A Journey to a New World
By Scarlet Richard-Sephton
It had been weeks, if not months, being trapped on this godforsaken ship. My days were filled with the Castile Felice's dark, unsteady rocking, and the damp, sickening odour of stomach acid lingered in my nose, making me forget the comforting smells of my Mama’s cooking back home, a million miles away. A rattling cough had gradually settled in my throat, here to stay. The bottom deck is lined with cramped, tiny sleeping quarters, and those who venture to stroll through the corridors are forcefully pushed from side to side, the ocean seemingly always in a horrid mood with us. The waves splash up the sides of the boat, threatening to swallow us all whole. We are eight women to a single cabin room, squashed in like sad sardines on our mission to another planet. Australia. The land of opportunity, prosperity, wealth, happiness. At least that’s what the advertisements in the daily newspaper said back home. Home, I smile in the damp, salty air. The scrubby flats of our land achingly dry in the September sun, Mama’s weak smile still vivid in my mind as she worked away in the kitchen, making my favourite birthday meal, moussaka. It was wonderful when it was just her and myself, laughing and dancing in the kitchen. My life changed when Baba came home from the consulate that day, bringing us that dreadful news.
My smile drops as I am snapped back into reality by the lurching, wrenching sound of Ophelia throwing up into a bucket beside me, seasick. Ophelia has been pining over her husband-to-be for weeks, a factory worker that she’s never met in her life living in a city called Melbourne, our apparent destination. I personally find it quite ridiculous that one could fall in love that easily and quickly, with only a photograph to longingly gawk at.
“Evangeline, just look at him! Isn’t he an absolute dreamboat?” She sighs, wiping leftover puke from her chin.
She’d shoved his picture into my face almost a million times, a sturdy, dark haired, tan man with a grin on his face, posing lazily for the photograph. On the backside it was signed, ‘To my darling Ophelia, with love Constantine’, in scrawling Greek letters.
Marriage has never been a dream of mine, ever since I was a little girl. My childhood was a nightmarish blur, every night snuggled in bed, eyes wide open and trying to ignore the desperate crying of Mama just across the hall, while Baba shouted and spat in her face that she was “useless” and “good-for-nothing”. The day my Baba hit my Mama across the face with his clenched, meaty fist was the day I vowed never to marry.
While other girls my age in surrounding farms giggled and batted their eyelashes at some of the farmers' sons, I always turned my face away, hoping to become invisible by never meeting a boy's eyes. I have never had a beau, and have no desire for one. To me, the entire idea is abhorrent. Yet here I am, being shipped off from my home as if I were another person’s property, a transaction, a purchase. I am clearly regarded as little better than the filthy, dingy old suitcase that lies at my feet. Unlike Ophelia, my excitement for the man who will greet me when we finally arrive on land could not be any lower. Dimitris Makris.
+ + +
“Dimitris Makris”, Baba exclaims, throwing the advertisement onto the table with great ferocity.
“I’ve been to the consulate and organised everything. I am certain he will be the perfect husband for Evangeline.”
I look down at the paper, its dull black and white pages strewn across the wood carelessly, with an obnoxious advertisement screaming up at me, ‘Brides Wanted! Come to Australia, meet the Greek man of your dreams in the land of opportunity, prosperity, and wealth!’. Mama turns away from the bubbling stovetop, a confused and concerned look in her deep, frightened chocolate eyes. The mouthwatering aroma of the youvetsi on the stove suddenly became the only comforting and familiar sensation in the small cramped kitchen.
“Look Stamatina, the girl isn’t doing us any good just sitting around this house, eating our food and costing us money. Daughters are a useless burden. We may as well find her a husband while we have any money left to spare, and Dimitris was always such a nice boy before he left.” Baba forcefully declares, daring Mama to disagree with him.
For a split second, Mama turns her attention to me, widening her eyes and nodding almost unnoticeably towards the open door to my left, before turning back to the stout stocky man, his greasy black hair sticking to his round, beetroot face. I stand quickly and scamper out of the kitchen and out the back door, praying Baba would not notice me. I doubt he would. He only ever looks at me to give me a good beating when the dishes aren’t clean enough, or the washing hasn’t been hung out on the line yet. He certainly looks at me, but his beady black eyes never truly see me.
Opening the back door quietly, I walk out into the field. Baba's loud voice had evolved into yelling inside the house, while Mama pleadingly attempts to persuade him not to force me into leaving.The soft breeze lifts my dark wavy hair into the air and lovingly caresses my cheeks. I look out across the farm, my home for the past 20 years, the only place I truly belong to in this big, frighteningly wide world. I cannot possibly have to leave this all behind. The rugged mountain range in the distance topped with its dark scrubby trees, dry lake beds, thirsty earth and cool solid rocks lying below it, was so comfortably familiar in the golden autumn light. A piece of my heart walks this land, and to be suddenly uprooted and pried out of the ground like a withering tree and whisked off to some unknown, foreign land is a concept unfathomable in my racing, whirring mind. I clutch my cross pendant necklace, praying to God that I could perhaps stay here forever. I could run into the caves and hide, hide in their familiar, comforting, dark embrace. But I know I cannot. God clearly has other plans in mind for a woman like myself. I have to find a way to accept my lot in life. My sad reality of being born a woman. I don’t get to write the story of my fate. Men do.
And to be married to some stranger, an apparently successful young man owning his own Greek restaurant in a land far away. A man, who as a small boy, used to sit alone, shy, quiet and serious, never speaking to another soul. The other kids at school used to whisper that Dimitris was odd, unfathomable, perhaps with a head not on his shoulders quite right. Baba most likely wishes I was born a boy, perhaps a boy less odd and quiet as Dimitris was, but a boy all the same. I assume the second best thing in Baba’s books is for me to marry one.
+ + +
In broken Greek, a young Italian man stormed into our dark, sticky cabin room, yelling that it was time for dinner. I groan, knowing that every one of us in the mess room would be greeted by a small, miserable bowl of milky oat slop. The angry, rocky waters we've been sailing in for weeks have caused the dishes we eat from to clang, moving side to side so frequently that you'd be lucky to even get to eat the sloppy mess we’re fed every mealtime. Getting up, I look defeatedly into the small dirty mirror above my squeaky mattress bed, standing on my tip-toes just to get a good look at myself. My hair, now oily and messy, hung limply around my small shoulders, falling down towards my skinny waist. Stains splatter my simple black dress, and my necklace glistens softly in the dim evening light. A light scar decorates the olive skin of my left cheek, and I shudder just looking at it as colourful memories fill my mind's eye. I sigh, my mind overcome with a sudden strong homesickness, almost entirely overpowering the physical feeling of seasickness making my stomach churn. I miss my mother. I walk out of the gloomy cabin room, the boat shuddering like thunder underneath me. The mess room was filled with giggling, squawking brides, happily talking about how close we finally are to docking in Australia.
“Why do you constantly do that Ev?” Ophelia asks, swatting at my hands to stop me from tearing my cuticles to pieces. My calloused hands drop to my sides as we sit down together for dinner.
“So Evangeline,” Ophelia says tastefully through a mouthful of oats, “are you excited to meet your new husband?”
I look down solemnly at the blurry photograph of Dimitris, his sombre serious face barely visible on his broad, strong shoulders. The other women sitting near us look up in excitement, their eager grins awaiting an answer they are not going to receive. I sigh. I am clearly the only woman on this ship with any sense in her head not to fall in love with a still photograph. And well, the idea of love at first sight seems quite preposterous. My distaste for marriage leaves the other women baffled and amused.
“Ophelia, you know this already. I have no interest in that man whatsoever, and after the compulsory one month of living in that country is up, I am jumping right back onto this boat to take me back home, where I belong.”
“But Ev, what will your father say?---” Ophelia is interrupted by a sickening rock of the boat underneath us, and the familiar sounds of crockery smashing and squeals of fright fill the mess room.
I don’t care what he says, I think to myself quietly. I excuse myself, walking back to my dingy cabin with a heavy weight on my chest. I cannot survive this terrifying boat any longer. All I want, deep in my heart, is to go home to my safe warm bed, in Mama’s comforting arms. Home. But I know in my heart that I must accept my fate, because if I walk through that familiar front door ever again, I will be greeted with more than a quick beating by Baba. I would put poor Mama in harm's way too, and I must think of her safety. As painful as it was, I must protect her by staying away. This is what fate has in store for my new life. I have no choice but to accept it. I suppose this is what it's like to be a woman. Resigning yourself peacefully to your fate without resisting it or making a fuss, even if you despise it.
+ + +
Late next morning I awoke to bright light streaming in through the small round cabin window, right into my eyes. Blinded, I look around for all the women usually giggling in my cabin, only to adjust to the light and find the cabin desolate, quiet and empty. Where had they all gone? Then, the excited and chaotic shouts of both men and women filter in through the cracks under the door, and it sinks in, and the vague sleepy memory of Ophelia trying to shake me awake hours before comes slowly back to me. My brain then snaps into action. It’s docking day. Jumping up out of my bed, scrambling to get into my dress, I then ran out the cabin, down the hall, and up onto the main deck. Hundreds of squealing women greet me, and I am hit with sudden heat, the sun beating down on us with intensity. We had arrived at Port Melbourne.
I try to push through the crowd to find a quieter spot to wait, all the while being shoved around by women excitedly trying to spot their husbands down on the dock.
“Evangeline! Where have you been?” Ophelia appears by my side out of thin air. “I need to find my Constantine, do you see him down there!?” She asks, breathless and flushed in the bright sunlight.
I squint my eyes, trying to separate each man from his neighbour in the mass of men holding roses, cards, and chocolates down on the dock. As my eyes sweep them looking for Ophelia’s love, I suddenly stop and zero in on a man quietly standing off to the side of the crowd. Our eyes lock, and he stares intently.
“Earth to Evangeline, do you see him?” Ophelia nags beside me, but I am not listening, too focused on this strange man staring directly into my soul. My heart flutters, and my pale, olive cheeks suddenly grow hot and flushed.
“I-I don’t see him, Ophelia.” I snapped. She huffs in annoyance, walking away calling longingly for her Constantine.
My eyes still locked with his, the man stands with confidence, taller than the rest, dressed in a well-fitted dark grey suit amongst the dull coloured shirts and brown trousers surrounding him. His tan skin and dark wavy hair seems to glow, a thin layer of sweat on his brow glistening in the sunlight. A strong energy of kindness seemed to radiate from him, enveloping me and everyone around him. A sort of familiarity settles within me, losing myself in his brown eyes. The whole world seemed to pause around me, all my worries and fears floating away in the warm spring breeze. I felt oddly safe in this strange new world.
“Evangeline Lykaios?” The man’s deep voice calls up to me from the dock.
“Evangeline Lykaios?” The call sounded louder now, and finally realised who its speaker was. The man looking up at me was, in fact, Dimitris Makris. My heart soared, since this man I’d been gawking at, this man that stands more admirable than the rest, is in fact the man I am forced to marry.
For the first time in what felt like eternity, home wasn’t the first thing on my mind. Perhaps I’ll stay here for the required month, and see how things go. Perhaps Australia will not be so bad after all. Perhaps, for once in my life, my fate will lead me to great things. I smile down at Dimitris.
“Yes, I am Evangeline.” I confidently replied.