Read the first chapter of the new novel from the author of A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing.
A wildly inventive story of betrayal, ambition and love, The Honeyeater confirms that Jessie Tu is one of our most original and exciting writers. Start reading now.
'Tu is original, brilliant, funny, fierce--everything I want in a writer.' Annabel Crabb
'Daring and moving . . . a joy to read.' Christos Tsiolkas
My mother has always wanted to go to Paris. She believes in the romance of the city. The fantasy of beauty and love is something she thinks about every night as she returns from work to our two-bedroom apartment in Telopea.
Someone once told me that romance is just sex. My mother doesn’t seem interested in sex, so I try to find some other way to please her. This year for her birthday, I’ve decided to take her to France. A guided tour across the country, fourteen days by bus, twin-share. This will be my romantic offering. The grand gesture. After all, isn’t romance simply the performance of affection? I harbour the fantasy too; the jewelled Eiffel Tower, the foggy Seine, women in berets, their totes filled with baguettes.
It will be the first time my mother and I holiday together. I have doubts, sure, but I keep them hidden. We are the silent types, my mother and I, keeping things to ourselves. What is love, otherwise? It isn’t kind to burden loved ones with your troubles.
‘I’ve got us tickets to Paris!’
We are standing on the balcony of our apartment when I share the news. She is tending to her small veggie patch, her shoulders hunched over the plastic mesh fencing. I watch the spade in her hand as she scrapes it against the concrete around the raised bed. She is extracting fallen ashes from the cracks on the ground. Three days ago, we burned joss paper in a metal drum for our deceased ancestors. We do this twice a year, always on the balcony at dawn so the neighbours don’t see.
Now the ground needs to be swept clean—in case the ghosts get mad. My mother rises to her feet, her cheeks glistening in the afternoon light. She looks pleased at my news but not ecstatic.
‘It’s a mid-range tour, called Highlights of France,’ I explain. ‘We’ll circle the country, starting in Paris and ending there.’
‘好,’ she says.
As if to stop me from saying anything more, she repeats: ‘好.’ Okay.
My mother is not precious. I like this about her. What I don’t tell her is that it’s the only tour I can afford right now, with my meagre salary at the university, and my boyfriend being frugal and all. Well, ex-boyfriend. We broke up a week ago.
We still text on WhatsApp. He turns off his notifications, so my messages don’t show up on his phone without warning. This means he is slow to respond. Lately, he’s been taking a few days to reply. He says he is busy working on a big project.
I still have the brooches he gave me. They are stashed in a plastic pouch at the back of my underwear drawer. I take them out to remind myself I was once in love. And to remind myself he existed. Exists. He said I was his one and only. He said he loved nobody else—not even his wife.
‘Don’t forget to pick up my medication tonight!’ My mother clocks the time on her watch then strips off her gloves. ‘It’s getting dark earlier.’
When I tell my boss about the trip, she is quietly excited.
‘France? Now that’s a place and a half.’ We are in her office on a Wednesday morning. She has no classes on Wednesdays and is therefore always in a better mood.
‘Do you want me to put you in touch with some translators who live there?’ she asks.
‘No, thanks. I’ll take it easy with my mum.’
For several minutes, the Professor shifts her attention between me and her monitor. Her office is sparse. A single pot plant stands lonely in one corner. The walls are filled with shelves and on the shelves are books.
‘You look tired,’ she says. ‘Perhaps even a bit despondent. It’s not boy trouble, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘Oh no.’ She looks at me with concern. ‘I’m sorry.’
When I don’t respond, she adds, ‘Take the day off. In fact, don’t come in this week. I’ll cover your classes.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘Certainly.’
It’s not the first time I relish my luck at having such a generous boss. She genuinely cares for me, not just for my career.
‘But don’t get too complacent.’ Her eyes expand with warning. ‘You should make a solid start on Beef on Naan.’
Naan is the first book I’ll be translating alone.
The Professor fought for me to have it. A publisher from Taipei approached her last year about translating Shyla Ma’s award-winning book, but she told them that I was better suited to the work—the protagonist being young like me.
‘I like to help when I can.’ The Professor smiles. ‘I’m free to take your classes this week. In September, the faculty will be quiet. I’ll be at Yale. And there’s that conference in Taipei.’
For years, I have been trying to get a place at the annual translators’ conference in Taipei, where translators make their break into the international circuit. They secure translation rights to bestsellers, promote their own books, spread the word about new releases, make important connections.
I’ve dropped hints that I’d like to attend, though the Professor seems reluctant to discuss it, keeping me busy with jobs and telling me how indispensable I am to her. Sometimes, I fear she won’t let me leave her side.
‘Is anyone from our department going to Taipei this year?’ I ask.
‘Maybe James. I don’t know,’ she answers, her eyes still trained on her monitor. Since my honours, Taiwanese literature has been the focus of my research. How can she not understand how crucial the conference is to me? ‘Anyway, this trip with your mother will be good for you. Clear your head. I’m always telling people things I should tell myself in the mirror. And going with your mother will be ideal. You can concentrate on Naan. You won’t be distracted by sex or the needs of a partner.’
‘You clearly don’t know my mother.’
Finally, she lifts her gaze and leans back in her chair. She studies my face, a look of deft concentration hardening her soft features. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’
There is no world where my mother and the Professor actually meet, so I fake a smile and hope she moves on.
Eventually, she does. ‘Take a notebook to record field notes while you are away,’ she advises.
‘I’m going to France, not Taiwan.’
The Professor shrugs, unfazed. ‘They’re all the same—France, Taiwan, Ethiopia, Brazil. They’re all people talking different languages. Foreign languages.’
I am reminded of one of our earliest mentoring sessions when she quoted Marguerite Duras: ‘A writer is a foreign country.’ She had used the same inflection on the same word: foreign.
But I am from a foreign country. And I am a writer too. So what does that make me? Twice expelled?
As I’m leaving, she calls out, ‘Don’t check your emails while you’re away.’
I step back into the room.
Her mouth is flexed in a half smile, as if she is hiding some undisclosed mirth. ‘I want you to be present while you’re in France, understood?’
‘It will be hard to be away from email,’ I say.
‘Let me give you some advice, Fay. Travelling somewhere new is excellent while you’re working on a translation. You can immerse yourself in your new environment and focus on the two languages you’re working in. Limit your contact with people back home. That includes me.’
‘Okay.’
The woman is teaching me about boundaries, all for the sake of making me a better translator!
On my way out, she asks me where I’m going.
‘To the chemist,’ I say. ‘I’m getting medication for my mother.’
‘Oh perfect. Would you mind picking mine up too, and James’s?’ She reaches into her drawer. ‘Here’s the script. It’s for his high blood pressure. Sadly, he’s not getting any better.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Make sure the pharmacist gives him the correct pills—our tablets look identical and last time they mixed up our meds. Just check mine has ibuprofen in it and his doesn’t.’
The Honeyeater is available in all good bookstores from 2 July.
Jessie Tu will be on tour with events on sale now - book your ticket here.
The Honeyeater
by Jessie Tu
A wildly inventive follow up to the acclaimed bestseller A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing, winner of the ABIA for Literary Fiction Book of the Year.
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