Gatherers and Hunters by Thomas Shapcott Page B

were beginning, and all the young people had relaxed out of their elegance into more argumentative or amorous positions. Coats had been flung over the backs of chairs, at least one of the girls had strands of hair that were not part of a conscious gamine presentation, and for the first time Rachel noted the bloke at the head of that table – he had a black and white hide jacket showing now which must have been previously hidden by his expensive Italian suitcoat.
    It was vulgar and debonair, cheeky in its way but decidedly placing him in that company as being both egotist and vulnerable, his wide shoulders and the almost Valentino moustache and sideburns reinforcing the assertiveness and the loud extroversion that was dangerously close to innocence, so that she glanced immediately at the other members of that party, and decided that he was perfectly at home and that not one of them saw his gaudy outfit as being other than himself. He was that sort of person. She had a sudden flash of memory. How old would Benno be now?
    She turned to her companion. ‘Dragana, do you notice that young man over there, the one in the cowboy waistcoat, it’s like a bolero. Yes, that’s the one.’
    But Dragana glanced and turned back without a nod. ‘They’re all Macedonians,’ she said. ‘We call them cowboys.’
    â€˜I thought they were Italian.’
    Dragana gave her a level look. ‘How long, Rachel, since you were last overseas? No, I do not mean that American trip, which was when we first met, in L.A. Didn’t you once tell me you had been for a week in Istanbul?’
    â€˜Twenty five years ago. I tremble to think what has been done to that beautiful old city.’
    â€˜You would not want to go back. I almost do not want to go back to Belgrade. My husband is a Croat you know. This last time, from the start, had its small upsets but you cannot allow such things to prevent your plans. Look at that girl near the end. No, not so obviously. You see? Nowhere in Italy would you see bones like that, except among refugees. Oh, perhaps up in Trieste, but that is hardly Italy. We had our honeymoon in Trieste. The wind blew constantly, from every angle.’
    Rachel was thinking of Istanbul, though, and of how she deliberately missed her plane that time. She had not found love, but there had been her brief intoxication, as she was later to call it, with proper irony. Benno had been born in Brisbane. For sixteen years he had absorbed her utterly, that was true enough. She stole another look at the young man, but turned her attention to the crepe in front of her. She had allowed it to get cold.
    When Benno had decamped it had been a relief. Simply that. Benno knew every art of blackmail and he used each one. She had not initiated any panic search. It was almost as if she, herself, was the one who absconded. Two can play at games, she had said to herself, then or sometime later. She took a position in Melbourne. She did not pick up the pieces, she allowed them to drop away into whatever nooks and corners. It was always refreshing to start with a clean slate and she had done precisely that.
    Dragana hailed the waiter. ‘Now. We are ready for coffee. Ah, is there a place nearby where it would be possible to have a Turkish coffee? No, I am not serious. You see, in the end, I am always a creature of compromise.’ She took two sips of her tiny cup and looked up at Rachel. ‘So. You have organised your whole life? Commendably?’
    â€˜Commendably.’ Rachel smiled at the expression. ‘Yes. I think I have organised my life commendably. I’ve had a lot of practice, as it were. But do you know, I can’t get that young man at that table out of my sight. Do you know what it is? He reminds me of my son. Of how my son might be, at that age.’
    â€˜Really? I did not know you had a son, but why not? Where is he now?’ Even Dragana could not hide the implication and the