Third story in the K City Sagas
My first sensation on returning is the scent of wild oregano. The main street of the town town is much as I remember: the landlord’s dog still snoozes with one eye open outside the Criterion Hotel Bar, in Millman’s Haberdashery window the glass eyes of the mannikins glitter menacingly beneath the brims of their Akubras, and the aroma of hamburgers and milkshakes beckons from beneath the model Acropolis crowning the Olympus Milk Bar. At this time of day, the café is empty, but I recall Saturday afternoons when couples from the Majestic Cinema mingled with the post-match crowd from the rugby game, and every booth and bar stool was taken. Behind the counter, Mr Contos, naturally known as “Zorba the Greek”, fried eggs, flipped rissoles and assembled the famous Olympian hamburgers. Mrs Contos, as blonde and bouffant as Melina Mercouri, played the cash register like a virtuoso pianist, while Tina Contos whizzed the milkshakes and balanced trays of towering ice-cream sundaes with the poise of a circus performer. Tina and I had been classmates all through high school, but I doubt she even knew my name. I was seventeen, a boarder in a boy’s hostel, inarticulate in the presence of girls; Tina was radiant, aloof, popular, and Greek — which meant she never attended school dances or birthday parties, and she certainly wasn’t allowed to date Australian boys.
Six years later, I hesitate on the footpath, an awkward teenager again, daring myself to cross the threshold.
*
One Saturday in my final year of school, I loaded my rucksack with a few textbooks and whatever food I could beg or steal from the hostel kitchen and cycled off to my hideout in the hills, aiming to spend a quiet day studying for the final exams. My destination was a cave three miles out of town along the road to Cactus Land, a stony plateau where struggling soldier-settler farms supplied eggs, milk and vegetables to K City. I rode as far as the bridge over Yowie Creek, then dismounted and picked my way through granite boulders to a cascade of rapids that flowed through a gully with sheer cliffs on either side. The cave mouth was concealed behind a wild oregano bush whose purple flowers and perfume were a Siren’s call to bees. Local folklore had it that the cave was the home of the mythical Yowie. A century ago, a rum-crazed gold prospector swore he had been chased by a hairy humanoid creature with shining eyes and flashing claws, that leaped from rock to rock like a mountain goat and emitted blood-curdling howls. Most locals avoided the cave, but for me, the legend had the pulling power of a magnet.
I shone my torch into the dark reaches of the cave to check for unwelcome guests. I cut armfuls of bracken on the ridge above the cave to make a couch and covered it with my Eagle Scout ground sheet and a foraged horse blanket. An armful of bleached wood from the flood debris along the creek would keep a fire going all day.
I had just opened my textbook, when I became aware of distant voices and spied two cyclists approaching the bridge from the direction of Cactus Land. They were riding too fast for the steep gravel road. The female was in the lead and when her front wheel hit the wooden decking she lost control. Her bike flew from under her, bounced over the guard rail and splashed into the creek. She landed hard and lay motionless in a jumble of arms and legs.
The male rider slid to a stop in a spray of gravel and shouted: “You stupid bitch!”
I recognised him: Stafford Slipper, ‘Mister Machismo’, captain of the school’s First XV rugby team and hostel prefect. I ran down to the creek, climbed onto the bridge and knelt beside the girl. Her forehead was bruised, and her knees and left arm were grazed and bleeding. I recognised her too: she was Tina Contos.
Stafford remained standing in his saddle. “What a fucking stupid way to ride!” he shouted. Then he noticed me. “Hey, you’re Robot from the hostel.”
“She’s out cold,” I told him.
“What the fuck are you doing way out here?”
I ignored him and felt for a pulse on Tina’s wrist. “I think she’s dead.”
“Oh Christ! Damn! Fuck! The stupid psycho. If she’s killed her stupid self, I’m in the shit. Her dad’ll murder me—he’s got a gun; he showed it to me once.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Mind your own business!”
Tina’s eyelids were fluttering. “She’s not dead.” I said, “But she’s probably got concussion.”
“Oh, fuck damn bloody Christ. I’m gone.”
Then I noticed the eggs — dozens of them, mostly smashed on the road in a circle around Tina, as though someone had been using her for target practice. “What are all these eggs?” I asked Stafford.
But Stafford’s mind was on self-preservation. “I’m outta here,” he mumbled and swung his bike around to leave.
“You can’t leave her here. It’s going to rain.” I pointed out the lumpy black clouds pushing over the mountain. “There’s a cave just up the creek. Do you think you can carry her up there?”
Stafford may not have had much common sense, but he had muscles. He picked Tina up and followed me along the creek bank and up to the cave. I plumped up the bracken under the blanket and he lay her down on the improvised couch.
“Oh shit, she’s bled all over my shirt,” he said. “It’ll be evidence” He stripped his shirt off and pointed at the fire. “We’ll burn it. My footy jumper’s back at the bike.”
Then he noticed the rest of the cave: the bracken couch, the billy, the books. A sly expression came over his face. “Hey Robot, this is quite a set-up you’ve made for yourself. Do you bring girls up here?” I could tell he was thinking once this inconvenience was out of the way it would make a nice little love nest.
“Shut up! You have to get her father.”
“I told you he’s got a gun. He’ll shoot me.”
“Get her brother Alex then, he’ll know what to say.”
“Why don’t you get him?”
“You’re faster on the bike, and I’ve got a first aid certificate.” I dipped the tail of his shirt in the billy and began dabbing at the grazes on Tina’s leg. “The quicker you go, the sooner we’ll get help.”
“Right. Good on you Robot. I always knew you were one of the smart ones.” He ran his eyes up Tina’s bare leg on the blanket and tipped me a wink, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I watched him run back along the creek, onto the bridge and pedal away without looking back. The first rumbles of thunder echoed along the gully.
“Has he gone?” said Tina’s voice behind me. She was sitting up, her hand gingerly prodding the lump on her forehead. “I hope Baba shoots him.”
“Are you OK?”
“I’m going to have a black eye and I’m bleeding all over your blanket.”
“Let me finish cleaning those grazes…”
“I’ll do it myself thank you very much.” She snatched the shirt from me. “It’s bad enough Stafford Slipper putting his hands in my pants when he carried me, without his little helper trying to cop a feel as well.”
I used my pocketknife to cut Stafford’s shirt into rough bandages. I passed her the billycan of tea. She grimaced in pain as she dabbed at her scratched elbows and wrists.
“Don’t you have any Dettol?” she asked.
I dug around in my rucksack and found a nearly empty tube of calamine lotion.
“This might help.”
She spread it on and eventually the grazes stopped oozing blood.
She tried to stand, then collapsed back. “I’m feeling woozy.” She looked around, “Where are we?”
I opened my textbook and held it up, “Can you read this?”
She looked at me suspiciously, “Why?”
“Memory loss and blurred vision are symptoms of concussion. You should lie down and sleep while we wait.”
“OK, but don’t think I trust you.” She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes. “And I’m cold.”
I pulled the horse blanket over her and went to build up the fire. As I stepped out of the cave to check whether anyone was coming, I was assaulted by a squall of stinging raindrops. Flashes of lightning lit up the gully and the creek sounded louder. The scent of oregano made me dizzy. Back inside he cave, the sight of Tina peacefully asleep took my breath away.
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new…
The flash of lighting was so bright I thought my eyeballs were burning. It threw my shadow on the wall — a distorted figure looming over her like a vampire. Tina screamed, then she pulled me to her and buried her face in my chest, all the while moaning hysterically and shivering with fear.
To have the woman of your dreams sobbing in your arms was every adolescent boy’s wildest fantasy. But now that it was actually happening, I had no idea what to do next. I knelt on the cave floor and held onto her until the thunder passed and Tina stopped shaking. Finally, she sat back and looked me up and down with a puzzled expression.
“What was that about painted tyres?”
“Shakespeare, Sonnet 53. We read it in class, remember? Tires means attire. Greek clothes.”
She looked at me as if I was an alien.
“I don’t know who you are. Or what I’m doing here.”
“You fell off your bike. You were knocked out. Stafford and I brought you up to this cave and he went to get your father. You fell asleep and the storm woke you up.”
“Why were you holding onto me?”
“You must have thought I was the Yowie. Like the prisoners in Plato’s Cave.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She peered at me, “Who are you?”
“Everyone calls me Robot.”
“Why?”
“I got knocked on the head in a rugby game, ran the wrong way and scored a try for the other team. Stafford said I ran like a robot.”
“How come you know me?”
“We’re in the same class. You’re Tina Contos.”
“That’s not my real name.”
“What’s your real name?’
“Athena.”
“Daughter of Zeus. Goddess of Wisdom.”
“My father’s name is Lambros. How do you know so much about Greek things?”
I showed her my textbook, The Oxford History of Ancient Greece. She looked at me hard to check I wasn’t making fun of her.
“I have to get home. I’m supposed to be at work.”
“The creek’s flooded. The bridge is underwater. Your dad won’t be able to get here until the water’s gone down.”
I expected Tina to be angry or blame me, but she just shrugged. “I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”
I emptied my rucksack onto the blanket: 4 slices of white bread, 2 burned sausages, half a tube of sweetened condensed milk, a crumpled packet of margarine, a lump of Kraft cheese. I took the eggs from my coat pocket: they were all cracked but not broken.
“There were eggs all over the road,” I explained.
Tina held up two eggs and inspected them. They seemed to revive her memory. “On Saturday mornings Alex and I ride to Cactus Land and buy eggs from the farmers. Papa’s going to kill me.”
“Before or after he shoots Stafford?”
“Stafford thinks he’s God’s gift to women. He keeps nagging me to go to the pictures with him. He recommended Alex for the Reserves today, and I should have guessed what he was up to when he offered to come with me and help buy the eggs. Then he started groping my tits while we were collecting them. I was trying to get away from him when I hit that bridge.” She passed the eggs back to me. “How will we cook them?”
“I don’t know, I’m not much of a cook.”
“Let’s check out your kitchen.” She rummaged through my collection of tin plates and mugs and bowls and stolen cutlery. “I’ll be the cook; you get the fire going.”
Tina cracked the eggs into a bowl, mixed in a glob of condensed milk and chopped-up sausages. Then she greased one of the enamel plates with margarine, set it over the fire like a frying pan and poured in the mixture. She crumbled the cheese on the top before expertly flipping the omelette over and topping it with oregano leaves. Her face took on a blissful expression—as though the joy of cooking had erased the pain of her bruises. Meanwhile, I toasted the bread over the coals on a piece of fencing wire.
“Welcome to Plato’s Cave Café,” I said.
We divided Tina’s omelette between us and ate it with slices of toast, washed down with weak, lukewarm tea. It was, without a shadow, of a lie, the best meal I have ever eaten.
“You can have the couch,” I said, “I’ll keep watch in case your father turns up.”
But when I shone my torch into the gloom outside the cave, I saw the water was lapping the rock shelf.
“Robot, come here!” Tina had taken off her skirt and spread it and the remains of Stafford’s shirt on top of the threadbare blanket. “I’m cold. Is there anything else you can pile on me?”
I took off my coat and immediately felt the chill in the cave.
“How about your pants?”
When I looked startled, she said, “I’d never invite your friend Mister Mochismós, but I believe I can trust you.” She held up the blanket. “Come on. We can keep each-other warm.”
I lay down beside her on the bracken and she arranged my arm beneath her head and snuggled in beside me. “Tell me the story about those guys in Plato’s cave,” she whispered.
Despite being embarrassed, confused and incoherent, I did my best to explain Plato’s Theory of Forms. “He believed that the physical world is not as real as the ideas we construct about it. For example, imagine we are prisoners chained up in a cave and all we can see of the world is the shadows of passers-by outside.” I held up my hand to make a shadow of a dog on the cave wall. “We’d think the world is full of dogs.”
“Or Yowies. I get it!” Tina laughed. Then she sat up and fumbled around inside her shirt, finally extracting her brassiere through the neck and dropping it beside the couch. “I can’t sleep with a bra on, it’s strangling me” She lay down again. “Keep me warm.”
I pulled the blanket up to our necks. She took my arm and put it around her waist.
“I trust you, Robot. Just promise not to grope.”
I felt her relax and her breathing became shallow and regular. Her hair gave off the aroma of oregano. As I lay there, with my arms around the most desirable goddess in the universe, I had an epiphany: in the world of women, trust beats machismo. The shadows on the cave’s ceiling cast by the fire were playing out the movie of my life.
I was woken by a shout: “They’re in here!”
I squinted in the sunlight. A figure in overalls and a hard hat was silhouetted against the cave entrance. “Are you all right son?” he asked.
A second silhouette loomed into view, holding something shiny in front of his face, and I was blinded by a series of flashes.
“We tried to get to you last night, but the road’s washed away,” said Hard Hat. “The newspaper lent us their chopper and we landed at the top of the cliff. Get your things together and we’ll fly you out of here.”
The next day, the front pages of every newspaper in the state carried the photo of Tina sitting up looking startled, pulling the horse blanket around her chest, and me in my underpants holding her brassiere. The Olympus Café closed for a month with a sign on the door “Gone to Greece.” When it reopened, Tina was nowhere to be seen.
#
I peer through the plate glass into the cool darkness of the milk bar debating whether I dare to enter, when Mr Contos rushes out the door and shakes my hand. Mrs Contos follows and hugs me warmly.
“Mister Robert! Athena ask about you, but nobody know your address,” she says.
“I was worried your husband might shoot me,” I reply, half joking.
Mr Contos laughs, “She tell us everything. You save her life. What an adventure!” He takes my arm and guides me inside, “I write the newspapers to explain they have the story wrong. That reporter is lifetime banish from Olympus.”
They produce an album and show me photos of Tina and her life in Greece: her wedding, her first baby, second baby, third baby; finally, a group photo of Tina and her film-star-handsome Greek husband and three small daughters. They are standing in front of a dazzlingly white stone building with a sign above the door in Greek and English: Ταβέρνα του Πλάτωνα— Plato’s Tavern.
There is an envelope addressed to me. It contains only a recipe.
Plato’s Omelette
Whisk four perfect free-range eggs in your best ceramic bowl. Mix in a tablespoon of fresh cream and a handful of shredded Prosciutto di Parma. Heat a tablespoon of organic unsalted butter in an omelette pan over an open fire until foaming. Pour in the egg mixture, top with crumbled Greek Feta cheese and ρίγανη (oregano). Serve with slices of sourdough bread, and Greek Mountain tea.
Make this recipe with love and you will treasure it forever.
Ian Hart, 2024