Salted Pineapple
By Robyn Singer Rose

He'd watched her for three days. Waited for her at the tram stop. Rode the same tram. Used the front door to alight, his peripheral vision always on her every move. He watched the building she worked in. Saw her take her breaks. Run her errands. He knew where she went on those errands. For a while he toyed with doing it in the alley in broad daylight next to the decaying rubbish filth and stench, but decided it would be too quick. The idea of getting caught excited him and more than once he had satisfied himself with this thought. Once he'd stood close to her on a crowded tram and could smell her. Not sweet as she might have been in the morning from powder and pamper, but sour from a days work. Sweat droplets glistened on the dark stubble under her arm as she held onto the tram handle dangling above her head. Her sleeveless shirt billowed and he could see her breast spilling over the top of her bra.

He walked a distance behind her, same route every day from the bus to her front door. She picked up the flower pot to get the key. Third pot from the mat. He watched her put the key back under the pot, never looking behind when she entered her house. He listened for her to turn the music up loud. He looked up and down the street. Her husband, roommate or whoever the bloke was that lived with her, didn't arrive home for an hour. He crossed the road, checking in his pocket for the weapon. Comforted by the cool metal handle. Inside her garden he slipped off his shoes. The cold, concrete path felt firm under his feet. He lifted the pot plant and with his toe moved the key from under it. He put it in the lock and entered.

He could hear the shower running. She must be in the bathroom. Too perfect. His heart raced. For weeks he'd waited and dreamed of this moment. The thrill rushed through him and made him ready. He undid his zipper. He hoped she'd struggle. He opened the bathroom door, screaming abuse, calling her names she'd earned. He grabbed her around the neck with one arm and twisted her breast with his hand. He listened to her gasp and in the mirror saw the fear on her face. Her eyes black hollow, like a rabbit in torch light, stupidly stares and waits for the end. She struggled against him, her necklace tore from her neck and slipped to the floor. He released her breast and put the gun to her mouth. He pushed her over, arse up, wedged her head hard against the bathroom rail, grabbed her hair to keep her still and rammed himself into her. He listened to her scream and the pleasure was immeasurable.

He was done. Rage surged through him because she only gave him a moment's pleasure. He belted her with the gun once, twice and in a frenzy of slaps he knocked her out. He looked at her crumpled bloody form. Bitch. He kicked her once more, did up his zip and washed his hands. He smiled at the thought of the headlines as he stepped over her hips and left the house. Key under the pot plant, shoes on, he escaped over the neighbouring yard sure he was unnoticed.

Two middle aged men sat on wooden crates outside Milton's green grocer store. Boris placed his newspaper on a bulging potato sack. The headline, black and bold shouted to the men, but they were unperturbed. It was a familiar sight for the shoppers, the men, the newspaper, fruit peelings and coffee mugs. The pair looked as at home alongside the Granny-Smith apples as the onions did with the spinach. Around dusk a gathering of sometimes up to eight men, mingled. Leo was a regular. A Polish immigrant. A doctor before the war, but his qualifications were not recognised in this country and Leo said he was too old to retrain so he had settled for a job at the hospital. Boris met him first when he worked at the morgue and had introduced him to Milton and Ada. Milton's wife poured coffee from a saucepan and served the men. She made it with Turkish coffee powder. Not for any particular reason other than it was exotic, next to the instant Nescafe her family had drunk. When Ada fell in love with Milton his name was Melano. Ada's father insisted such a 'dago' name would handicap his too be son-in-law.

'You're marrying one of those dagos, Ada, then he has to become more like us. He's a newaustrailyan now.'

'I like the fact he's an Eyetie, Dad. It's exotic.'

'Look love, it's like this, the pommy bastards take our jobs at work and now all you see at a bloody roadwork is Eyeties.'

'Milano is opening a fruit shop.'

'Fruit shop, smooch shop, we can't have them coming 'ere changing our ways. They have to change theirs. We'll call him Milton.'

Ada grew up in Windsor accustomed to a bowl of corn flakes for breakfast, vegemite sandwiches for school lunch and the meat and three veg evening meal. Standard Australian fair. Milton's stories of the old country, the food and the culture wooed her into his arms. There wasn't a day she regretted. Over the years, she mixed with many nationalities and incorporated different elements into her life with Milton as they took her fancy. Milton was accustomed to her exclaiming, 'How exotic.' From then on whatever Ada thought exotic, was deemed to be Italian. It was just how it was at Milton's.

'For a kangaroo, she's a dutiful wife,' Milton said, grabbing a handful of her flesh to squeeze. Ada poured the coffee without wincing, happy to please her husband in front of his European friends. Shoppers came and went, moving around the gathering into the shop to pay Ada.

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Ada wiped her hands in her apron and cast her eye over the headlines without picking up the newspaper. 'Blimey, Milton love, I'm glad I've got you to protect me.'

Milton peeled a melon, stabbed at a small piece and handed it to his friend. The fruit dripped on the knife's point for a moment suspended between them. The sides of Boris' grey dust jacket played tug-a-war across his middle. White, hairy blubber herniated the space, button to button. Boris chewed the fruit as he spoke and wiped juice and saliva on his sleeve.

'Thieves, these gardeners, thieves.' He thumped his forehead and spittle flew from his mouth, spraying two women shoppers. 'My fault, shouldn't have taken my eyes off them, for a second.'

Milton didn't flinch. He went on peeling the melon and offering it to his friend. 'Not for a second,' Boris said, swallowing the fruit, his face contorting.

In the shop a boy of about eight years old stood next his mother, waiting to be served. Ada had noticed this pair shopping earlier in the week but couldn't recall seeing them before this. Pulling a paper bag from the string where they hung, she pushed her fist in it and approached the woman. The open bag was placed on top of the apples ready to be filled. 'You new around here love?' she asked, peeling a banana and handing it to the boy.

'Yes I've just moved into the neighbourhood.'

'I'm Ada. See the headlines?'

'Yeah, scary, my names Beth and this is Simon.' Beth said, waving an orange in the general direction of Simon while handing Ada two other oranges to bag.

''spect your husband will look after ya.' Ada was curious now. Forgetting the open bag she'd placed on top of the apples, she ripped another bag from the string and tossed the oranges in, flipping the parcel to make ears at either side.

'I'm a war widow.' Beth picked up the bagged fruit, grabbing her son's wrist so the banana squashed between his fingers, his grip tight. They left the shop, Beth turning back to glance at the onions, before she walked on, annoyed.

Milton and Boris watched the pairs hasty exit from their position on the crates at the front of the shop, their mouths dripping with melon.

'In a hurry,' said Boris, grimacing.

'Fruit no good?' Milton asked, lifting his arm above his head and cracking his neck to release built-up air that filled the spaces between his vertebrae. Crunch. Both men felt the relief. Pulling at each finger in turn, Milton cracked his knuckles, still holding the vegetable knife. The breeze circulated day-old men's sweaty odour mingled with raw vegetable scent - earthy and sweet. Milton bent to save the remaining melon from rolling off his lap. He eyed his fat friend on the way up. Boris was agitated. He had bad luck with the help he employed to take care of his many properties. A decade or so ago, Boris had done well building blocks of flats with the cash he made at the markets. He sold delicatessen items imported from Europe. He had a monopoly at first. His cousin in the old country was a farmer. To help with his property maintenance, he made a policy of employing new immigrants and paying cash, that way he avoided the taxman and underpaid the men. No worker remained long as they grew wise to the Australian system - a fair day's pay for a fair day's work, but the steady flow off the boat meant there was always another to replace the one that walked away.

The young woman who had made the rushed exit returned to pick up a bag of onions. Milton also had done all right for himself, he thought, peeling a long swirly snake of apple skin with his knife. The woman's son watched in amazement, the lad's eyes fixed to the skin. Milton completed the entire skin without a break, holding it up high above the lad's mouth, teasing. The boy's chin began to wobble, his lip curled but before he could pull a mean face, Milton dropped the skin into the lad's hand. Boris laughed and ruffled the youngster's hair, hoping to attract the attention of the young mother. Her peasant dress and soft brown curls appealed to him. Her son nibbled at the apple peel's end, curling the remainder around his hand.

'I'll take two pounds of Granny Smith's, thanks,' the Beth said. Milton jumped up. Beth pulled a leaf from the top of a pineapple. It came away from its root so she turned the pineapple over and sniffed it underneath. She looked pleased, but on seeing the price she put it back.

'You can salt a sour pineapple to create a tasty flavour,' Milton said.

'Salt a pineapple? How bizarre,' Beth said. 'Salt is for vegetables, sugar is for fruit.'

Milton wanted to tell her tomato was a fruit and people salted that, but most customers argued that one. The boy was at his mother's side, his tongue licked the twisted apple peel wound around his hand. Milton pulled a rag from his trouser belt and picked up each apple, polishing it before placing it in the shiny metal bowl of the scales. 'Thiry-five cents,' he said, smiling at the pretty woman he was serving. She paid him, looking irritated at the attention. Boris was rearranging his balls, a habit that embarrassed Milton. To save the young woman's sensibilities, Milton moved to get a larger paper bag than was necessary and topped it up with two complimentary bananas. The two men's mouths gaped, watching the braless young woman walk down the footpath.

'Poor little thing,' Ada came out the front, wiping her hands on her apron. Bits of pumpkin pith and a few seeds clung to her bosom. 'Says her names, Beth and the boy's called Simon. Her man's dead. Blessed war,'

'Bloody commos,' Boris spat a pip.

'They're comin' home and being spat at in the street,' volunteered Milton, staring down the street to where the young woman stood next to the bin, scraping banana from her son's fingers.

'Not spat at, love, surely?'

'No idea these Australians about the commos,' said Boris to make his point again.

'Shouldn't have been in that war, what's it to do with us?' Ada said

'No idea. What are you doing, woman?' Milton turned his attention to his wife. He picked the pumpkin seeds from her bosom. Ada looked at her apron for other tell tale signs she was cutting the pumpkins. This job was supposed to be left to Milton. But the knife was sharp and sliced through the butternut pumpkin with ease. Ada shrugged and turned her back on Milton, bending to rearrange the carrot display. Milton winked at Boris and landed a flat hand against her backside. Ada flung around, carrot in hand. 'I'll put this where the sun don't shine, Milton Costello' She waved the carrot in a suggestive manner.

'I'll put something somewhere else,' he said

'Promises, promises,' she laughed.

Boris stood to leave, distracted by his thoughts. He was thinking how much the young widow needed a man. She'd be missing it, he thought, embarrassed. He realised he'd like to give her the old what for and was both excited and appalled. Ada would soon have the young woman's full story.

Straightening his waistband, he gave Milton a quick nod and walked toward 225 Sycamore Street to one of his flat blocks where he expected to find the gardener mowing the nature strip. It was only a short stroll from the shops, tree lined with the shady sycamore, a great position, the land had been a good buy and it was a good idea to build six flats rather than one house. The Jews and the Greeks were doing it so he knew to follow their lead - prosperous lot. He liked that, saying, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'

The sun was out but the cool breeze meant that he didn't feel the warmth on his shoulders. His grandmother had told him when he was a boy to stand with the sun on his back and enjoy God's embrace. Turning the corner, he could see the roof of his units above the other houses and heard a lawn mower. He quickened his step. Another rake was missing and he planned to confront the gardener this morning. He'd start by suggesting his off-sider might have forgotten to put it back. The offsider was a Vietnam veteran with long hair hanging down his back, unkempt. Walking along, Boris mulled over what he'd said his name was then remembered it was Peter. Peter was nervous and angry all the time, quite a contrast to his head gardener, a man from Ceylon who aimed to please. If Boris suggested it was the war veteran, it would just give the headman an out. Boris would say he wanted it replaced no questions asked, that might do.

'Morning,' Boris shouted over the machine's roar. Petrol fumes spoilt the scent of fresh grass clippings that reminded Boris of celery slices waiting to be added to the soup. Sometimes people still used an old hand mower but he hadn't found anyone willing to push one about for the price he was willing to pay. Pity.

The gardener caught sight of Boris as he turned to mow back up the hill. He turned the mower off. The machine's ruckus whirled to a splutter and cough. Silence.

'Mr Boris, how are you?' The gardener wiped sweat from his brow and with the same rag wiped his hand before offering it to Boris. Boris always marvelled at this gardener's exceptionally white teeth contrasting against his dusky skin. Boris kept his hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat. 'You stole my rake, I want it back.'

'No, Mr Boris I always put the tools back in the shed.'

'It's not in the shed.'

'Come we'll take a look, Mr Boris.'

Boris sighed, knowing he'd have to humour the thief if he wanted to get to the truth or at least he'd play along with the excuses to get the rake replaced. They walked back to Boris' house in silence. The trees were sprouting new green growth. The whirl of the traffic from the High Street could be heard, along with the odd screech of the brakes. Both men looked at each other, neither saying a word, half expecting the crashing sound of cars colliding. They arrived at the shed, the old 1930s garage, added to the house in prosperous times when cars were purchased. Two wooden doors rotting at the bottom opened out to let a car in, but these old doors hadn't opened in years. Around the back, Boris installed a tilt-a-door and at the side a single door, the top half glass, provided entrance from the yard. Boris' employee tugged this door open. He fished around for the light switch. 'Need a new globe, Mr Boris.'

'It's not in there, the rake, see?' said Boris.

'How can you tell with so much junk in there?'

'If you can't find it, replace it.' Boris gave his command and walked away.

He entered his house through the back door. A familiar smell, stuffy and comforting, reminded him he had a problem with damp. He raided the fridge for sausage and bread to eat for lunch, carving a lump from the end of the meat roll and sliced thick pieces of bread to put either side. He took a bite then remembered Ada's pickle wasn't too bad and opened the fridge to retrieve the jar. He undid the lid and recoiled. Mould speckled the edges. Spooning the affected areas into the bin, he felt satisfied with the contents underneath and spread the pickle on the bread. He took a bite, looking through the window to see the bloke close the shed's side door. For a moment the two men held each other's gaze. The gardener dropped his head and walked away

Boris, his sandwich finished and his appetite satisfied, stood at the sink washing up his plate and thinking about the young widow. What was she eating for her lunch? Did she and the boy sit together and eat sandwiches or did she prepare soup and serve the boy like his mother had done for him? What was she wearing in the house? What were her undergarments like? And under the undergarments? Boris' breathing was heavy. He imagined her soft breasts and rosy nipples. He felt movement in his trousers. Boris turned the cold tap on fast and shoved his head under the water.

~

Read the first chapter of "Cuff Linked Memories"