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‘Sure.’ His deep, resonant voice echoes in the empty pub. ‘What can I get you?’
Though there are plenty of free booths, I take a seat at the bar, facing the bartender. He reminds me of a young Leonardo DiCaprio, all floppy hair and charm. He grabs a glass from the shelf above him and looks at me expectantly.
‘A Coke,’ I say, and then quickly add, ‘please.’
‘A Coke?’ he repeats in disbelief. ‘Justa Coke?’
‘Zero sugar if you have it. But if you only have diet, then a regular Coke is fine.’
The bartender gives me a strange look. ‘No, we’ve got it. Want a glass or just the can?’
‘Glass. Please.’
‘Lime?’
I nod.
He opens the can and pours the Coke into a glass, adding a squeeze of lime. As he slides it towards me, I notice a red scar runs diagonally down his palm.
‘That’ll be four dollars,’ the bartender says abruptly.
Merde. Four dollars?! Everything in Australia is so expensive. I fish out my wallet and hand him a bright pink five-dollar note.
The bartender hands me back a dollar coin. I glance at the tiny tip glass beside the cash register and reach towards it.
The bartender smacks his hand over the top of the cup. ‘Don’t tip me.’ My dollar coin hangs in the air between us. ‘My boss takes all the tips. Besides, you don’t need to tip in Australia. Keep the dollar.’
I put my dollar back in my wallet, feeling like I’ve somehow offended him. ‘Thank you.’
‘No worries,’ the bartender says with a chirpiness that seems to come naturally with Australian accents. ‘Where you from?’
It’s small talk, but it seems like he could use someone to talk to. There’s no one else in the bar, and it looks like he’s the only one on staff.
I take a sip of my Coke. ‘France. My name is Gabriel. My English is not great.’ When you spend most of your teens playing tournaments across the world, you’re bound to missa lotof school. I’ve learnt English through playing and travelling, but I wouldn’t consider myself a confident speaker. Especially to reporters.
‘I’m Noah, and I promise my French is terrible. Are you here on holiday?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Work.’
‘Work?’ he echoes. I can tell he’s trying to figure out exactly what work would bring me all the way from France. ‘What kind of work?’
‘International relations.’ It’s the first thing that comes to me. I suppose it’s true enough.
Noah studies me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. ‘That sounds like a fun job; are you staying the summer? It’s hot as fuck now, but Melbourne’s really lovely in the evenings.’
‘I don’t mind the heat. Growing up, my family spent our summers in Algeria. Melbourne has the same dry heat. It’s nice.’ I don’t know why I’m telling him this; perhaps it’s the way his eyes haven’t left mine since I walked in, or maybe because I know I’ll likely never see him again—but something about him makes me uncharacteristically chatty. ‘Are you from here?’
Noah’s mouth tenses slightly as he polishes a spoon. ‘I moved here when I was eighteen from a small town two hours north. You know, small city, big dreams.’ Before I can ask him about what specific dreams, he adds, ‘So how long do you think this job will take?’
A day? Two weeks? ‘Hard to say. The company will schedule a flight for me as soon as it is over. No time for sightseeing.’
Most of the time, Victor books a flight to the next tournament the moment I come off the court after my last match.
‘Well, that’s a bit shit.’ Noah finishes polishing the spoons and begins on the knives. He rolls his sleeves up past his forearms and my eyes are drawn to the flex of muscles; the veins that run up the back of his hand. Why is that so sexy? ‘If you were staying a little longer, I’d offer to show you around.’
A nervous laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Is this flirting? Am I being flirted with? ‘That would—’
The door opens at the top of the stairs.
