or was he seriously flirting with me? Either way,
he made me feel agitated – hot, bothered, weak and wet.
It was not the business conversation I should have been
having.
When dessert arrived, he picked up his spoon and smiled
at me. 'Have you ever posed nude?' he asked, as easily as
saying, 'How are you today?' and I nearly choked on my
food. The meal had to end.
'Actually, Thomas, I'm feeling a little unwell. I'm sorry,
but do you think we could head off?' He looked surprised,
but got the bill, insisted on paying, then drove me home. I
lied and said Shelley had her folks around for dinner so it
probably wasn't a good idea for him to come in. He simply
couldn't and shouldn't and I wouldn't let him, so we sat in
the car awkwardly, like teenagers. There was chemistry that
both of us were ignoring. Obviously it was normal to be
attracted to more than one person at a time. And chemistry
can't be controlled. All we can control is how we respond
to it. And that's where being faithful came in. You can
look at the menu but you just can't order off it, as my mum
would say.
'I better go, thanks for dinner. I'll have Sylvia send you a
funding guidelines booklet and some application forms for
exhibitions, in case you want to do something collaboratively
with one of the local artists.'
'I'll call you,' Thomas said through the car window as I
started to walk to the gate. I was pleased that he found me
desirable, but I didn't want him to call me – not socially
anyway. I couldn't be friends with him, given the chemistry
between us. I'd let Sylvia handle all his calls and requests.
Inside Shelley had crashed on the couch with a half-glass
of Pimm's on the table and an empty packet of chips on the
floor. There was a postcard from the Great Barrier Reef on
the coffee table from her folks. I shook her, turned the telly
off and told her to go to bed before I hit the sack as well.
I was dozing within minutes of my head hitting the pillow
and before I know it I'm in a cab, driving wildly around the
Arc de Triomphe in Paris. I'm screaming and the cab driver
is laughing but he seems to know how to manage the chaos
of the traffic. He takes me to the Eiffel Tower, and there's
a group of young musicians playing brass instruments and
singing and having lots of fun. There are security guards
everywhere but I avoid them because I've already tried that
in Italy and anyway I'm not really looking for men, even
though I know that monogamy is not a priority to the
French and celibacy is probably punishable by law in Paris-the-city-of-love.
I want to shop and I instruct my crazy driver to take me
back to the Champs-Élysées so I can buy beautiful French
things. And I do. I go into Louis Vuitton and Yves Saint
Laurent and Chanel, and buy a gorgeous bag in Hermès
but I know it will never come out of the satin bag it is in
because back in Melbourne I can't really carry off the style.
I keep walking and I'm looking at the gorgeous French
women who apparently never get fat but I don't know how
they do it because they eat all those buttery pastries – or
maybe it's because they chain-smoke and don't eat – but
they have tiny waists and fancy shoes that somehow manage
to support them even on the cobblestoned streets.
The men whistle like Aussie blokes on building sites, but
it's a refined, sexy, classy, we-know-how-to-please-women
whistle, not the 'you root?' kind of whistle you hear back
home.
I go to the new Musée du quai Branly to see the
Australian collection and there's a Koori there looking at his
own exhibition. Visual artists are so vain, I think to myself.
I go and say hello anyway, because it's my job. He hugs me
immediately, glad to see another Blackfella when he is so
far from home. But he holds me and won't let go.
'It's good to
see
me, yes, but touching me is another
thing,' I say because he has both hands firmly on my arse,
like we're together. 'You've got a wife? And kids?' I ask,
because I can't see his hands for a wedding ring.
'Yes, but old way I could have many wives.'
'Yes, and old way you'd be living under law, and not here
in Paris, so get your hands off my butt.'
He grins and morphs into the Mona Lisa and I'm
wondering what mystery is behind her smile? Was she
celibate? Or did she crave men like chocolate? Tourists
are flooding the Louvre and taking photos of the famous
painting which I think is sacrilege and I want to say
something but all of a sudden I'm in another room, exploring
the 'Americans in the Louvre' exhibition, and people are
speaking in twangy American English all around me. The
tourists all look the same till I see a brown person and I
think he's Koori so I follow him. He's cute, with long black
hair and beautiful dark skin. I haven't actually seen any other
astral travelling Kooris before today and I tell myself it's not
like an Aussie hanging out with another Aussie in Earl's
Court, because Blackfellas
have
to say hello to Blackfellas
they see in foreign places – it's protocol. Anyway, he might
be one of my mob so I need to see he's all right. But I get a
bit closer and I'm not totally sure he's Koori, even though
I'm perfectly positive he's drop-dead gorgeous. We'd make
beautiful children if I were at all maternal, but I know
that I could never go out with a man who had better hair
than me.
He smiles as we leave the glass pyramid building and
offers me a cigarette. I take one and suck on it hard because
it's been months since my last one in waking life. 'I'm giving
up next Toosday,' he says.
'Oh, you're American,' I say.
'No! I'm Mohawk, a Native from Canada,' he says
proudly. Of course, Canadians hated getting mistaken for
Americans and vice versa, just like back home Indigenous
people didn't want to be confused with non-Indigenous
people either. Everyone wants their rightful identity.
He tells me his name is Geronimo, and I start to tell
him all about life in Sydney and then remember I live in
Melbourne but just keep raving. He smiles. 'I have no idea
what you said, but gee it sounded good. What is your blood
quantum?' he asks. But before I have the chance to tell him
we don't measure Aboriginal blood as a percentage – either
you are or you're not – I can feel myself slipping away, and
I grab onto one of his plaits. 'I'm not ready to leave yet,' I
say out loud. 'That's okay,' he says, 'but can you let go of my
hair?' And he takes my hand off his plait and holds it in his
own as we walk.
I'm trying not to have preconceived notions of Indians,
or Natives, or First Nations People as they say in Canada,
but I can't help thinking about living in a tepee, wearing
beaded and fringed dresses and braids, or at least a ribbon
shirt, with long houses and sweat lodges, and arrows flying
through the air. I'm like those tourists who come to Australia
and expect to see lap-laps and didgeridoos.
We find a cafe in a street lined with tiny Fiats packed
bumper to bumper. I choose a piece of Céline Dion's
wedding cake from the menu and order a house wine,
L'Auberge Notre Vin Maison, because even in my dreams
I'm on a budget and can't afford the Moët.
I want to stay here with the gorgeous Geronimo. I want
to go back to Canada with him and wear a jingle dress and
eagle feathers and I want to eat moose meat and dance at
the powwow in summer, even though I know I'd need a
bloody good sports bra.
It was as I started to tell him this that I woke up in
Eildon Road with the rain pouring down outside in typical
Melbourne fashion. I tried hard to go back to sleep to get
back to Paris, or maybe Mohawk Territory, but then a wave
of nausea overcame me and I wanted to throw up and it
wasn't from the wedding cake I'd eaten in my sleep, or
the cigarette, but the realisation that I was hung-over on
three glasses of champagne, and that Thomas was in my
head and I couldn't get rid of him. No, I couldn't fall for
him; it wasn't possible, anyway, after one meal, one guided
tour and an exchange on installation art. Who could fall
in love talking about installation art? I hated installation
art! Anyway, I was already in love with James and falling
for someone in Melbourne was not my plan. It would only
substantiate Dannie's claims that I was 'love fickle'. And
Dannie can't be right ever. I must have been dreaming like
this because I missed James, that's all. So I texted him:
I miss u. Can u come down next w/end? Px
The following weekend James arrived and it was great to
see him. The breaks between visits made me value him
more. I missed his touch and his smile and his kisses.
And God, I missed the sex. So many women said it was
important to have it good in the bedroom. I'd never thought
that way; I'd always believed shared politics and laughter
would make it all okay in the bedroom anyway. But then
again, I'd had some dodgy lovers who had great values and
political views. I'd been lucky with James; he was a nice guy
with good values
and
a generous lover.
As he went to get us some coffees, I sat and watched
people getting on and off the #96 tram to and from the
city, and I wondered if they were tourists or locals. There
were a lot of young, funky types. The sun was hot, and
there were more palm trees shooting up among the tramline
wires overhead. I heard the Scenic Railway roller-coaster
rattling in the background and kids screaming. A guy
walked past holding a bottle of wine and I imagined he was
rendezvousing with his lover, perhaps going for a picnic.
Fish'n'chips on the pier maybe. As I started to think about
how nice it was to be a couple, James snuck up behind me
and gave me a big, noisy smooch on the neck: 'MWAH!'
I jumped. 'You scared me half to death,' I said, swatting
at him. 'Are you ready? Let's go. The markets are this way.'
We strolled the upper esplanade at St Kilda with the
masses of others out enjoying a mild Sunday afternoon.
There was a lot of scaffolding along the beach front and
next to the Palais Theatre. A sign said Suzi Quatro was
playing, and I thought of Alice. 'If You Can't Give Me
Love' was one of her favourite songs. Alice and I had very
different tastes in music – but then, so did James and I. We
never went to hear live music together back in Sydney, and
we listened to different radio stations. He was into ABC
Classic FM and I was on 93.7FM Koori Radio. Neither of
us liked rap music, though, so we had that in common.
We stopped at a stall selling bangles created out of
stainless steel cutlery.
'He's the original Fork Man. No piece of jewellery is the
same as another,' I said.
'Would you like one?' James asked me.
'Oh, I'd prefer to use my cutlery to eat, but thank you.'
I was trying to be funny, but James and the artist both
looked affronted.
The next stall had kitschy name bracelets for girls and
they reminded me of when I was a child and all the crap we
used to collect.
'We have one that says "Rachel" if you like,' the stallholder
excitedly offered me.
'Okay, but my name is Peta.'
'I'm sorry, you look exactly like Rachel Berger.'
'Yes, so I've been told.'
I ordered one for Sylvia as a joke and spelt it 'Sylv-eye-a'.
I knew she'd appreciate my humour if no-one else did. I
bought one for Maya too.
I could smell the next stall before we got there. Beautiful
natural scented soaps made with peppermint oil and other
yummy delights. I was too embarrassed to buy some in
the shape of cupcakes, though. It seemed too daggy to do
that. So I just kept walking, taking in the glasswork, the
Japanese calligraphy, magnets with inspirational messages
on them, the silver jewellery, and the wooden chopping
boards and, to my surprise, the stalls with eccentric cat and
dog collars.
Towards the end of the stretch of markets there was a
memorial in honour of Carlo Catani, 'a great public servant
of Victoria, 1876 to 1917'.
'Melbourne must be the only city to have monuments
to public servants,' I said, 'but I don't see any monuments
to Blackfellas along the boulevard.' I started visualising a
monument to Peta Tully, 'a great national public servant',
but James interrupted my thoughts, pointing towards the
monument.
'Carlo Catani was an engineer and landscape designer.
I read about him at uni. The Catani Gardens are around
here somewhere. It would be good to check them out.
Might help with some ideas for a project we've got at the
moment.'
'That's a great idea,' I said. 'But I'm a little buggered, do
you think we could go to the Espy and sit a minute first?'
James pushed his bottom lip out like a child. 'Isn't that
a grungy band pub? You know I'm not big on live, loud
music.'
'Of course I know, but there's no music – loud or
otherwise – on just yet. Let's just have one drink and then
we can go look at your Catani hero's work, okay?' I took his
hand and led him across the road and up the front stairs of
the pub.
'I'm going to the loo, I'll grab drinks on the way back.
You choose a table outside.' I made my way through the
dark, beer-encrusted hotel, through the poolroom and
entered the ladies on the left.
On the way back I stopped at the bar to get a glass of
chardonnay for me and a Corona for James. We sat outside
and looked out to sea. I liked the grungy feel of the Espy
and imagined all the old rockers of the past who'd played
here now sitting back at home with their guitars hung on
walls. I smiled as I looked across the table at James. It was
nice to be there with him.
'It's not the Icebergs, is it,' James said, looking around
the courtyard, then at me.
'No, it's more like the Coogee Bay,' I laughed.
'Yes, and you'd never be at the Coogee Bay at lunchtime
on a Sunday, would you babe.'
'No I wouldn't, but I'm in Melbourne, and my life is
different here.'
I decided to let the argument go. He'd be gone the next
day, and what had come to feel like a series of weekend
holiday romances would be over again.