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 Just about everything, I reply, then add,  maybe not
carrying stacks of plates or helping Elektra bone the
fish. Who am I kidding? I reckon I ll miss even those
things as well.
At that, Cali grips my hand tighter and says,  When
you come back I make sure that all the fish is off the
bone  I get Milou to help me.
I laugh and Cali laughs along. Out of her bag she
takes the blue leather-bound atlas.  This is for you.
 I thought it was for Simon.
 I will get him another one. I need you to have this
so you do not forget us.
 Do you want me to bring back anything?
 Just you, Cali says, as I d hoped she would.  Oh,
maybe one of those Australian Rules footballers too.
We sit down on the low white-washed stonewall
that overlooks the thin slash of sand rising out of the
waveless water and kiss until the clock makes us stop.
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Back at the jetty, Cali holds my hand and nuzzles
into my shoulder until the patient ferry-master refuses
to wait any longer. I say I ll let her know exactly when
I ll be coming back as soon as I know myself.
 Look after Miller for me, I say before boarding.
 And look after you as well.
 So long as you look after us, she replies and starts
off for the boat to Antiparos before my ferry has even
blasted its final intentions.
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PART 4
HOME
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44
fter being cleared of carrying weapons or deodorants
Afor the third time, I join the rest of the plane s human
cargo in the final waiting area. Taking my first flight
without Miller has inspired me to buy a book, something
I only do once every decade or so, whether I need to
or not.
My fellow passengers are watching a ten-year-old kid
embarrass his parents by rewarding their indulgences
with the sort of wild behaviour usually attributed to
crystal meth. His folks, who ve clearly already decided
it s too late to take a stab at parenting, stick with trying
to be their child s coolest friends, while everyone else
considers upgrading to business to avoid getting stuck
anywhere near this modern family. Reports that forty is
the new thirty seem more believable as this wailing brat
proves ten is the new zero.
As soon as I m seated, a window on one side and a
moderately sized woman on the other, I start with the
book. However, it s a stop-start affair as my thoughts
keep reverting to Cali in a way that makes me smile.
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Once I ve wallowed in memories of Cali, I stare out the
window and think about the last week or so. And then
back through the last month and some. I resolve, as
the air-conditioning freezes me awake, that this is not
going to be my last flight and that it can t be the end of
anything. Not Cali. Not Miller. The woman next to me
asks after my book, though I ve only turned a few pages.
 Mustn t be very good, she says kindly, noting that
I ve held it in front of my face for the best part of
two hours.
 I m not much of a reader, I admit.
 Stick with your own dreams, says the mind-reader,
and I nod agreement, put the book down, and close my
eyes so I can better see my future.
Once I ditch the pretence of doing anything other
than daydream the flight away, my mind falls easily into
thoughts of Cali and Miller, Amsterdam, Berlin and
Greece. For mine, the glowing endorsements on the
book s jacket should be replaced with the shout line,  A
joy to put down  Ash Lynch, The West Australian.
I wake, book on the floor, head in the clouds, just
as the onscreen flight-route map indicates that the
Northern Territory is directly beneath us, and look out
the window as the plane cuts through the dark that
has set over Australia. Even from up here there s little
to see as we head towards Sydney. I didn t tell Miller
about this detour to Sydney to sort what remains of his
family before I do the same with my own.
My night in the cheapest of the airport hotels
is made bearable by my reconnection to Cable. We
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parted company nearly two months ago, with just a
brief reunion in Jarmo s apartment, but it s immediately
like we ve never separated. Nothing has changed.
Having slept away a bunch of the latter part of the
flight, I take the opportunity to recharge my Australian
batteries by feasting on the variety of channels and the
ease of the language through much of the remainder of
the darkness.
Drina Balcescu s address means nothing to me but
certainly makes the cabbie happy. The taxi ride costs
me more than my entire time in Antiparos and is way
less pretty. Mr Smith, the music impresario, is well
dead, so I m simply going to be the friend of her son
who called from Greece in the middle of the night, and
then just let what happens next happen. If I die here,
no-one will ever know.
Drina s apartment looks government-issue and the
elevator appears riskier than Aeroflot, so I struggle up
several flights and knock on her door, which rattles back.
Initially I can t make out any sounds from within, but
something tells me to wait and I m eventually rewarded
by the appearance of the sort of caricature we re told
cannot exist. Drina is built like something you stir a
cocktail with, and her face shows the effects of years
of pub damage. Miller may get his dark looks from his
mum but the good looks are more likely his dad s, a
man Miller has already clued me in as just one of many
possible long-gone paramours.
 Who are you? Drina Balcescu barks at me from
behind her torn flyscreen door.
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 Hello, I m Ash Lynch. I spoke to you a month back.
From Greece. The country, that is, I say, trying to look
perky but not too Mormon.
 I don t remember, she says, and I believe her. She
probably barely remembers her last decent meal. Or
her son.
 I m a friend of Jet. He asked me to check in on you,
I lie.
Drina thinks about this a while and then looks at
me, as if she s scrutinising me for scams, like I d done
with Georgina in Athens.
 What does he want? she finally asks me.
 He wants nothing but to know you re okay.
She has not seen him since he was five so will hardly
know that this is so unlikely it hurts.
 Can I come in? I ask, more to get out of the cold
than out of any remaining curiosity.
 Not for long, she replies.
 Not a problem, I say honestly, immediately hoping
that didn t sound sarcastic. Though I suppose identifying
nuances is probably not one of this lady s strengths.
The flat is larger inside than you d guess and is full
of decent enough furniture and loads of the sort of
objet d arts you can purchase from a tobacconist s. She
doesn t offer me a drink but quickly locates her own
pre-poured one.
 So how is Jet doing? Drina asks, again somewhat
greedily, and I m reminded that maybe he ll only earn
her interest if he himself is earning some interest.
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