The time is 8.45am, the day is Saturday, and the city is Melbourne. My sister, waiting downstairs, makes herself known by throwing rocks at the window above my bed head. Her phone is apparently out of battery. We are about to go walking for the umpteenth day in a row. We have arranged to walk a new route, one that will take us around the bending Yarra. The thought of walking the botanical garden track one more time fills me with a different kind of dread where every step is a deja vu of the empty day that preceded. Days are no longer segregated, they sort of melt into the next like the 500g of butter losing form on our benchtop, the butter that we are really managing to get through in all of our very down time. I find I am genuinely surprised when I am pinched and punched on the first day of April. We arranged this morning’s walk over last night’s sour beers in the courtyard of her work/my home; a living and working arrangement that exempts us from the lockdown regulations premier Daniel Andrews is enforcing on our city. Over the past few weeks, her partner, their son, T and I have formed an atypical family unit. We are comfy with each other, the kind of comfy that could only be produced by a global pandemic, confined to each other’s company and each other’s company only.
Today the Yarra is swollen; its flow contradicts that of the wind. When I stop on a footbridge to hoist my ankle sock back into place I look over the edge. Small water tornados have collected debris of different kinds; anything that was not significant to remain on the ground in the cold front that passed through overnight. Having not heard a single drop overnight I am surprised to dodge the deep puddles I do. I went to bed full, tipsy and exhausted from little activity. Since the regulations began this seems to be the customary way of sending ourselves off to sleep. All of a sudden I seem to have an appetite for full-bodied reds and high ABV beers. We are eating richer, carb-heavier foods three, sometimes four times a day. Every day I wake up hungrier. It’s as if a part of my subconscious recognises an imminent ending. I’m like a woman on death row trying to get her fix. At times I find it is sort-of rather marvelous, at others, like when I’m looking down in the shower, not so much. On the bridge, I have to swivel my head to take in the width of the muddy river, it’s edges have crept up the bank overnight so it is now encroaching the bike path. My stomach, distended from last night’s pizzas and this morning’s hot cross bun, empathises with it’s swell. My lycra three quarters are tight so my calves no longer fall out of them, instead, they bulge like my fingers at the end of a fast walk on a cold morning.
The bending Yarra is lined with homes that make me immediately envious and existential. Homes that make me question what I’m doing with myself and this writing business. These homes are not houses, nor are they mansions, they are masterpieces. They are The Isolation Dream. This, my sister says catching her breath, is how the other half lives. This morning, along with every morning in this uncanny period of time, the first thing I did was read the news headlines to see how the virus has progressed overnight. I ask my sister if she saw the news about Iran, knowing she would have since the headlines have become discussion points for our morning walks. Thousands of Iranians died from drinking industrially concentrated methanol. I read they were trying to kill any hindrance of the virus in their bodies. I point out to her that this is not how the other half lives, that these ridiculous houses are only a fraction of the pie and we, in our small studios in the middle of Richmond, are not that far behind. Yes, she says, but how about Italy.
Typing the virus just now makes me feel as though I’ve dipped into the dystopian realm of science fiction. I have to keep reminding myself what’s what as our sense of reality continues to digress.
Last night after a few wines I did not, at all, feel like cooking the lamb loin roast I had ventured to the market early in the morning to buy. I did not feel like severing a single vegetable. The evening was fast disappearing so when T put the idea of pizza out there my body wanted nothing else. Our favored pizza place, Ritas, was unavailable on UberEats and when we opened an alternative delivery service we were told it would take one hundred and twenty minutes for our two pizzas to be within arms reach. In this time I could have cooked the lamb roast and ratatouille two times over. I didn’t, instead, we waited and passed the time with more Nebbiolo. I was thinking about all the people in all the homes, five million of them in this city. I was thinking about how many might also be ordering pizza or cooking pasta. I was thinking about the poor pizza chefs at Ritas being demanded beyond their capacity, their little fingers dancing over the dough, the fingers not being able to keep up with the ding, ding, ding of new orders. I was thinking about how there is next to no wait time for the other cuisines, and as I poured a Campari soda on the eighty-eighth minute I thought about how Italy, vulnerable and elderly, has provided so much joy in my life. The pizzas arrived by way of motorcycle three minutes before the one hundred and twentieth minute. From the window above the bed, I watched the driver raise his hands as if to say, I am not armed. With his hands still raised the driver gesticulated towards the large square bag on his bag and I watched T retrieve our pizzas himself.
After the walk, I do not hop in the shower, percolate coffee or assemble something relatively healthy for breakfast. I collapse on the couch, my lower back groans as if to say can we please not do that again tomorrow. But my lower back cannot know that walking on these legs is all there is, that the pools are closed, that everything is closed. I collect a slice of day two funghi pizza from the fridge. I don’t even bother to reheat. An Apple alert on my phone screen tells me my daily screen time has gone up 15% since last week. The ABC news application is still open from this morning. I drag it down to check the tolls. The truffle oil coats my insides with autumn time euphoria, it is fleeting as I see Italy’s toll has risen too much in the two hours we’ve been gone.
Later in the day word runs through our family by way of text message that the Mediterranian wholesaler is on the very last of their stock. On Tuesday Australia officially halted the import of all products coming from Italy. Since grocery shopping remains as one of the few outings the government permits, we hurry there. In the usually abundant store, the shelves are barren. My favorite shapes are gone, all that remains is Capellini -angel hair. I move aside for the Nonnas who shuffle the aisles with their heads craned, many wear masks around their small heads. I want to hug them but regardless of social distancing, I don’t think anyone would find this appropriate. Instead, my heart does this thing that it hasn’t done since I watched my mother kneeling at her father’s death bed. A painful, very helpless, un-rhythming. In front of us at the checkout is one old woman in an emerald knit patterned with yellow circles. In her basket are piles upon piles of religious candles. I wish I were ignorant of these candles’ significance.
It’s dinnertime again, the last light one for a while as tomorrow our clocks will roll back. I am stirring the angle hair into the anchovies, olive oil, and garlic, unable to unmind the image of the old nonna in the emerald knit waiting for her tram to take her home. All the candles she has lit for her loved ones back home. Our society is becoming too accustomed to death, some more than others. I take the pan off the heat, I’ve let my phone drain of battery tonight.
Yellow Days 