Lunch with the Stationmaster

  DEDICATION

  To Carole

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  FIRST THURSDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SECOND THURSDAY

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THIRD THURSDAY

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FOURTH THURSDAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  FIFTH THURSDAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  OTHER BOOKS BY DEREK HANSEN

  COPYRIGHT

  FIRST THURSDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  The blind man walked confidently into the restaurant, automatically counting off his steps to the right-angle turn where the carpet runners intersected and led directly to his table. He had little fear of carelessly placed handbags or briefcases tangling with his feet and sending him flying. Over the six years of its existence, Gancio’s Giardino had steadily moved up-market, a tribute to his friend Gancio’s skills as a restaurateur and his own guiding hand. Gone were the young secretaries and office workers celebrating the birthday or departure of one of their number, forced by the upward creep of Gancio’s prices to look elsewhere. Once, the restaurant had been bustling by twelve-thirty as diners arrived early to secure fast-filling tables. Now it was the province of business men and women, upper management and deal-makers, people whose lives tracked appointments and reservations, and to whom one o’clock signalled the major break in their working day. As Gancio’s silent partner and backer, the blind man was pleased with the transition.

  The sound of a chair being pushed back confirmed that he was almost upon his table. Milos had stood to greet him. Almost immediately he heard someone begin to whistle the opening bars of ‘Advance Australia Fair’. Neil’s trademark. One of the two would claim the right to become storyteller for the next few weeks and he wondered who it would be. He also wondered, not for the first time that day, if he would again be targeted, set up for his unforgiven breach of convention by telling a story that trespassed onto his private life and, in doing so, added a dangerous new dimension.

  ‘Welcome, Ramon.’

  Lucio, the short, bald, unlikely Latin lover spoke first. So all three of his friends were present.

  ‘What is it about you?’ continued Lucio. ‘You arrive and Milos stands for you. Neil whistles the national anthem. I arrive and they just check to see that my fly is done up.’

  Ramon smiled. He reached out his hand and felt Milos take it and shake it warmly.

  ‘You are five minutes late,’ said Milos. ‘You are still upset with us over last week, no?’

  ‘No,’ said Ramon evenly. He shook hands with Lucio. ‘Upset demands at least ten minutes. I harbour no regrets. I thought I made that clear before leaving last week.’

  ‘I thought you left before us so you could go home and sulk.’

  Ramon smiled and reached his hand across to where he knew Neil would be sprawled. Neil was the youngest of them at a fit forty-five and, as though to counter Milos’s European courtesies, deliberately went out of his way to be rude and provoke.

  ‘How are you, Neil?’

  ‘Same old same old. Though I have bleached my hair and had a buzz cut. Shame you can’t see it.’

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ cut in Lucio. ‘There is nothing different about Neil. He has not yet resigned from the white shoe brigade and is too Pavlovian to ever change. Now, please, won’t you sit down so we can get on with things. I for one am anxious to know who our next storyteller will be. I would like to know the nature of the story, have some indication of where the story will lead us, know whether there will be beautiful women in it and whether or not they will be accommodating. I would like something to whet my appetite prior to lunch.’

  ‘First we must attend to business,’ said Ramon. He placed his cane against the table and lowered himself onto his chair in a smooth practised motion. ‘There is the matter of payment to address.’

  ‘We’re up to date, no?’ said Milos.

  ‘Next week our monthly fees fall due. I am proposing we increase them.’ Ramon settled back in his chair, the centre of attention, precisely where he most liked to be. ‘We have all of us come a long way over the past four years since we discovered our mutual love for storytelling, but one aspect has not. Four years ago we each paid thirty dollars for lunch and wine at our Thursday gatherings. Three years ago we increased our contribution to forty dollars. Forty dollars hardly pays for the wine and grappa let alone the food.’

  ‘What are you proposing?’ asked Milos.

  ‘Sixty dollars each,’ said Ramon. ‘I spoke about this to Gancio but he flatly refused. He reluctantly agreed, after much persuasion, to accept fifty.’

  ‘Done,’ said Milos. ‘My one regret is that we did not think to do this sooner.’

  ‘Lucio?’

  ‘I would pay one hundred. How can I refuse fifty?’

  ‘Neil?’

  ‘Maybe we can pay fifty and kick in an extra ten each as a tip.’

  Milos groaned. ‘Sometimes I find it hard to separate the act from the ignorance.’

  ‘What Milos means is, one does not tip friends,’ said Ramon gently. ‘If we were to offer Gancio a tip he would throw it back in our faces. There could be no greater insult and the insult, I fear, would be terminal. He would not have us back in his restaurant. He sees us as friends not customers, guests in his house not just his restaurant. Yes. His house. This restaurant is more his house than the apartment he lives in. It is also his life. If you see only a restaurateur and not a friend, then, Neil, you are blinder than I. Gancio accepts payment only at my insistence. He would gladly host these lunches for nothing.’

  ‘Just a suggestion,’ said Neil affably. ‘Now, whose pocket do I have to piss in to get a drink around here?’

  ‘Why do we put up with you?’ sighed Milos.

  ‘Because it’s my turn to tell a story,’ said Neil. ‘And you all agree my stories are the most entertaining.’

  ‘So you have elected to pick up the baton,’ said Ramon. ‘Good.’

  ‘No,’ said Milos. ‘The baton is not his to pick up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Neil. ‘It’s my turn. I always follow Lucio.’

  ‘And Lucio always follows me, no? When Lucio insisted on following Ramon, I had no choice but to defer, but I will not defer twice in succession.’ Milos looked around the table for support. ‘I refuse to be steamrollered twice. I claim the right to tell the next story.’

  ‘I follow Lucio,’ said Neil. ‘Always have done, always will. That’s how it is, Milos, so get over it.’

  ‘No!’ Milos slapped his hands on the table, an action so unexpected and out of character that it stunned his friends. ‘I claim the right to tell the next story. You have no choi
ce in the matter, Neil. Neither do I! None of us have. This story has already been too long awaiting the telling. It must be told now. Time is running out, it is running out …’ Milos eased back in his chair to regain his composure.

  The blind man heard the urgency in Milos’s voice, heard it falter, heard the slight quaver as the last few words fell from his lips. He sensed what his colleagues could clearly see. Incredibly, Milos had lost control, however briefly.

  Lucio finally broke the silence. ‘For God’s sake, Neil!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apologise!’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Tell me, Neil, will the world end for you if Milos tells his story instead?’ Ramon reached across the table feeling for Neil’s hand. Neil withdrew it so Ramon’s hand groped futilely. ‘Neil, I may not have eyes but I do have feelings. Bait me as much as you like, but remember this. It is no small thing to refuse to take the hand of a friend.’

  Neil relented, slapped Ramon’s hand as if giving him five. ‘You want me to defer to Milos, right?’

  ‘Is it such a big deal?’

  ‘Since you ask so nicely, I defer. But you’ll regret it.’ Neil shrugged dismissively and turned towards the kitchen. ‘Gancio! How about some service? This used to be a good place before you put the prices up.’

  Gancio burst from the kitchen with not one but two bottles of pinot grigio. ‘Sorry, sorry. One of my juniors decided to fillet his hand instead of the whiting I gave him. Please accept my apologies and this wine. It’s on the house.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Ramon. ‘What delights do you have for us today?’

  ‘Antipasti with melanzane, beautiful red capsicum, artichoke, semi-dried tomatoes and wild onions. Linguini with blue swimmer crab. Whiting fillets, lightly grilled with a delicate lemon-butter sauce and polenta. Served with Isabel sauvignon blanc. Good, eh?’ He looked around the table for approval.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ramon. Neil and Lucio also made appreciative noises but their reaction fell short of what Gancio was accustomed to.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ His face clouded with concern as he sensed the tension around the table.

  Milos attempted a smile. ‘A small cognac, if I may.’

  ‘A cognac? Now?’ Gancio was not the only one taken by surprise.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Gancio glanced around the table but there were no other takers.

  ‘It’s Milos’s turn to tell a story and he needs fortifying,’ said Neil by way of explanation. ‘You offer us seafood but I suspect we’re heading for another serve of European tragedy.’

  ‘One cognac coming up.’ Gancio turned away and headed for the bar.

  ‘Neil, perhaps you’d care to fill our glasses.’ Ramon gently pushed his glass in Neil’s direction. The glasses were filled and Gancio returned with the cognac. Each man waited for the other to speak.

  ‘Well,’ said Ramon eventually, ‘is Neil right? Are you going to take us back to Europe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Milos simply. ‘I am.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ spat Neil. ‘Can’t you reffos leave it alone? Why do you guys insist on bringing all your baggage with you? Why can’t you just grab what this country has to offer and make a fresh start? Why wallow in the past?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s not a matter of choice.’ Milos spoke so softly they had to strain to hear him. ‘We are all shaped by our past. It is as much a part of us as our physical being. It shapes the way we perceive things, the way we think and the way we act. We cannot just shake it off as you would have us do, Neil, any more than we can shrug off our own skin. As much as we may try to put it behind us, our past imprisons us. It shapes our present and also our futures. The past is not something easily discarded. Whether we have escaped Nazi Germany, Pol Pot or the Taliban, we can never escape what happened to us there. Never.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snorted Neil. ‘You guys cling to it. You love it. You carry your martyrdom with pride. You wear it like a badge. You all have your story which you think the rest of the world is hanging out to hear. Well, sorry, mate, I’ll give you the scoop. We’re not. What irritates me most is that you think that somehow what happened to you makes you special, superior in some way to Australians.’

  ‘Explain that,’ cut in Ramon.

  ‘Okay. Our troops went overseas to fight in two world wars and in Vietnam. But we’ve never had a war on our soil, apart from a few air raids on Darwin. For some reason, because we have never been conquered, occupied or oppressed, you guys feel we’re somehow lacking, that we’re lesser people. You scorn us for our lack of baggage, for our easy-going lifestyle, for not having suffered.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Milos. ‘That is why we envy you.’

  ‘Then copy us. Forget the past. Give it away!’

  ‘Ahh, if only it were that easy.’ Milos smiled but his smile lacked all warmth. ‘Do you imagine for an instant that survivors of the Holocaust can come to this country and forget everything that happened to them? Forget what they saw? Forget their fear? Just because the surf is up? Just because the sun is shining?’

  ‘C’mon, Milos,’ said Neil impatiently, ‘I’m not suggesting that it happens overnight, but the war ended in 1945. Fifty-six years ago. People have had plenty of time to get over it.’

  ‘Get over it,’ said Milos quietly.

  ‘Sure. A bit of counselling. A few sessions with a shrink.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Milos shook his head sadly. ‘Are you aware, Neil, that there is no cure for post-traumatic stress syndrome, no cure for memories of being dragged from your home and put into cattle trucks and herded off to gas chambers like livestock to an abattoir? There is no cure for witnessing loved ones shot dead before your very eyes. There is no cure for having lived every second of every day for weeks, months and years on end inescapably bound to your worst fears. There is only palliative care, counselling and drug therapy that dulls the brain, deadening not only the pain of the past but the pleasure of living as well. There can be no joy where all feeling is suppressed, no life and certainly no peace. Only death can bring peace.’

  ‘Very dramatic. Heart-rending, even. But I’m sorry, I just don’t buy your argument. Time heals, at least where there is a will to heal.’

  ‘You know, Neil, there was a time in my life when I could not even begin to conceive of a people as fortunate as Australians, of a country so blessed, so free and so utterly incredible and wonderful. I am Hungarian and will always be Hungarian, but I see myself as a Hungarian Australian with the accent very much on Australia. I love this country and embrace it with all my heart. But I did not come to this country with the unfettered innocence of a newborn child. I have a past and the past makes demands on me. Some wounds heal but others do not. That is the burden of the past, a past which is unalterable.’

  ‘So we wallow once more.’ Neil leaned back in his chair in resignation. ‘I warned you all that if I deferred to Milos you would regret it. I had planned a story with humour, unexpected twists, subtle clues and, for Lucio, a fair bit of healthy bonking. Instead you have Milos and the burden of history. God help us. It’s all your fault, Ramon.’

  ‘Why? Because I supported Milos?’

  ‘No. Because you changed the rules and brought yourself into your story. Because you drew on your past. You opened the door for Lucio to drag out his baggage and now Milos is dragging out his.’

  ‘I don’t recall you complaining when I told my story,’ cut in Lucio. ‘I gave you the chance to stick the boot into Ramon and you leapt at it.’

  ‘That’s not the point. Look — for four years we were perfectly happy to entertain and be entertained. No! More than happy. Ever since that first day our Thursday lunches have taken precedence over everything. We rescheduled appointments and meetings and even organised our travel so we missed as few Thursdays as possible. We found something precious, something we all wanted, in the entertainment and intellectual stimulation, the opportunity to use our brains for pleasur
e and not just for the advancement of some business deal. Sure, we have a few digs at each other, but duelling egos is part of the reason we come here. Jesus Christ! Wasn’t what we had good enough? I thought it was.’ Neil’s voice had become shrill and he paused to regain composure.

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked Ramon.

  ‘No,’ said Neil, moderating his voice. ‘We were friends yet strangers, satisfied to know nothing about each other or, more accurately, know only what each of us chose to reveal, which, from my point of view, was comfortingly little. Certainly nothing of a personal nature. But you, Ramon, you had to overstep the mark and change everything. Stuff you and your bloody ego.’

  ‘No,’ cut in Milos, ‘you can’t blame Ramon for my story. I said before that this story must be told now. That time is running out. Regardless of what Ramon did, I would still tell this story. I have no choice. It is not just an obligation but a repayment of a debt, as you will see.’

  ‘A debt?’

  ‘Yes, Ramon, a debt. You are owed, all of you, more than you can ever imagine.’

  ‘You owe us nothing,’ cut in Lucio.

  ‘Why do you assume the debt is mine?’

  Milos looked around the table. He had them. He could almost hear their brains springing into action, saw the quickening in their eyes. He smiled.

  ‘Besides, Neil, you make a serious mistake if you think my story is all doom and gloom. You say you are happy to be entertained and I assure you, you will be entertained. Had you proceeded instead of me, you promised us humour, wit, clever twists and subtle clues. I promise no less. Ramon delved into the Argentina of the Generals and we sat enthralled, sometimes appalled, but we lived every moment and hung on every word. Lucio took us back to wartime Italy and Germany. In putting his war criminal on trial, he also put us on trial. Both had us on the edge of our seats, taking sides against each other. Do you expect any less of me?’

  The story had begun, of that none of the listeners had the slightest doubt. Gancio stood by the table, antipasti in hand, not daring to interrupt.

  ‘My story is the true story of Heyman Milos.’

  ‘Milos Heyman, Heyman Milos.’ Neil sighed heavily. ‘If you’re going to tell your life story, but don’t wish us to know it, surely you could have chosen a less obvious pseudonym.’