Dead Europe

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —I’m not intending to stay more than a night or two.

  —As you wish. Do you want a coffee?

  He went to make the coffee and I took a seat on the couch. The bottom springs had collapsed and I sank into the vinyl. This was not a Paris I knew at all. Outside the window I could see a supermarket in the distance, and there was the constant drone of the motorway traffic. It was a flat-blasted concrete shithole as far as the eye could see, and apart from the French type on the banners for Pepsi and Nike flying across the shopping mall exterior, I could have been in any outer suburban allotment in Melbourne.

  Gerry handed me a cup of instant coffee. He had not made one for himself.

  —How did you get my email address? The question blurted out sounding much more aggressive than I had intended.

  —It was very good luck, Isaac. I ring your mother and she tells me that you are in Europe. I wished to ask of her a favour.

  —I didn’t know you were in contact with Mum. I was fiddling with my cigarette packet and he asked for one. I lit it for him and he inhaled deeply.

  —How is Reveka?

  He pronounced my mother’s name in the Greek manner.

  —She’s okay. She’s retired so she’s a bit bored. But she’s good. I’m glad she’s finished work. She was getting exhausted.

  —Factory work?

  —Mostly. In the end she was working as a cleaner. She said that was easier on her.

  —Is she still beautiful?

  I laughed.

  —She’s old.

  —Of course, he snorted. We are all old. He continued to smoke, sucking on the cigarette. The silence grew awkward between us and I was suddenly nervous. The man was anxious. His sweat was pungent and masculine, and he also smelt of the earth, of soil and dirt. I was reminded of my lover’s smell. Gerry’s hands were large, knotted and scabbed, and he was wearing a simple cheap cotton shirt and worn white-streaked denim jeans. He noticed me looking at his hands and he stretched them out.

  —A worker’s hands, eh, Isaac?

  I nodded.

  —Like your father?

  —On and off.

  —Yes, and the old man smiled. Lucky never liked too much hard work. I tease him much about that. He always talked of the working class but Lucky was no worker.

  I launched into a defence of my father.

  —He looked after us. He worked in factories all his life. He was a bloody worker.

  —No, disagreed the old man firmly, he was not a worker. He think too much, he argue too much. He always tell the manager to fuck off. Lucky always in trouble with the bosses.

  —Did you and my father work together? I lit a cigarette. Gerry didn’t answer me. I was remembering the pouches of powder they once pulled from inside the cushion stuffing of a gaudy faux-baroque sofa. I was also reminded of my first love, of Paul Ricco, another man who smelt of the earth, of soil and dirt. I was aware that Gerry was examining me, that he was making up his mind about me. I wanted to impress this strong, severe man. When he finally spoke it was not to answer my question.

  —I rang your mother to ask for help. When she tells me that you are in Europe I think I am fortunate, that maybe Lucky’s son will be the one who will help me. He was careful with his words, speaking slowly, ensuring that he pronounced the English accurately.

  —How long had it been since you’d spoken to Mum?

  —I leave Australia in nineteen seventy-two.

  —Jesus. That long?

  —Yes. A very long time.

  —And what’s the favour you want to ask of me?

  Again he fell silent. The cigarette had burnt out in his hands and he flicked it into my now-empty coffee cup. When he spoke again he did so in a rush of words, a long complicated sentence that he forced out as if he’d rehearsed a speech, as if it was crucial he got the order of the words right.

  —I wish to bring a young woman to Australia. I will fix her passport, I will arrange all her papers—you have nothing to worry about, I promise, it will all be on my expense and all I ask is that you look after her, to find her place to live, help find her job. She is good woman, she is brave woman, Australia will be good to her. He stopped. His next words were bitter. Europe is no place for her, Europe not good for her.

  —Is she a relative?

  —No. I have only my wife, Anika. I have no other family.

  The Hebrew. The only one in the entire world.

  —Who is she, then?

  —She is a refugee, like your father. She is very like your father. She too had to escape her home.

  —Where’s she from?

  —From the wars.

  —But where exactly is she from?

  His smile was bitter.

  —That does not matter. The important matter is if you will help her.

  I looked at the old man’s face. I could not summarise his features. His skin was a Mediterranean olive but he was no Mediterranean. He was no Slav. He was no Turk. He was certainly not an Eastern European. Where was he from, I wondered.

  —Is she a Jew?

  There was a flash of anger on his face, then it was gone.

  —No. If she were a Jew she could go to Israel. Or she could stay here. I would not need your assistance. Unfortunately, she is not a Jew.

  —I’m not sure what you want of me.

  —To help her, to help her come to Australia. That is all. And that you tell no one her secrets.

  —Why can’t she stay in France?

  —It is difficult here. France, Europe, they ask too many questions of her. She is living in hiding now. She will be free in Australia.

  Nineteen seventy-two, it was such a long time ago. He was sweating heavily and I noticed his left hand was trembling.

  —It’s also difficult in Australia now, I reply. Things have changed. It’s harder for people to get visas. I don’t think I can help you.

  —I tell you. I arrange passport, I will prepare the papers.

  —If she doesn’t have official papers, there’s nothing I can do. If they find her they’ll send her back, or put her into detention. Do you undertand? It’s like a prison. I searched for the words. No, it’s like a concentration camp.

  He looked at me blankly. I didn’t know how to tell him that the country he had dreamt of no longer existed.

  —They’re just as suspicious as here, I spluttered, it’s just as fucked as here, maybe more so.

  —I have passport, I will prepare her papers.

  He was not listening to me. I was both frightened and shamed by his request. I had a multitude of reasons why what he was asking of me was impossible. I could tell him that he had forgotten the xenophobia and suspicion of strangers that had long been part of the Australian character. I wanted to rationally explain the difficulties now involved in attaining an Australian visa, an Australian identity. I wanted to tell him about the detention centres for asylum seekers, I wanted to tell him that this woman’s life would be no better in Australia than it would be here. Not better, not more safe. Nowhere was safe anymore. I had a multitude of good, rational reasons but I felt shame because I knew the real reason why I would not take this risk. I was scared. I was terrified to take such a risk. I was chickenshit scared. I didn’t want to risk my own security for a stranger. I shook my head. No, I will not do it.

  —Five thousand euros, he announced coldly, I will give you five thousand euros if you assist me.

  The room had gone quiet, the world had gone quiet.

  —Five thousand euros, he repeated. They are yours. I can give them to you now.

  I could smell his anxiety. I could sense the cost for him in doing this, in asking this of me, the cost of his pleading.

  There was a tremor in my stomach. It was only for a second, but I instantly recognised it. It was hunger, it was stirring. The tremor went, but it had not vanished. It was coiled, a sleeping serpent in my belly. It was waiting.

  I shook my head again. I did not need the money. The money would help, but I didn’t need it. Coli
n and I both, Colin and I together, we did not need the money. This was freedom. The money was not a temptation. The old man glimpsed the relief on my face. He did not attempt to cajole me further. He rose from the sofa.

  —You are free to be here for a week if you wish. I will take no money.

  —I only need a place for a night, two nights at most. I began to stammer out an apology, but he wouldn’t allow me to finish.

  —Come, he interrupted, I will introduce her to you.

  She had the apartment next door. Gerry did not bother to knock, and we startled the woman as we entered. She was wearing a pale blue scarf over her head and her round ashen eyes flitted angrily from me to the old man. Then, bored, she turned back to the television. The layout of the apartment was identical to the other one. Her small kitchen alcove was full of jars. Chickpeas and lentils; the room smelt of spices, cardamom and garlic, cinnamon and rosewater. There were no photographs or pictures on the walls. The woman picked up a remote control, turned off the television and indicated for us to sit on the jumble of pillows forming a half-circle around a low rectangular coffee table. She turned to me.

  —Do you speak any French?

  —None.

  —Fine, she said, then we shall speak English.

  I was surprised by the American twang to her accent. She offered us a coffee but Gerry refused and turned to me.

  —You will come to my house for dinner tonight. The statement brooked no refusal and I found myself nodding in agreement.

  —I will give you directions.

  —I will take him, the woman answered for me.

  He said something sharply to her in French and she replied even more sharply. He turned once more to me.

  —You will meet me at my work. You still have my telephone number?

  —Yes.

  —Good. And he was gone.

  The woman visibly relaxed once the old man had left.

  —I will make us a coffee. Do you take it in the Lebanese style?

  I still felt shame from my refusal of Gerry’s plea. I didn’t dare tell her I preferred Turkish coffee. I smiled and said, Yes, that would be lovely.

  —Good. My name is Sula.

  —Isaac.

  On hearing my name she hesitated and looked towards the door, as if searching for the old man.

  —You too are Jewish?

  —No. I hesitated. Greek Orthodox, I guess, but I’m not religious.

  —And you are the one who will offer me safe passage to Australia?

  Her grin was sly.

  —I don’t think I can, I said slowly.

  —No, she replied, I did not think you could.

  The coffee was far too syrupy and sweet and we sat across from one another on plump red pillows while she fired off a dozen questions about my work, my family, my house, my relationship. When I told her about Colin she did not flinch. If anything, it softened her attitude towards me. She took one of my cigarettes and asked if I would like to see Paris with her.

  —I’d love to.

  —I will prepare myself.

  She returned from the bathroom with make-up on her face. The thick scarlet lipstick and the blush of lavender eye shadow had the effect of making her appear older. She had coated her eyelashes with a thick black gel and her round eyes seemed darker and almost too large for her soft fine face.

  —It is easier if I leave the apartment looking like this. I am less conspicuous.

  —You don’t mind?

  —Of course I mind, but it is easier.

  She swung around.

  —What did the Jew say about my situation?

  —That you are a refugee.

  —And?

  —That’s it.

  —He did not tell you that I am asked for by the authorities?

  —No.

  —That he should have told you. She walked past me and back into the bedroom. Please excuse me, she said, I desire to change my clothes.

  When she emerged from the bedroom, she was wearing a thin wool white sweater and a black thick skirt that fell below her knees.

  —Do I look European? She pulled her silk scarf off her head and wrapped it around her neck. Her thick, dark shoulder-length hair shone black and cobalt in the light.

  I looked down at my old jeans, stained with sweat and come, and my navy hooded top with streaks of tobacco ash covering the front.

  —I should change.

  —You look fine.

  —I’m afraid I stink.

  —Of course, you have had a long journey. Would you prefer to sleep? I can awake you in the evening.

  —No, I answered. I wanted to see the city through her eyes. I can sleep when I get back to Australia.

  —Good. She slung a white compact handbag over her shoulder. Then we shall go.

  The afternoon I spent with Sula would forever alter the adolescent romantic notions I once had about the city of Paris. When I had first travelled in Europe I’d bunked down in a hostel near St Germain des Pres and though I walked miles across the mythical city, and though I travelled widely through the belly of its Metro, I realised now that I’d seen only a fragment of Paris. Of course, when we travel, when we are tourists, we only see that part of a city which has given itself over to the trade of travel. I knew it back then, that the gloriously pretty city of classical architecture and narrow sloping streets was not the whole story. But I believed it to be a significant part of the story. I was enchanted by the beauty of the French capital. Why couldn’t our cities be more like Paris? I moaned when I got home. I detested the wide empty streets and grid-like patterns of Australia’s modern metropolises. I couldn’t bear the vast tentacle reach of suburbia. But the confident young woman who led me through her Paris that afternoon did not take me anywhere near that safe, contained, delightful city. She showed me a harsh place, a tough, crumbling, decaying, stinking, dirty city. The city beyond the Metro.

  We waited at a filthy bus shelter that reeked of vomit and piss. Don’t sit, she barked at me as I was about to plonk myself on the seat; I looked down and saw a seeping mash of shit splashed across the bench and dripping through the slats to the concrete beneath. I had to fight back the impulse to retch. When the bus arrived, mine was the only white face among the passengers except for a pale teenage girl, her right ear spiked with an array of hoops and rings, whose head was slumped on the shoulder of her bored African boyfriend. Most of the other passengers were also African, the women in colourfully patterned burkas and shawls, the men in thriftshop sport jackets and polyester trackpants. The passengers who were not African were either Asian or Arab. I had my camera around my neck and I held it close to my chest with one hand while the other hand jabbed my wallet deeper into my jeans pocket. Sula paid my fare and the young Vietnamese driver impatiently handed her two tickets. The bus jolted, lurched and picked up speed until it abruptly stopped for an old French couple. The frail old woman required a walking stick and her husband solicitously assisted her to a seat near the front. With extreme care, with diligent purpose, the old man and the old woman made sure that their eyes were not once in contact with anyone else’s on the bus.

  When the white French couple had boarded, I automatically felt lighter. I could suddenly merge into one with the rest of the passengers on the bus. The old couple looked at their feet and said nothing to each other. With my tanned skin and dark features I too blended into this mob of faces which was and which was not Europe. Only the camera that hung around my neck gave me away. I fingered the lens. I raised the camera and brought the old couple into focus. In the foreground there was the bright sunshine-yellow burka of an African woman and I could sense her back stiffen at my action. The old couple looked away from me; the old man scowled. A young Arab man, sunglasses on, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, was sitting across from me, but he smiled at my camera. I took his portrait. Sula ignored me. I noticed a torn sticker on the window of the bus. There was the outline of the map of France and within the borders of the map there was a jumble of symbols: the Islami
c Crescent, the Star of David, and a caricature of a veiled woman. I could not make out the French. What does that say? I asked Sula.

  She sniffed dismissively.

  —That is a fascist sticker. It is anti-Semitic.

  I pointed to the half-moon crescent.

  —And anti-Arab.

  —What did I say? There was fury in her voice. Aren’t I a Semite as well?

  Why anti-Semitism? Colin once mused. Why is that one form of racism the only one given a name? And why that divisive name? Do you think, he continued, that it was all planned, the playing off of the Zionists against the Arabs, the bungled administration and handover of Palestine, all deliberately organised by the European Christian powers to split the Jew and the Arab?

  I laughed out loud over my coffee.

  —You’re exactly like my old man. That’s what unites the fascists and the bolshies. A love of conspiracy theories.

  —And you’re a classic fucking democrat. You don’t want to believe that those with wealth and power would deliberately organise and conspire together. And you’re the one who went to fucking university.

  The Crescent, the Star of David, a veiled woman. I fumbled in my pocket and found my pen. I leaned across Sula and I daubed a crucifix into the French borders. I smiled as I was doing this.

  —See, I said gleefully. Now everyone can relax. Now it is truly France, as it has been for centuries.

  Sula looked at the graffiti I’d added to the sticker. She said nothing, she stared ahead.

  We got off the bus at a square that reminded me more of the Paris I’d encountered on my previous travels. Sula pointed out the beginning of the Metro line; we were in a small valley between two hills: the shopfronts were a jumble of modern steel and concrete, and eighteenth-and nineteenth-century terraces. Many of the shop windows had Arabic as well as Latin lettering advertising their wares, and the square was full of young people: white, brown, black, Arab, African, European and Asian. We took a seat at an outdoor cafe and I watched the youth casually flirt with one another. Destiny’s Child was singing ‘Independent Woman’ in one corner and from across the square Youssou N’dour was challenging with ‘Allah’. A huge banner flew from the entrance to the Metro: a thick-necked man with a basketball in his arms was holding up a soft drink. The enticement to drink was in English, not French.