Dead Europe

by Christos Tsiolkas

  I went to my pack and rummaged inside for the camera. I sat on the sill and scrutinised my sleeping friend. His arms were above his head, the sheet forming a diagonal across his back. I raised the camera. A cloud drifted across the sun and the room darkened. I waited, I thought I was holding my breath. The sun emerged and I snapped him. I found myself praying. Please, I implored some version of God, please let this be a photograph of friendship. Just a photograph of my mate. When I finished I took off my clothes, climbed into bed next to Sal Mineo, and whispered, I like your work. He hugged me and I fell into sleep.

  Twilight was coming through the window when we awoke. Sal Mineo put on a burnt CD which jumped a few times but I didn’t mind because it contained horny illegal remixes of Prince and Eminem that I’d never heard before, and with a stamp of our dancing feet the CD always righted itself. We played it over and over as we showered and got dressed. We were camp and bitchy, sarcastic and nihilistic and we fell about giggling. I found an old CD mix of Sal Mineo’s titled Totally Summer Hitz 1993 which was full of half-forgotten pop memories for us. We were dressing up, preening, getting ourselves to look our best but with a determined effort on both our parts to not only look attractive, but also laid-back and straight. Just like in the old days, when we were younger and arrogant and vain, when we’d prize ourselves on looking both masculine and heterosexual. Never too try-hard. We were having fun. We had not been friends like this for a long, long time.

  —What’s this dinner going to be like?

  Sal Mineo offered me a beer, lined up some more coke and did not answer me. He skipped the CD to a madding and infectious fluff of pop and I turned down the volume.

  —What’s it going to be like?

  —King Kike doesn’t have dinners. There’ll be lots of alcohol and rabbit food.

  —I’ve got the the Key, I’ve got the Secret.

  He looked at me contemptuously.

  —I can’t believe you’re singing to that shit.

  I just sang louder. Then abruptly stopped, bored with the song myself.

  —Are you with anyone? Here in Prague?

  I knew that intimate questions could often annoy Sal Mineo but though he warned me with a look, he relaxed and nodded his head.

  —Pano. I’m in love with a man called Pano.

  I snorted the coke, my mind travelling fast. Sal Mineo never used the word love much. In fact, I’d never heard him use the word before.

  —Who is he?

  —Married.

  —Are you sleeping together?

  —Sometimes.

  —How often?

  —Sometimes.

  —Does his wife know?

  Sal Mineo had had enough. He jumped to his feet, turned off the CD and began switching off the lights.

  But returning from the toilet, he had three black and white photographs in his hand. He showed me then. The man’s face was scarred above the left eye and there was also a gash across his chin. He had dirty blond hair, cut close to the scalp in a military style. His mouth was big, his eyes set close together. He looked sad; the half-smile sitting on his lips did not travel to his eyes. He was staring somewhere beyond the camera. A thatch of tightly coiling hair escaped from his shirt collar. Sal Mineo put the photographs back into their clear plastic sheath and tossed them on the bed.

  In the street he walked with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, and his gait was sure and energetic. I followed a little behind him. When he turned around he was smiling. The metro station was largely empty except for an old woman repeatedly running her fingers along her varicose veins. Billboards for soft drink and a Hugh Grant movie were ludicrous plastered across the stark Soviet-era design of the platform. The train arrived on time.

  We ascended into the night. In the distance I could see Prague Castle illuminated by the half-moon’s feeble rays. We were in a dark boulevard flanked by imposing nineteenth-century mansions. I had no idea that such space existed in this city, that there were people who did not live in cramped squares on top of each other. We crossed the boulevard and approached one of the dark buildings. An iron gate locked us out. Sal Mineo pressed an intercom and a sharp voice in accented English asked for our names. Sal answered. There was a buzz, and the gate slowly opened.

  Discreet yellow globes, a row of flickering glow-worms that jutted out from the balconies, lit the courtyard. A fountain fluttered in the middle of the square and I could hear the faint murmur of classical music.

  —Who lives here? I wondered out loud.

  —Once the aristocrats did, then it housed top commie bureaucrats and now rich ex-pats live here.

  Sal Mineo’s tone was bored as he monotonously listed the ironies of history. He rang a doorbell and it was answered by a tall young man, his hair gelled up in a ridiculous rocker quiff. Silently he waved us into the apartment.

  A cavernous living space contained ottoman sofas, footstools and rugs. A large poster for Billy Wilder’s A Foreign Affair, Marlene Dietrich looking seductively over a naked shoulder at the ruins of postwar Berlin, dominated the room. A preposterous wooden spiral staircase rose up from the far end of the room to a dome high in the ornate ceiling. The young man asked us what we wanted to drink. I said a whisky and he asked what kind. Sal Mineo chose a vodka and lime, Absolut he demanded, and my friend drinks Chivas. Make sure it’s fresh lime with the vodka.

  —So you made it, you ugly wop putz.

  Syd’s body was so large he could barely descend the staircase. He grabbed Sal by the neck and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. He then grabbed me in a bearhug. I could smell his expensive cologne, the vodka on his breath, the fierce overwhelming sweat of the man. He gripped me for a moment too long. I had to get my breath when he released me.

  —So where’s the fucking party, Jew-boy?

  Syd scratched at his front teeth, put the cigar back in his mouth and pointed to the ceiling.

  Sal Mineo groaned.

  —It’s too cold for a roof party, Syd.

  —Shut up, you wop bastard, laughed the older man, his flab shaking. It’s a decent night, or what passes for a decent night in this fucked place. Come up, I want to show your friend the view.

  The young man handed us our drinks and quickly disappeared.

  —Who’s that?

  —He’s new. You like him?

  —He’s pretty. Sal Mineo’s tone was disparaging. Syd laughed, again his whole body trembled.

  —He’s a Croat. He has an enormous schlong.

  He turned to me and winked.

  —I have a friend in Paris, she’s a doctor, works with venereal disease. Been doing it for years. She reckons of all the races, of all the ethnic groups, Croatians have the biggest dicks. Do you think she’s right?

  I thought back to high school. Grigor and Mattias in the showers after P.E.

  —She may be right.

  —Then who’s got the smallest dicks? Sal Mineo’s grin was broad and malignant. I bet it’s you Jew boys.

  —No, Syd retorted, the Arabs have the smallest cocks in the world. Then it’s us fucking Jews.

  We went up the staircase behind Syd, his enormous weight obscuring our view till we climbed out onto an open-air patio with a small glassed observatory along one side. Through the panes we could see half a dozen people sipping drinks.

  Syd opened the glass door and introduced us to the guests.

  An American couple wearing matching Ralph Lauren polo shirts—one yellow, one red—and sporting matching tans and goatees. I immediately forgot their names. Red was already drunk and Yellow ignored me. A tall, bearded man called Yves who worked for the French embassy. A Czech man with luminous pale skin who was called, incongruously, Jake. Later in the evening he would tell me that he was hoping to be a model in Los Angeles and would ask me to comment on his biceps and triceps. There was a much older man in a suit, whose name I didn’t quite catch, with a thick boxer’s neck and a gold watch chain on his lapel. And there was Maria. She was smoking long thin black cigarettes and wore
a tight red strapless dress that revealed bony porcelain shoulders and an ample bosom. Under the layer of thick make-up there was a ravaged face. Her eyes were sharp, her nose was long and ancient and she was clutching a long-stemmed champagne flute with elegant red-tipped fingers. When we were first introduced she was arguing with Yves. She turned, kissed Sal Mineo quickly on the lips, shook my hand, and returned to the argument. Everyone was sitting on two settees at opposite ends of a round glass table covered with bottles, a loaded ashtray and a platter of antipasto. Syd sank down next to Maria and the settee rocked wildly: champagne splashed from Maria’s glass onto Syd’s thigh. He brushed it into the fabric of his pants, took a vial from his shirt pocket and spread a thin square of white powder on the glass tabletop.

  —Careful, warned Maria, her Russian accent making the English word hard and sensual, there is the wind.

  —Don’t worry, countered Sal Mineo. Syd’s bulk works as a buttress. There were titters from Red and Yellow, and Syd slapped Sal Mineo playfully across his chest.

  Maria snorted quickly and turned back to Yves.

  —It is bread, darling, she continued, all revolutions start with bread. You should know this, being a Frenchman. Supply bread and you will have all the democracy you want. Without the bread, fuck your democracy.

  Yves shook his head. He had a small diamond stud in his ear.

  —Maria, I don’t agree. First you must have the foundations of a liberal legal system, you must have open markets and a free media. Yours is the traditional socialist mistake. First supply the free market and the liberal media and then you will see the bread follow.

  I was offered a line. I knelt beside Maria’s legs.

  —And is this your job, Yves, to supply us with democracy?

  Syd leaned towards me.

  —Yves is currently a spy for the government in Yemen.

  Yves turned to me. I cleared my nose.

  —That is not the case. I am working on social security policy for the government of Yemen. I’m part of a consultative committee for the EU. I am no spy.

  Yves proceeded to lecture us on the important work he had to accomplish in the Arabian peninsula. I interrupted.

  —What’s your interest in the Middle East?

  Syd laughed loudly.

  —Arab ass is his interest.

  Yves scowled.

  —I have studied Middle Eastern politics for a long time, he insisted. I have been invited by the government there to assist in their country’s liberalisation.

  Sal Mineo let out a loud snort.

  —By fucking Yemenite boys?

  —No, retorted Yves, by aiding in creating a market economy. And ensuring that we develop initiative and competition, not terrorism and poverty.

  —Tell the boys your theory on the family, insisted Maria. She touched my shoulder. Yves was just preaching to us on the limitations of the collective family.

  —Not the collective family, Maria, the extended family. That is the correct English word. Your vocabulary betrays your socialist past. The extended family, Yves continued to lecture, inhibits the economy; resources are shared and therefore consumption is limited. It is a patriarchal traditional economic mode. We seek to replace it with a modern individualistic ethos. Demand increases, industry increases, wealth is generated, women are liberated.

  He smiled at us and snorted some cocaine.

  Red had raised his eyes to the heavens. I saw him mouth the word boring to Yellow.

  Maria’s foot was tapping impatiently on the balcony’s stone floor.

  —And pray tell, what industry will you encourage in Yemen?

  —That is not my role.

  —Give them fucking bread.

  —That is a servile attitude to the economy. You expect the state to supply you with everything.

  —And your markets supply us with nothing.

  Yves shook his head, as if Maria was nothing more than an obstinate child. There was a patronising sneer across his top lip.

  —Toutes les choses, Madame. Pour tout le monde.

  With a lunge across the table, Maria grabbed a handful of Yves’ hair and forced his face towards hers.

  —Careful, hissed Red, the cocaine!

  —And what about the boys in the streets below? What about the boys you’re going to fuck tonight? What does the market give them?

  Yves pulled back from her. He straightened his shirt collar.

  —L’argent, Madame. L’argent, les opportunités. More than just fucking bread.

  Maria darted up from her seat, a snake’s sudden move, and slapped Yves once, twice across the face. Her dress scattered the cocaine to the wind.

  —Fuck, shrieked Red. Look what you’ve done, you stupid Russian bitch. His accent, New Englander and pompous the moment before, had transformed into a shrill mid-western twang.

  Syd was holding onto Maria. She was still glaring at Yves, who was calmly rubbing his cheeks. He grinned like the victor.

  —It’s okay, Syd said to Red, his hand still tight around Maria’s arm, there’s plenty more. Maria, he whispered, his voice surprisingly tender, would you like some more cocaine?

  Maria suddenly laughed, a long ringing laugh, full of mourning. She sat down next to Syd, kissing his face, his hand, his fingers. Yes, yes, she laughed. More cocaine. Fuck democracy, more cocaine.

  She’s crazy, I heard Yellow whisper to Red.

  Red nodded in agreement.

  Maria nestled her head into Syd’s girth. More cocaine, please, she whispered, more cocaine.

  Fuck democracy. My father had said this to me all his life. Colin said it to me when we first met. Confident of the value of my college education, trying to form a coherent faith out of the remnants of my father’s politics, my mother’s cynicism, my youthful idealism and the demands of my prick, I had chosen for my second-year assignment to photograph unionists. My second-year lecturer was a wiry Jew with Streisand curls and a melodic voice we all had to strain to hear. In private she was shy, nervous and flighty, and until she knew you well, seemingly unable to look you straight in the eye. But once she stepped up to the lectern she became passionate and stirring. Her skill was her knowledge, her craft her preparation, her passion the drive to convince her students of the humanitarian basis of art. She even managed to convince Sal Mineo that, if art should not have a purpose, then at least there was beauty to be found in art and work inspired by ethics. She saw liberty in Mapplethorpe’s composition of a thick black cock emerging triumphantly out of an unzipped business suit. She insisted that it was fraternity that was being celebrated in Dupain’s young bathers, and yes, even in Larry Clarke’s skinny teens shooting up heroin. And everywhere, in Dorothea Lange, in Ansel Adams, Caryl Jerrems, Walker Evans and Cartier-Bresson, she saw the impulse towards equality. For her, art could only be democratic.

  What about horror? we’d counter.

  She would flash images of Dachau and Vietnam on the overhead projector. Horror without compassion was exploitation, she argued. A hand would rise: what belongs to journalism, what belongs to art? Another hand would rise. Yes, she was confusing the secular vocation of the artist with the spiritual commitment of the philosopher or monk. She made our classroom democratic. We argued and fought and got drunk together and even Sal Mineo, even Sal Mineo overcame his resistance to her bourgeois demeanour and shyness and took part in the debates. And even if he, and some others—if not for the same reasons—remained unconvinced by her argument, they celebrated her teaching. I myself was convinced. I approached her with my idea to photograph unionised workers. She arranged for me to meet a friend of hers who worked for the building and construction union. He made it possible for me to gain access to worksites and introduced me to an organiser of the nurses’ union who got me access to her members working nightshift in a large inner-city hospital. And my mum talked to her manager, who shrugged his shoulders and allowed me to wander the textile factory where she worked.

  Fuck democracy!

  It was smoko. I was standing
on a large thick beam seventeen stories above ground level, explaining to thirteen suspicious building workers the purpose of my photography assignment. My voice squeaked as I explained my desire to make art reflective of democracy and labour in both its content and its accessibility. I wanted these men to collaborate in what I was doing.

  —Shut up, Colin, interjected a stocky Maltese man who was the eldest of the group. He smiled at me. Go on, son, speak, continue.

  —Fuck democracy, Colin yelled again. We’ll end up on some yuppie gallery wall, people will comment on how worthy it all is, and then they’ll forget it all and still complain next time they have some work done on their place of how fucking tradies and builders get paid too much and have too good conditions. Fuck your photography. Fuck your democracy.

  He turned his back to me. Of course, it made me want to photograph him.

  I spent ten days on the site. The men never quite lost their suspicion of me, but they tolerated my presence; and by the third day I was simply ignored: they stopped making faces or showing me their arses every time I pointed the camera. I’d sit on the edge of the bench at lunchtime, munching on sandwiches, watching the city streets below criss-crossed by the metallic lines of gables and beams. I didn’t join in the conversations and I wondered sometimes how much of what they said was intended to insult and bait me.

  They should shoot fucking boat people, shoot any cunt illegally trying to get into this country. Too easy. We’ve made it too easy for them.

  I’d go straight to college from the building site, develop the negatives I had shot that day and emerge stinking of sweat and chemicals.

  My son reckons he can’t get into his course because they’ve got to take a percentage of fucking Aboriginals. I should paint my fucking face black. If you’re an Abo they give you everything.