The Spare Room by Kathryn Lomer

pie. I’d been told that this is a very Australian thing to eat, but I had never seen anyone eat one before. I was interested to see how it was done.
    Are you student here? I asked as we sat down.
    Yep. Philosophy.
    Oh, I said. Plato, Confucius …
    And Stolly Kalanthes.
    When I looked puzzled, he said, That’s me. Stolly.
    He switched his pie to his left hand and held out his right. Finally the time had come for me to shake someone’s hand. By then we had practised this in class and I knew to be firm and brief.
    My name’s Akira, I said, reaching out and shaking his hand. Squeeze, two seconds, drop. I’d done it!
    Stolly took his pie from its bag and I watched furtively. Would he lift up the top and eat the meat out of the pastry? But no, he began with a bite in the middle of one side and continued biting even though the filling kept threatening to fall out. My way might have been better.
    Are you also a student in Japan?
    How you know I come from Japan? I asked.
    Stolly laughed. Just a lucky guess, he said.
    This was more like it. Remember how we used to muck about like that, Satoshi? Trying to entertain each other by playing with words and being witty. I remember those notes you would write in class. I hardly dared open them in case I burst out laughing.
    I am student in Japan, I said, then added, I don’t want to be student in Japan.
    Stolly was nodding. He said, Pushy parents, after-school study, academic pressure, suicide?
    I looked at him and I must have given away my astonishment.
    Stolly said, It’s in the newspapers all the time. I’m not a mind-reader or anything. And anyway, you’re still alive, aren’t you?
    Yes, I told him. Yes, I am alive.
    I must have sat there nodding for a while. I almost forgot Stolly was waiting for me to continue.
    But my father decide my choices. He pay. I come to Australia.
    What you need, said Stolly, is a bit of independence.
    In-de-pend …?
    Stolly rubbed his fingers together. Money, he said.
    Yes, I said.
    This time Stolly tapped one finger on the side of his nose.
    I had no idea what the gesture meant. It was a bit like the way we point to the end of our nose when we are talking about ourselves, but I’d already learned that in Australia people point to their chest for that. It’s funny how hard it was to break that habit of pointing to my nose. I used to do it unconsciously sometimes when talking with Daisy. It always sent her into peals of laughter.
    I’ll see what I can do, Stolly said. Leave it with me. Let’s meet again on Friday and I’ll let you know.
    Friday? Okay, I said, hoping I had understood but feeling unsure about why we were going to meet. We continued with our lunch.
    Stolly. I don’t hear that name before, I said.
    It’s Greek, he said.
    Greek? Like moussaka?
    It’s nothing like moussaka, he said sternly.
    I laughed. I was enjoying myself. It was as if that person I knew as me trapped inside this new language was beginning to break out. I suddenly thought of something else to ask Stolly.
    When I give my money to woman at counter — I turned and pointed her out — she said to me, Love. There you go, love. Why she said ‘love’? She love me?
    Maybe, he said, laughing. He looked over at the woman and said, I don’t think she’s your type. But then he was serious: No, it’s just a friendly thing to say when you serve someone.
    I understand, I said.
    Stolly had great plans for me. He took me to meet his boss at the casino and persuaded the man to give me a trial as a waiter. After all, he said, the casino had a lot of international visitors, many of them Japanese. Stolly also told the man that I had worked as a waiter in Japan, which was a lie but in a good cause. When I objected later, he justified it by saying that every place you work takes some getting used to, even if you have done the same job elsewhere. Where was the harm? And I have to admit that I was very