The Do

Anthony Panegyres (Phillips)

‘W on’t you come along and pick out a few pieces for the exhibition?’ Mum asks.

‘Sorry, Mum. I want to spend a little time breaking in the new reed.’

Mum kisses me on the cheek, then pecks Dad on the lips. ‘Enjoy the boys’ night in.’

Mum’s off to paint live nude models. Portraits these days, large pieces of paper with dabs of minimalist ink. She’s better at the quick ones, she says. She’s left a few on the kitchen table for me to rifle through for her next exhibition.

I’ve the clarinet out, new reed at the ready. Don’t know how long I’ll have to practice. Dad’s mate, Nick Barboutis, visits now and then, only when Mum’s out. Nick’s covert visits have been occurring for years; sometimes I think Mum knows about them. I mean Dad’s not overly careful. An extra mug or tiny coffee cup or spirit glass in the sink would be a dead giveaway to most.

For an instrument that dominated Dixie-land jazz and now plays a key role in both Balkan music and classical music, the clarinet’s a relative newbie. An eighteenth-century invention, an adolescent of the musical world, a teenager just like me. It’s a single-reed instrument; the bassoon and oboe and the ancient aulos all have double reeds. I’ll want a fifteen-minute session for the new reed to settle into its groove; any more time will stress it out. It’ll be the Rimsky-Korsakov Clarinet Concerto tonight. Lasts about eight minutes all up. For a warm-up it’s the ideal time.

The scent of brewing hot chocolate fills the kitchen space. Always the same when my health-conscious mother is out. Dad adores me playing. He was once a muso of sorts too. Chiefly old school rembetika—the Greek Blues—on the piano. ‘Don’t always need the twanging strings of the bouzouki,’ Dad would say. Sure, he played other music, but the old songs were when he was at his happiest. He doesn’t play the piano these days. If it weren’t for me dabbling away on it now and then, it’d be collecting dust like a haunted house.

I remember when his second cousin, Christo Antonas, held the yearly Do.

Music is in the family. Dad and Christo’s grandmothers were in a band once. Really old Greek songs, Dad tells me, lah-di-dah, turn of the twentieth century kind of songs. Clear voices, all polished. Well before my time—still I’ve heard about it and seen the black-and-white pics.

Christo’s family used to hold the annual Do at their previous, statelier home, before his father passed away. I’d been to a few. Always a mouth-watering lamb in the oven, slow cooked and crammed with butter, pine nuts, currants and spices, crushed cloves and cinnamon. There were mezedes too. Salted cod with a potato garlic sauce, fragrant meatballs, grilled octopus tentacles, dried and thinly sliced red fish roe, and afterward, shortbreads and the prized finale: an orange semolina cake. Dad said it was a custom. I recall all the culinary details: after all, my generation is partly raised on television’s food frenzy.

Christo would greet everyone with his parents by his side. His dad, who died years ago, an urban yeti of sorts, was the hairiest man I’ve met. The men gathered in one room at a long table and the women in the plusher lounge room. Everyone would gather around the piano late in the evening, my favourite part, arms looped over each other’s shoulders, Dad’s fingers prancing along the keys as they sang, Christo leading the songs.

Nick knocks his crazy jingle-bell knock on the front door before I’ve even wet my lips. Dad puts his hand over my arm. ‘We’ll get some time later, Loukas. Always love it when you play.’

Nick swaggers in. He’d be handsome if he weren’t so short: olive skin, a rooster’s chest, salty-white hair and a light beard. Dad’s asking about his latest girl. Nick always has some new flame and I know that Dad secretly thinks it’s cool. Mum won’t let Nick in the house. She’s eternally saying: ‘He’s nice but not quite made right.’ I know it’s due to him not having settled down yet.

‘Nuru. She’s from Botswana,’ I hear Nick say to Dad regarding the latest lady. ‘It’s true about what they say. The darker the better.’

Dad chortles. I’m too PC to laugh. My schoolmates would be horrified if they’d heard Nick. ‘Not cool, Nick.’

‘I really like her,’ he confesses, his voice now a beacon of sobriety. ‘We click. She gets me. Lets me have my space too.’

Dad’s mien transforms. The slight indent on his nasal brow deepens, as it does whenever he actively listens. ‘Never heard you say that before, Niko. You settling down?’

‘Think I might. Early days. But you know how the old folks are. You married a Greek. You’re not used to it. The further away you go, the harder it gets. Italians are good but not quite as good as Greeks, Orthodox Arabs are passable, Serbs are semi-acceptable . . .’

‘Times have changed,’ says Dad. ‘We all had to appease the family back then. I mean, how Greek is Stacie? A few Greek words with an accent worse than nails on a blackboard. Church a few times a year. You’ll be right. If it’s right, it’s right.’

‘Heard the latest?’

Dad shakes his head.

‘Christo is having a Do in a couple of weeks. You’re invited.’

‘Cool,’ I intercede. ‘I was just thinking about the old days. Dad and Christo rocked it. Loved those old sing-alongs.’

‘It’s different, Loukas,’ Dad says. ‘They’re in an apartment now. All squashed. You remember his mum, Theia Irini?’

I remember her. Elegant: upright and proud.

‘Well, she’s hooked up to this dialysis machine a lot of the time. It’s sad. Christo’s a good guy. He’s done the right thing. You know, taking care of her. But he never got to marry like me, or at least date like Niko. Think he’s trapped himself a bit. This sounds cold, but when a man nurses his mother he marries her.’

‘I still want to go.’

‘Might be better if you kept Mum company that day. No way she’d come nowadays.’

I can tell Dad is embarrassed of something. It’s the old scratching his temple. His tells are easy, poker players would have a fiesta. I can’t discern what exactly the cringe part is though.

‘C’mon,’ intercedes Niko. ‘What’s the harm? Let Loukas come if he wishes.’

‘I enjoyed the old shows,’ I say.

‘It’s not like those anymore,’ says Dad. I realise that this goes beyond the crammed apartment. ‘Don’t want to go myself. But I’ll go for Christo and Theia Irini. Christo hasn’t changed—still serves up those old Greek sweets with an ouzo or brandy. You know the kind, sweetened orange peel or a preserved fig or walnut. That formal house-visit stuff that your yiayia gives her special guests.’

I nod, reflecting I understand, reflecting we’re on a similar level. We’re not, of course, and it’s not a generational thing either. I like all those ceremonial sweets but now is not the time to confess. Perhaps it’s guilt driving Dad to attend? Old friendships, old ties.

I really don’t mind going. In fact, I’m keen.

* * *

We roll up. Cars line the typical suburban street. It’s a villa, part of a row, that one-storey, standard clichéd cream brick sort. The other houses have front lawns of varying shades of green but the villas just have the odd shrub sprouting, the type that looks like rosemary but isn’t.

The door is open and the entrance would be too, but for Christo standing there. He’s wearing jeans and a paisley shirt that’s a couple of decades out of date. I don’t even smile at that. It’s been Mum who prevents Dad from wearing shirts just like it. Christo looks like a character from one of those Italian movies we’ve studied in school: The Postman or Cinema Paradiso. His large dark eyes are so different now. They’ve moved from a confident-merry to a mournful-oboey look. My dad kisses Christo on both cheeks.

‘Hi Theio,’ I say.

‘Too old for that,’ he says. ‘Christo, from now on.’

‘Okay, Christo. Thanks for inviting us.’

‘That a boy, a levendi like his old man.’ As he addresses me, he scans the path for other arrivals.

‘My son, Loukas,’ Dad says to the ladies after entering. ‘Plays clarinet in the school orchestra.’ He spouts a stream of names that I would never remember. There’s a mixture of closely pressed table-chairs and couches. Ladies’ faces glow and glower. Most touch me when introduced, pats on the arms, kisses on one or both cheeks, some even embrace me, remembering me as a youth—maybe the more puckish ones try to cop a little feel. I’m sixteen and, I suppose, handsome to them—sweet-tempered, locks of dark hair—perhaps an echo of their once youthful husbands. Next to the crowded bookshelf is the sunken Theia Irini, Christo’s mother. I recall her as dignified, loving and stern. She maintains a sense of pride but now her skin, body, and hair are husk-like, retreating downwards, being lured into the shadows. I kiss her musty cheeks as she manages a smile. None of the ladies smoke in the Triassic-era room. The piano, wooden and polished, did manage to get squeezed in. Above the bookshelf stand ebony statues of ‘traditional’ turn-of-the-century Africans, nude with spears. Painted plates of native birds stand on a shelf of their own. A few I can identify: wood swallows with their burglar faces; blue splendid wrens; the ones with the yellow heads are bee-eaters; and there’s some kind of blue kingfisher. The two paintings adorning the sole free wall are old landscapes in oils, one of Chios, where my father’s family descends from, and the other a sunset piece of the outback. A vase of fluffy chrysanthemums rests on the middle of a small coffee table. I imagine the old ladies taking comfort in the same decorations, although today things are tighter, more constrained, more insular. A shrivelled nostalgia of sorts.

I help out with the trays, taking the mezedes around like Mum and Dad have taught me to. Outside in the tiny courtyard, where the men are compressed on small benches and chairs, one guy, dark and bald, all nose, who is somehow distantly related to Dad, says to me: ‘Put the tray down. You’re not a pooftah.’

Although the bald man is trying to be pleasant, Dad and the others silence him with raised eyes. ‘Don’t mind him,’ says Nick Barboutis to me under his breath. ‘He’s been boganised.’ My dad’s gay great uncle, who’s never been officially ‘out’ and was once married, squirms a little in his folding chair.

It’s actually quite comical, their faces appear manly, as do their chests and arms, but their behaviour would appear effeminate to many Aussie blokes. Most have their legs crossed—they’re far more emotional or sensitive than my Aussie mates’ dads. It’s as though all the testosterone out here is seasoned with a Mediterranean effeminacy.

There’s not one mention of music. So things dawdle as I wait eagerly for the evening sing-along.

I eat, chat. It’s all footy and ageing ailments, family tales and politics.

Finally, the time arrives. Now that the men of Dad’s generation are older, they appear embarrassed by the whole idea. ‘Elate, elate,’ persists Christo, mustering the males inside.

Men grunt and moan. More than a few mutter, ‘C’m’offit, Chris.’

Christo feigns obliviousness, genially waving and ushering us in. Some men laugh, some snigger, others—at least I hope there are others—conceal their eagerness as we enter.

‘Don’t tell Mum about this,’ Dad says.

‘You never know,’ says Niko, ‘he may enjoy it.’

Anyone who is able to stand does so; all seats are reserved for the elderly. A few young girls, from about five to eight years of age, are at the front next to Dad seated on the piano stool. Christo stands next to Dad. One boy is there too, but the rest have snuck outside or are hanging well back.

The room heats up in the crowded space while Dad stretches his hands. There is a casual muttering from the men around my father’s age. Thankfully, their audible chatter is drowned out in a sea of shushes. Dad begins to play. I haven’t heard him in years. Now that I’ve studied music—we use the keyboard in composition classes—I have a clearer, more objective perspective. He’s actually good, bit hard on the keys, no concert pianist, but he’s far better than me. A few ladies clap on recognising the piece. Nick’s eyes start waltzing around the room, pausing at the painted plates before finally stopping at the African statues. He nudges me to look up at them too. ‘Nuru would be mortified.’ He giggles. I step on his foot with my heel, causing his face to jump. He nods an apology.

Theia Irini’s eyes are now a little brighter from her lounge chair. I have to really swivel my head around to see her. Then the women and Christo and older men join in. ‘Two Green Eyes’ is the song. Sounds like an Italian tune to me and probably is one. I try to sing along; the lyrics are easy—not that I understand all of them. I wish Dad would sing. I’m sending those singing vibes his way—after all, I’ve heard him croon the same tune in the shower.

When the song ends, there’s a clap and then this peculiar mood. It’s as if something has occurred, something weird, what they’d call an obscure ‘mishap’ in those old American films set in the Deep South. Dad jerks around to view us, almost toppling a little girl with loopy hair behind the piano chair. He doesn’t touch her but she falls anyway. A concentrated silence blankets us all, it’s as if we’re mortified for ourselves, or for Christo and Dad. She bounces back up, however, all ready for the next song, as buoyant as her hair.

Christo’s face, which now reminds me of a Byzantine icon, has netted everyone’s attention. My dad plays again. This song is a little more upbeat: ‘Yerakina’. I’m clueless to what it means. Could be a name I suppose. I know the song and despite the rumble-like moan of protests from almost all the men at the back, Niko included, I join in as noisily as possible. The younger men’s faces don’t seem as averse as my dad’s generation. His era contains expressions that proclaim Christo and Dad lost idiots. This isn’t a modern party. Where’s the sushi? Where’s the Champagne? The beer? Where’s the bloody modern music? Or modern Greek even? Or if not that, then a little jazz in the background? The applause, afterwards, without the men’s support, dwindles.

Christo and Dad effortlessly move into another song. I think it’s a rembetiko—or even older, I’m not sure. I’m transfixed by the melody: slow and haunting and bittersweet. ‘Tzivaeri’: Woe! It was me who sent him away. My Tzivaeri. I willingly, slowly step over the earth. And then: Woe! That you took my small child. My Tzivaeri and made him yours. Slowly I step over the earth. Only the elderly voices sing along with Christo to this one, it’s like a visible divide, a line of protest from the crowd—this we will not partake in! Christo’s voice is forlorn and defiant, reaching upwards and downwards, trembling with feeling. This belongs to him, this song from distant and long-ago place. Theia Irini weeps from red-rimmed eyes. Other elderly women tear-up in their chairs. Children at the front are funereal quiet. The men of my dad’s generation fume. A silent fuming but you can still hear it: the nerve of him in this day and age. Even most of the women of Dad’s, and I might add, Christo’s generation, who may have sung along before, have lips pursed. A few heels tap, not to the music, but with anxiety. Why does it upset them all so? Outside of the home and Theia Irini, what has changed over the past six or seven years?

Christo hangs his head at the end of the song. Now I see Christo, past the eyes, past the nursing. An undeniable talent. It’s an alienated talent, a talent of a bygone and soon-to-be-lost era. We’ve all witnessed it—including the disgruntled men.

Yet there is no applause but for arthritic hands, hands not loud enough to create any volume. I am the only truly audible clapper, which earns peculiar glances. I clap louder and louder: I clap for the song, I clap for the past, I clap for Christo, for Dad. For Theia Irini and the ladies of her vintage, who no longer have the strength to be heard.

Dad closes the piano. Three songs only. At the grander house, when I was younger, there was always a dozen or more.

The last song though was not imagined. Nobody wants to discuss it later as we sip our coffees and teas and brandies.

On leaving, I shake Christo’s hand firmly, wanting the familiarity my father has with him, wanting to kiss both of his cheeks.

Cat Empire plays on the radio while we drive home. ‘Poor guy,’ says Dad, referring to Christo. ‘How about we help Mum select pieces tomorrow for her next exhibition?’ asks Dad, devoid of any sense of segue. ‘Think we’ll invite Niko and Nuru, over for dinner too.’

‘Niko and Mum?’

‘Yep.’

‘Hot chocolate?’

‘Yep.’

All I can think of though is the Do. ‘I’m coming again next year,’ I say.

‘Couldn’t you hear the death knell after that final song, Loukas? That’s the last of them. The final Do.’

What had changed? It wasn’t the small venue alone. They were the same songs as the old days, only fewer.