Lunch with the Generals

  Dedication

  To Tom and Ethel

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Third Thursday

  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

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Sixth Thursday

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Excerpt from Lunch with Mussolini

  Excerpt from Lunch with the Stationmaster

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Derek Hansen

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Throughout the writing and editing of this book, I was continually surprised—and delighted—by the willingness of people to help me. I was never left wanting for reference material, photographs, expert advice or wise counsel.

  Foremost among my helpers were Bryce Courtenay whose advice and introductions were invaluable; Louise Adler who taught me not to fear editors; Dr David Tiller at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital; Brian Van Den Hurk and Maureen Santoso in Indonesia; Carol Lye, Nanette Morris, Alex Lyus and Alex Mills.

  Special thanks to Mark Lees and Rob Kelly for help with the cover. And last—but by no means least—my patient researcher, tireless motivator and wife, Carole.

  I owe them all.

  FIRST THURSDAY

  They met every Thursday at twelve-thirty, at the same restaurant and at the same table. Gancio always prepared them a special menu, which other diners would look upon with envy. Gancio came from the shores of Lake Como to open his restaurant in Leichhardt, the heart of Sydney’s Italian community. But it was a journey with many detours. He owed his restaurant to one of the four men seated at the window table—Ramon, the tall one, the Argentinian whose turn it was to tell a story. Ramon had rescued Gancio from an endless succession of dead-end jobs. He’d found him in the pasta bar of a workingman’s pub, where Gancio pumped out endless bolognaise, marinara and matriciana to an unappreciative clientele more interested in beer. Ramon had recognised his talent and an opportunity. Gancio’s Giardino had quickly won a loyal following and generated sufficient profit to satisfy them both. Yet their partnership was a secret, Ramon insisted upon that. But that is why Gancio marinated little fish specially for them, or stuffed calamari, or baked capsicum for their entrée.

  Ramon always arrived promptly. Gancio would watch for his taxi and escort him to the table. It was a courtesy not a necessity, even though Ramon was blind. He could find his way as surely as the sighted by following the carpet runner which, with one right turn, led directly to his waiting friends. He was always overdressed for the restaurant. He carried a silver-handled cane, and wore his Zegna suits with the easy comfort others wear T-shirts. His hair was elegantly streaked with grey, and he wore tinted glasses. Most women would say he was handsome and doubtless Ramon did all he could to encourage them.

  ‘Ah … the last of the Mohicans.’ Milos stood and formally shook Ramon’s hand as Gancio guided him to his seat. Milos always rose to greet each of them as they arrived. The eldest by some ten years, he had assumed the role of unofficial chairman. Perhaps that’s why he stood where the others were content to remain seated as they greeted each other. Or perhaps it was a demonstration of European courtesy. If so it was an affectation, for his feet had not touched European soil in more than forty years. Milos, having fought first the Germans and then the Russians, had decided his best interests lay in going as far from his native Hungary as a man could, and he had not felt the need to return.

  ‘Buon giorno, Ramon. Come sta?’

  ‘Va bene, thank you, Lucio.’

  Short, fat, irrepressible Lucio came from Varese, also near Lake Como in the north of Italy. Gancio often disowned him because of the stories he told. Lucio always sat in the window seat so he was forced to look away from the young women eating pasta at the outside tables. His appetite for both women and food was prodigious. He maintained it was because he’d been obliged to share the first five years of his life with a war.

  ‘First the Germans came and stole our women,’ he claimed. ‘Then the Americans. Friend or foe, both stole our food. I remember having to share a single strand of pasta with my elder brother. We’d each put an end in our mouth and when our mother gave the nod we’d both start sucking. We’d fight bitterly for each centimetre of pasta, but no matter how hard we fought we’d always end up kissing each other.’ He had dedicated the remainder of his life to compensating for this early deprivation.

  ‘G’day, Ramon.’

  ‘Ah, Neil … did you take your trousers to my tailors?’

  ‘Yup. They did a good job, but I made the mistake of letting them measure me for a suit.’

  ‘They make very good suits.’

  ‘They’d better. I told them I wanted to look like you, Ramon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But without the stain on the tie.’

  Ramon laughed. Neil was the only one who ever made jokes about his blindness. He seemed to enjoy niggling away at the flaws and idiosyncrasies in others. At the beginning, whenever Milos stood to greet anybody, Neil would whistle the national anthem. He kept doing it until Milos was no longer irritated by it. Neil was the only one among them who had been born in Australia. He was the youngest of them all, a fit forty-four year old. Neil was a property developer and had a property developer’s suntan, pragmatism and taste. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck like a badge of office, and his shirt was always open down to the third button so none could miss it. Neil never changed, whatever the state of the economy or his own personal finances. He rode the boom-bust cycle as if immune to its influence.

  ‘You remember how we met four years ago?’ Ramon began. Of course they did. How could they forget? But they knew better than to interrupt. Ramon was establishing his parameters, directing his listeners to a common viewpoint from which to begin his story.

  ‘You arrived separately, three optimists each seeking a table for one on a Thursday afternoon. Gancio took pity on you and sat you at my tabl
e. I have been grateful to him ever since, for we discovered our common interest. But over these four years, what have you learned about me? What have I learned about you? Nothing.

  ‘In this respect we are all typical Australian males. If one of you were dying of cancer, would you tell us? If one of you had decided to divorce your wife and run off with another woman half your age, would you tell us first? If you awoke one morning and discovered you were penniless, would you tell us? Neil, you know the answer to that better than any of us. You would rather slash your wrists than admit to being broke.’

  ‘No you’re wrong there. I’d probably throw myself under a Rolls-Royce. More my style.’

  ‘Roller or razor, the point is made. What have we told each other about ourselves over the last four years? Nothing! If we were women we would know everything about each other by now. But no. We are men. And Australian machismo keeps the lid shut tight on our private affairs.

  ‘Milos here has endeared us all to Hungary and shown us its people, its humour and its tragedies. Yet Milos has not once pulled the curtain wider on himself. My friend, what do we know about you? Like me you are retired and obviously not short of a dollar. I made my money in printing, you in rubbish.’

  ‘Waste disposal,’ interrupted Neil plaintively, with a near-perfect imitation of Milos’ voice.

  ‘You mean you have never sold landfill as prime real estate?’ Milos always bit. The source of his wealth was a sensitive issue and therefore irresistible to Neil.

  ‘Beyond that,’ Ramon continued blithely, ‘and the fact that you have a wife with whom you share our stories, what do we know about you? You reveal details of your life as unwillingly as a poker player reveals details of his hand. And you, Lucio, you fill our ears with your tales from Italian bedrooms and tell us nothing about yourself. It’s enough for you that you make us laugh. But who are you really, behind all the boasts and bravado?’

  ‘Who am I?’ exclaimed Lucio indignantly. ‘I have told you a hundred times! Are you deaf? I am a short, fat, bald Italian, at the peak of my sexual power. Women find me irresistible. Hundreds will testify to this under oath.’

  ‘I’m sure you mean under duress, no?’ Milos smiled his patient smile. ‘Now let Ramon continue.’

  ‘Our friend Neil constructs his stories with economy and simplicity, like a writer of short stories. But again reveals nothing of himself. The point is we sit here as friends yet we know nothing about each other, apart from what we reveal in the choice of stories we tell and the morality we apply. I am no exception. What do you know about me? Nothing other than what I’ve been prepared to reveal.’

  ‘We know you like to play games, no? And I’m not talking about the games you play when you tell your stories. You have a callous streak, Ramon. Like just now. You deliberately set me up. You knew Neil could not resist the comment about rubbish and you knew I’d respond. With one casually dropped word you score points off both of us. It doesn’t matter to me, but I don’t know why you bother.’

  ‘Oh come on, Milos, you are too sensitive. Where is the harm? You say I play games and I don’t deny it. But don’t we all? We have painted a picture of ourselves which we project to each other. That picture may be no more real than the stories we tell, yet it is a comfortable arrangement. Our private lives are our own and this leaves us free to enjoy each other’s company in the roles we have each elected to play. That is why I hesitate to tell this story though it is my turn and my obligation. I do not wish to put our friendship in jeopardy. But this story burns to be told. It clouds my mind when I seek other subjects upon which to fabricate a tale. Unless it is told and dispensed with, I fear my ability to contribute at these lunches will be suffocated, and the day will come when I am no longer welcome. Yet I hesitate, for it is a true story and it trespasses upon my past. A past I do not care to remember.

  ‘This story begins in my country, in the turmoil and troubles after Peron which resulted in my exile. Yet I may be considered the fortunate one. I lost my country and my heritage while others lost their lives. But I will not burden you with my misfortunes. There are parallels in this story but they are not for me to point out. They are yours to discover if you choose to look. I will draw the curtains no wider on my life. Nor will I encourage your speculation.

  ‘This story is about a man who falls in love with a woman many years younger than himself. He gives her, as an engagement present, a most precious gift. A gift that brings life where there is mere existence. Joy where there is suffering. Relief where there is guilt. It is the story of the man, the woman, the gift and the consequences of the gift. Consequences which result in the man hiding in a dark alley, an open razor in his hand. He intends to use it not as an act of violence but of love. Can you imagine the circumstances that could bring this about? How could such a thing possibly be an act of love or even construed that way? Truth does not have the convenience of fiction. Sometimes it is a cross too heavy to bear.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Lucio quietly.

  ‘My story will come in two parts. The first deals with each of the main characters. You must come to know them well, to understand why they are the kind of people they are, and why they do the things they do. The second part depends on it, for it is the resolution. Listen well or you may prove too hasty in your conclusions. I will require your patience for many weeks if I am to do justice to those involved.’

  The audience settled back in their chairs. The label had been read, the cork extracted. The story, having breathed, was now ready to flow. Nobody believed for a second that it would be true.

  Chapter One

  BUENOS AIRES, 1978

  Roberto Sanguineti was six years old and small for his age. His family lived in an ornate colonial house in the ‘little Italy’ of Buenos Aires, La Boca. The house was large and needed repairs that neither landlord nor tenants felt disposed to make.

  There were lots of places in this house for a small boy to hide without even going upstairs to the bedrooms. Roberto had tried them all. Tonight he’d found a special place because the restorers had failed to collect the table and eight balloon-back dining-chairs. The chairs were stacked one atop the other, and packed tightly into the recess beneath the stairs so that they wouldn’t block the reception area. But chairs are one shape and stairs another, and Roberto knew that if he could wriggle his way through the forest of legs, there’d be a boy-sized space where the first steps formed a wedge with the floor.

  Careful not to make a sound he began to worm his way through. Any moment now his father, Victor, would call him for dinner knowing full well that his son would be hiding. Roberto would tremble with anticipation as his father began to look for him. Roberto adored playing hide-and-seek with his father, and they’d played the game since he had first learned to walk. He couldn’t wait to be found because that was the best part—his father finding him. Then for precious minutes he’d have his father all to himself, and they’d wrestle and tackle and laugh while his mother pretended to get angry with them both. They never tired of the game and Victor, who was often too busy with his work and his politics for such play, cherished these moments.

  Roberto reached his little hideaway and pulled the rolled-up rug they stored there over him, so that only his eyes peeped out. He just knew his father would never find him. And his father never did.

  Just as his mother called them to dinner, the soldiers burst through the front door and brought Roberto’s world crashing down around him. He never played hide-and-seek with his father again.

  Chapter Two

  Roberto’s mother, Rosa Angelica, was often blamed for the tragic events that took place because she had foolishly married the wrong man. But that is unfair and typical of Argentina where men are not allowed to be at fault. Besides, other women never missed the opportunity to be critical of Rosa. She was too popular with the men, too vivacious, too beautiful and, most unforgivable of all, too independent. Of course she was to blame.

  As a child, Rosa was never out of trouble. She was brough
t up in the coastal resort district of San Isidro. The family home was neither old enough to be historic, nor modern enough to be comfortable. Her mother did her best to brighten up the old house by painting its stucco walls a pastel pink, knowing that it would fade in the sun and soften back to a more pleasing shade. It was not a small house but neither was it large. It was certainly not large enough to offer any escape from Rosa.

  It wasn’t that Rosa was wicked. It was just that she saw life as a boundless opportunity for fun and couldn’t understand why others were so timid. Her family were devout Catholics and sometimes they would take Rosa and her four older sisters to the Cathedral of San Isidro. The cathedral wasn’t particularly old, but it had a splendour and sense of grandeur which hinted at the majesty of heaven. Perhaps her parents hoped some of the reverence would rub off on Rosa, but they were always destined to be disappointed.

  She would shock her parents and shame her sisters by letting go sneaky little smells, and giggling so none were left in doubt as to the source. Sex was never a mystery. It wasn’t a subject her parents would allow to be discussed in the home but that was no impediment to her education. Nobody was quite sure how she acquired her knowledge, particularly the lurid details. But her sisters were never in doubt as to where they learned the facts of life. They learned from Rosa. And they learned never to leave Rosa alone within reach of their boyfriends.

  Rosa couldn’t help herself. She’d flirt outrageously with them, or sidle up to them and shock them to their souls, leaving their masculinity in tatters.

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to fuck my sister tonight,’ she’d say innocently, ‘because she’s having her period.’

  Or she’d say, ‘Is your penis as big as Julio’s? Bibiana likes a big penis. She says the little ones aren’t worth bothering with.’

  Sometimes the things she said found their way back to her humiliated sisters. She’d be beaten by her shocked parents, and dragged sobbing but unrepentant to her room.

  Poor Rosa. She just couldn’t bear the boredom of conformity, of life at a gentle trot when it was so much more thrilling to gallop. The nuns did their best, and made a fair job of educating her, although her free spirit and blatant sexuality must have sorely tested their faith.