Beneath The Fig Leaves: An Excerpt

As a child, books fascinated me; intrigued by their stories I often slipped into their world. If words and stories could make me feel so many different things, then I, too, wanted to write, to make others feel the same sense of excitement and wonder.

My curiosity and imagination were relentless, as far as I was concerned, everything had life, with feelings and emotions; empty chairs were always waiting for someone, the white daisy bush along our fence line had a habit of singing to passers-by, and the trees in our street loved to join our game of hide-and-seek.

When you’re young, everything seems possible and all I ever wanted was to tell stories and to see my name on a cover of a book, like the ones that I devoured from the school library. The dream of writing was often overshadowed by the lack of faith I had in myself; it took many years before I developed the courage and wisdom to explore my beliefs and perceptions of who I was and my place in the world.

Writing was a gift of love, an intimate agreement that I would honour and fulfil. I began each day with a new vision, a picture that I now saw myself in – that of an author. Of course the rejections came, but they were no match for the joy of writing and creating something real and alive; no match for my love of story. 

In the Spring of 2009 I embarked on a cultural and culinary adventure with my ninety-one-year-old mother, Giannoula. Seeking to know her not just as a mother, but to capture something of the essence of her indomitable strength, wisdom and loving nature. I began a heartfelt personal and family memoir in honour of an extraordinary woman and teacher.

Beneath the Fig Leaves unfolds in my mother’s garden, where, under the shade of a fig tree an old wooden bench beckoned; it was a time for story and reconnection.

I listened eagerly as my mother shared stories of her childhood, of times of uncertainty and struggle, and love, delighting in playful tales of village beauty secrets and young romance, and confronting those that reveal the immense hardship and sacrifice she endured.

What wasn’t apparent at first, was that in the sanctuary of my mother’s garden, I had gone home in search of myself. It was through story that I came to know myself; to trust in love. A tale of sacrifice, new beginnings and reconciling with one’s past, Beneath the Fig Leaves is a love story, a rich tapestry of family, food and history. 

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Beneath the Fig Leaves by Olympia Panagiotopoulos (Affirm Press) is out now.

EXCERPT: BENEATH THE FIG LEAVES

9 December 2010 

I awake with thoughts of Sydney Road, Brunswick. Midmorning, I wander the aisles of one of its grocery stores, idly browsing the shelves and fresh produce. I pick up a couple of bunches of leafy greens for Mother and I observe the shoppers; mostly older European couples speaking Greek or Italian. Suddenly, an intense nostalgia takes hold and I realise that I have come out in search of a feeling; a fleeting connection to time and memory that I try to latch onto. Did my parents shop here in the fifties? I imagine a thirty-seven-year-old Giannoula walking down Sydney Road in 1956, hurrying to buy food: radíkia, onions and potatoes; the children straggling along after her, hoping for some leftover change for lollies or ice-cream. Fotios would be home soon and she would have to prepare dinner before leaving for one of her jobs. 

I arrive at Mother’s around midday. ‘Éla,’ she says, clapping as she notices my shopping. ‘Ahh, how did you know? I was about to make chórta; I had a dream that your father wanted some. Come and have coffee.’ 

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ I answer, lingering in the hallway by the sideboard covered in photo frames; familiar faces that smile up at me and remind me of their time and place in the fabric of our family and home. 

From the hall I head into the lounge on the left. The velvet couch and armchairs sit expectantly, adorned with crochet-covered cushions that are plumped and welcoming. I take it all in, every object: porcelain statues – name-day gifts – stand proudly here and there, including on top of the stereo unit that Father surprised us with one year; the emerald-green sherry glasses in the buffet; the framed painting of a grand house with Grecian columns and a garden by the sea; another dozen or so framed photographs. The room hums the tunes of friends and celebrations, and I picture Mother decorating it all those years ago. What joy she must have found in the simple act of buying a vase or a few metres of lace-trimmed curtains, without first thinking about whether there would be enough money for food that week. 

I continue to my old bedroom; how I had longed for my own space. So many plans and dreams were confined to this precious corner of the house. The large wardrobe sits just inside the door, my round, purple-framed mirror hanging on the side. I still remember the day it arrived; I could hardly believe it was mine. I look down at the cream-and-beige carpet that I bought in my late teens and remember its woolly pile soft beneath me as I lay reading Dolly magazines, imagining that I, too, was cute and glamorous and destined for fame. 

I make my way to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway of my parents’ room. I smile at its prettiness: the floral quilted bedspread, the beige bedroom suite decorated with wooden knotholes and shiny brass handles on the doors and drawers; the dressing table with its large mirror in front of which I sat on the morning of my wedding. I sit on the bed and watch the nuances of light caress the room as the curtains move gently in the breeze. The house is peaceful and content; it remembers the old and the new; the laughter and joy and sadness. 

Mother and Father’s story is one of prosperity, of endings and beginnings, of courage and resilience and commitment. Each room of this house and every object in it is a testament to their journey. 

‘Liba,’ Mother calls from the kitchen. ‘Ti káneis? The coffee is ready.’ 

‘Coming,’ I sing out, standing up and smoothing out the bedspread. ‘I was admiring the house,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek. 

‘It is getting old,’ Mother says with a smile. ‘Like me.’ 

‘You are both beautiful,’ I say. 

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Author Bio – Olympia Panagiotopoulos

Born in Melbourne to Greek parents, Olympia Panagiotopoulos comes from a long line of storytellers who inspired in her a love of folklore, myths and legends. Themes of identity and belonging are central to her writing and she is a strong advocate for celebrating bold female characters – in story and in everyday life. When she is not writing, Olympia can be found tending her garden, experimenting with new recipes in her kitchen and watching classic movies from the 30s and 40s. Her debut memoir, Beneath the Fig Leaves, is a vibrant and compelling tribute to her heritage and parents’ journey.  

Social Media links:

Instagram:   

https://www.instagram.com/olympiapanagiotopoulos/

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/olympiapanagiotopoulosauthor/?modal=admin_todo_tour

Twitter:  

https://twitter.com/OlympiaLoves

 

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