Best Australian Yarn: La Ricetta di Famiglia by David Harris

The last, great crisis of his life is this; he’s forgotten how to make the sausages. He sits in his favourite armchair and watches through the window as the rain falls. The world beyond is dim and the wet surface of the street shimmers with the captured light of a million stars. Winter memories insist upon his mind. He remembers something about shooting a pig, but he also remembers that it’s never him who shoots it. It was his father, using an old poacher’s gun that had been handed down through the family. After that, it had been his uncle and more recently, it had been his eldest son, Roberto. He considers this for a while. Perhaps Robbie knows how to make the sausages. * There’s a rotary telephone that has been sitting on the hallway table since the 1970’s. When he moves it, he can see the square footprint which remains in the dust. He operates the dial with satisfaction. It feels solid and mechanical. “Hello?” The voice belongs to his eldest son. To his first and deepest warrant with the world. “Robbie, it’s me.” “Dad? What number are you calling from?” “I’m calling from the house.” “Where’s your mobile?” “You know, it’s getting pretty late in the year.” “Late for what? Dad, is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine. But it’s winter. It’s time for the sausages.” The line falls silent, so he listens instead to the patter of rain on the roof and he wonders when it will stop. “Dad?” He tries to remember the last time it wasn’t raining. “Dad, are you there?” “I’m here.” “Dad, are you sure everything’s okay?” “Of course it is. I already said it was.” “Dad, we haven’t made the sausages in twelve years. Not since Mum died.” * He remembers a time when the memories were easier to grasp. When everything was in some kind of logical order. Now his memories feel like stars in the night sky. Scattered across the heavens with no map to show him how to navigate the darkness between. Like old trade routes, held only in the minds of ancient mariners, and lost now for all time. Those stars are above him now, the night sky clear of clouds, and he wonders briefly what happened to the rain. The sky seems twisted. The stars backwards. Or perhaps they’re upside down, as though the sky is being seen from the other side of the world. He feels the horrible swell of disappointment in his chest and he looks down. On the rocky ground he sees the poacher’s gun. He recognises the distinctive hammer and the dark wood of the stock, made smooth with linseed oil. There’s a pin in the forestock that acts as a hinge, so the firearm can be folded in half and tucked away. He knows this gun. When he looks up, his father and his uncle are with him. Behind them are the Apennine Mountains, covered with snow and standing tall over the great plains known as the Pian Grande. To his left, the low horizon carries the muted glow of lights from the village of Castelluccio. The home of his childhood. It’s okay, says his father from within the memory. I couldn’t do it. The voice he hears is his own. Young and thin and tremulous. He looks at his hands. They are the hands of a boy, unmarked by time. They shake. Every man has things he can’t do, says his father. If those things are born of compassion and kindness, then you will have a fine reputation and I will be proud of you. How will I feed my family? His father shrugs. Perhaps you will be a doctor. Or maybe you will work in a factory. You do not need to kill in order to provide. His father picks up the poacher’s gun and approaches the pig. His uncle smiles and ruffles his hair. When he wakes, he’s in his armchair. A blanket is draped across his lap and he can hear the soft hum of the bar heater. The rain is still falling. * The fence was built without using a string line and it wobbles across the rear of the property. A sinuous slash of wire, supported by time-worn posts that have turned the colour of ash. He remembers building it. That, he remembers. “We’ve talked about this, Dad.” The frown belongs to his daughter. To his everlasting and unconditional love. “About what?” “About being careful with your money.” The rain makes small slapping sounds against the churned mud of the enclosure. He leans against the fence post for support as they watch the pig. It wallows in the mud. “Dad? Are you listening to me?” “Maria, we’re running out of time. It’s already the middle of winter.” “You really bought a pig,” she says. “I thought Robbie was having me on.” She turns to face him. He’s about to ask if she knows how to make the sausages. “Dad, are you sure you’re doing okay?” “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” “Because we’re worried about you.” He can tell from the look in her eyes that she knows. She knows that he forgets things and she knows that he gets confused. He feels the hot flush of shame in his cheeks and he turns away. He walks through the rain, seeking the comfort of home. Of course, she’s right there with him and he needs to lean on her as they walk. He knows that he can’t ask her now. He doesn’t want to see that look from her again. Instead, he makes a decision. “Next Saturday,” he says. “And you’re in charge. That should give you enough time to get everybody together.” Maybe it will give him time to remember. * He feels adrift. Lost in an ocean of his own memories and at the mercy of the current. He remembers the stars and he reaches for them, only to find them fallen and misshapen. They lay all around him, their light reflected within the boundless ocean. Distorted and refracted until he can barely recognise them. Beneath him, waves lap high against a metal hull which groans as it rises and falls with the swell. He can smell salt water and salt air and now he recalls the long planks of teak beneath his feet, laid over the steel deck for insulation. He knows this ship. Something blooms inside of him. He turns around, knowing what comes next, for the ship is the Fairsea and this memory is his North Star. She walks towards him. Behind her are the rows of converted troop cabins, crammed with bunks and angling away towards the stern. She picks her way between the dozens of men who have chosen to sleep on the deck rather than endure the conditions inside. Heads turn as she passes. He knows that there has never been a vision so lovely as the one that captivates him now. I’m glad you’re not one of those men who gets sick on boats, she says in his memory. Not at all, he says. This is the way all adventures should start. With maybe a drink or two. I wouldn’t be opposed to some grappa right now, darling. She loops her arm inside his own, her fingertips brushing against the back of his hand, and he falls further in love. On his wrist is his father’s watch. A reminder that there is no family left in Italy for him now. There is only his uncle, who left for Australia two years ago. It really is an adventure, she says. To go halfway around the world and start a new life. They watch the ocean before them, alive with starlight. * He wakes in the early hours of the morning. His hips ache. His tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. The world sleeps while he can’t and he lays there, cataloguing sounds. There’s the ever-present rain and the buzz of the heater. In the distance, rainwater hissing off tires as a car accelerates over wet roads. For all that, the night is quiet. He imagines that he can hear the rhythmic impulse of his pacemaker as he lays there. It reminds him of his father’s wristwatch and his heart sinks. The watch belongs now to his youngest son. To his missing and lamented love. It’s mid-morning by the time he gathers the courage to call. “You’ve reached Anthony. I can’t get to the phone, but if you leave a message I’ll get back to you right away.” There’s a long silence. His mind churns with all the things he wishes he could say. I’m sorry. Sorry for the things that I said. I miss her too. At least that’s something we still have in common. I’m scared. I can’t remember things that should be easy. I’ve forgotten how to make the sausages. I love you. I wish I could see you and tell you that. Instead, he hangs up. * They find him on the kitchen floor. It’s very early on Saturday morning and the day still hides beyond the horizon. The rain is falling, soft but insistent, and the darkness seems like the end of things, pressing in from all sides. He’s run out of time. It’s Maria who helps him to his feet, while Robbie starts closing the cupboard doors. She helps him to a chair. “Dad, what happened?” “I’m okay. I’m fine.” “It’s not fine, you’re bleeding.” He sees the blood on his leg, which Maria wipes away. It’s not so bad. A small tear in his paper-like skin. “I must have hit my shin on the cupboard.” “What were you doing?” “It doesn’t matter. You should all go home, we can’t do this today.” Robbie is holding a pile of cookbooks that he’s found strewn over the floor. “Dad, what were you doing?” He kneels beside his father while Maria cleans the wound. “What were you looking for?” His shoulders sag. Parts of him crumple. “I’ve forgotten how to do it, Robbie. She would be so disappointed.” “Who would be disappointed, Dad? What have you forgotten?” “Your mother…” He fights back tears and it makes him angry. “Everybody needs to go home. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” “I don’t understand.” In the end, it comes out in a rush. “I’ve forgotten how to make the sausages.” Robbie and Maria look at each other. He feels ashamed. Now they know the truth of what his weakness has taken from them. “Dad, what are you talking about?” says a voice from the doorway. He feels his breath catch. He looks up to find his youngest son standing there and the collapsed pieces of his heart begin to inflate. “Anthony?” Robbie and Maria are smiling as their brother approaches and crouches down beside them. “It’s a family recipe, Dad.” He places his hand over his father’s. “We’ll make them together. Just the way you and Mum taught us.” In the quiet that follows he can hear the ticking of his father’s wristwatch. * The rain is a gentle curtain, hanging beyond the boundaries of the back verandah and separating the dry from the adventurous. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren alike make their own wallow of the property as they laugh and play. He sits in a camp chair and before him, sparks emerge from the top end of a forty-four-gallon drum. The bonfire keeps the chill from his bones and he wears layers against the cold. He watches as Maria runs her own, adult children, through the process of setting up in the old, brick-walled shed. The grey morning slowly fills with dappled light and laughter. The rifle cracks, sharp and clear as Robbie dispatches the pig, and everyone stops briefly. Some wear quiet smiles, pushing back against the idea of death and finality, in favour of family and connection. The laughter soon returns and Anthony sits beside him for a while. He pats his son’s hand and tells him that he loves him. He watches as Robbie hangs the pig, collecting blood in a bucket to make the blood sausage. Anthony helps him to butcher it and separate the meat. Some for sausage and some for capocolli and some for pancetta. Later, they trim the fat and add spices and run it all through the number twelve grinder plate to make the mince. Four generations of his family, all working together. He listens as they talk of their lives and he answers questions about the old country which some of them have seen, but not all. They laugh and they tease and they reminisce as they fill the casings with mince and then tie them off. They hang them to dry from hooks on the rafters. The rest of the meat finds its way into a large copper cauldron, to make the frittole. The feet and the snout. The leg meat and the ribs. It all simmers in melted pig fat over a bed of burning charcoal until well into the afternoon. He’s tired by the time Maria cuts away a string of Calabrese sausages and prepares them. When they’re ready she brings him some to taste. He rolls a piece of sausage around on his tongue, rich and fatty, so that it melts in his mouth. He can taste the sea salt and the coarse pepper. The subtle flavour of the fennel and the rising heat of the peppe stato. He nods and smiles and the look on his face makes her happy. It’s the fennel that stays with him. His father always had a way with the pork that created a soft, rich texture in the sausage, but it was the nuance of the fennel that made it memorable. He savours the delicate morsel that seems to flood his mouth with saliva. He sits alone with the flavour as he listens to his family. Little by little, his eyes gently close. * From somewhere, he hears the sound of falling rain. It seems out of place and confusing, until he feels the familiar warmth of fingertips brushing against the back of his hand. All other thoughts leave him, and he opens his eyes to summer in Castelluccio. The world is an impressionist masterpiece, filled with broad swathes of colour. The Apennine Mountains rise in the distance and the Pian Grande is carpeted with wildflowers. Blooming lentils. Poppies and wild mustard. His father stands beside the brick oven, baking Calabrese sausages from the winter just gone, with his familiar white apron tied around his waist. The sky holds a streak of pink and orange, fusing the last light of the day. He turns from his father, placing his own hand over his wife’s smaller, perfect one. They drink grappa as they watch the setting sun and he knows that this is a moment he will remember for the rest of his life.