—He looks like a monkey, doesn’t he? Sula had lit a cigarette and was pointing at the poster. I was shocked by her casual racism. The man’s dome was shiny and mahogany, his teeth a preposterous white.
—I think he’s handsome.
—The Americans have been successful at getting their minorities, their Jews, their Blacks, to become their propagandists, she said suddenly.
The gospel-inspired chanting of Destiny’s Child was proclaiming their independence.
—Also the homosexuals. Don’t forget us. We love to shop. We’re the frontline of capitalism.
She smiled at this. A waiter arrived and she quickly fired off an order.
The sun had come out through the clouds and in the afternoon light I was again struck by her youth. I blurted out a question.
—Is Gerry your lover?
She was confused for a moment, then she laughed so deeply that she ended up spluttering and coughing. Her joy made me laugh. When her convulsions finally stopped, she took a drink of water and wiped the tears from her eyes.
—Gerard is a very kind man, but no, we are not lovers.
—How did you meet?
She hesitated. Her gaze was similar to the one the old man had given me when we were sitting in the apartment. She was taking stock of me, making up her mind. Her next question surprised me.
—In what do you believe?
The question made me flounder. I had no ready answer. I had no God, nor faith in any doctrine. I was not proud of this; I didn’t believe that it indicated any intellectual authority or wisdom. If anything, it betrayed a lack of knowledge, a pampered naivety. This woman, so many years younger than me, had made decisions and come to conclusions of which I was yet incapable. I’m still working it out, I finally answered. Col, I added, I guess I believe in Colin.
—Gerard, she said suddenly, is paid money to bring people into France. Do you understand?
I was shocked.
—A people smuggler?
Her face hardened.
—Yes, she echoed hollowly, a people smuggler.
I touched her hand and she pulled it away from mine.
—I apologise. I didn’t mean to insult him.
—He is a good man, the Jew. He saved my son and me.
—Where is your son now?
A weariness crossed her face.
—I have had to orphan my son. She changed the topic immediately. As I said, Gerard was very kind. He offered me the apartment, he ensures I have money for food. We are not lovers. He has asked for nothing in return. She laughed again. It is ridiculous, I cannot imagine he and I together. He is a peasant, that man. You must see that.
—And what about you?
—I was a spoilt pampered child, I was a foolish little girl. And now I am a fugitive in Europe.
It was at that moment that I made a decision that I knew I would only, could only regret. I had no right to make such a decision. Not on my own. Not without discussing it with Colin first. I didn’t have the strength or courage for such a decision but I made it anyway.
—Sula, come to Australia. I’ll take care of it.
Her laugh was almost hysterical. She leaned back in her chair, her hands across her belly, and her chuckles rang through the square. People turned to look at us. She took my hand.
—Isaac, no, no, she finally chortled, I have no wish to come to Australia. It is a fantasy of Gerard’s. It is he that wishes to return. As I said, he is a peasant. When he talks of your country he talks of land and gardens, of space and wild forest. Her grip on my hand tightened. I have met very few Australians, Isaac, but I have always been struck by their innocence. They remind me of a character from Henry James, they have an innocence that the Americans have now lost. It’s very seductive but I think that if I was to live in Australia I would learn to hate that innocence. I think it would drive me mad. No, thank you, but I will remain in Europe.
I was relieved, I was fucking relieved. She let go of my hand, and from that moment our conversation lightened. She paid for our coffee and again refused any money. We did not touch on the subject of her life: we did not talk about her child, her exile, her crime. Instead, we wandered through the maze of shops, and we tasted baklava and she told me a little about contemporary French politics. As the afternoon light faded she walked me to the Metro and gave me simple directions to Gerry’s shop: ascend the escalators, turn left and then turn left again into the first alley. I would recognise his truck.
—He always parks his van outside the factory, she told me. She kissed me on both my cheeks.
—Let me give you my address, I said, I will give you my email.
She shook her head. No, it is not safe.
I walked through the Metro station. A stiff elderly Indian man, dressed in a blue uniform, a gun in a holster at his side, waved me through the metal security detectors. I was entering the proper Paris.
It was not a factory, but a warehouse, and the old Mercedes truck was indeed parked outside. I knocked on a stained aluminium door but no one answered. I tried the knob and it opened. The cavernous space was packed with crates of vegetable and farm produce piled up to the rafters. Men were busy stacking the crates, or sifting through them, or smoking cigarettes and talking to each other. They ignored me until I walked up to a stout Arab youth and in appalling French asked for Gerard. He indicated an office at the far end of the warehouse. A forklift made a loud din, as did the radio which was playing a wailing song by Fairuz. Gerry was at his desk. I knocked at the window and his face beamed up at me. Come in, he indicated.
His desk was a plain laminex top on four wobbly limbs. The computer on it was old and dusty, and the tabletop was littered with paper and accounts. The flimsy alabaster walls were covered with calendars and pornographic pin-ups of large-breasted women. There were two posters pinned to the back wall. One was an Air Israel poster of Jerusalem. The Dome of the Rock glistened gold. The other poster was of the island of Santorini. The white sun-blasted houses of the island looked over an impossibly sapphire Mediterranean sea. A group of upturned green plastic chairs sat under the posters, and Gerry rose, took one and offered it to me.
—What did you think of Sula?
—I like her a lot.
—But you will not help her?
His tone was teasing and I was not offended.
—She doesn’t want my help.
I had placed my camera on his desk and he picked it up and shoved it at me.
—You will take my picture. You will take my picture to show your mother. You will show her Gerry in Paris, show her all I have.
As soon as the camera was in my hands I felt a tremor in my stomach. This time I could not make it disappear; it rose and fell and created a wave of tickles in my belly. I was about to take a photograph but Gerry stopped me. A close-up, he ordered, pointing back at the pornography on the wall. None of the bad pictures, I do not want Reveka to see any of the dirty pictures.
His tough, hard face filled the frame. I took my shot.
He pulled me out of my chair, kicked open the office door and spread his arms to the warehouse.
—Take pictures. Take plenty of pictures. Show your mother my life in this world.
I knew that the first few photographs I’d taken would be terrible. I was clicking the shutter automatically, not thinking about the frame, not thinking about the light. But after the first few shots I began to take pleasure in what I was doing. I asked Gerry to open wide the roller-door at the end of the warehouse and the dying afternoon light flooded the space. He introduced me to the men who worked for him and they all seemed to be called Mohammed or Ibrahim or Hussein. At first they eyed the camera nervously, suspiciously, but when Gerry explained to them that I was an old friend’s son from Australia, they relaxed and soon they were laughing and mucking about for the camera. The rich fetid stench of the vegetables filled my nostrils, seeped right into my blood and lungs, and again I was conscious of my stomach twitching. But the act of adjusting the camera lens, the act
of focusing on an image, seemed to alleviate my anxiety. I took shots of the men in groups of twos and threes, with wide grins and their arms around each other. I posed a trio of young men, instinctively asking them to arrange themselves in the pose of the old French photograph of my father. But before too long, the men were themselves dictating the kind of photographs they wanted me to take. A skinny African youth lay in a crate of shiny purple aubergines, his white teeth shining like pearls amid the dark tones. Another man, a burly Egyptian youth—another Mohammed, another Hussein—hung precariously from the forklift. All the time the men asked me questions about home. Their English was largely negligible, but adequate for the answers they so obviously wished to hear. Yes, our houses are large and many of them have gardens. Yes, Australia is very big. Yes, there is much money in Australia. And all the time, Gerry supplied a proud running commentary, slipping from French into English and into Arabic. You are unlucky bastards, he jeered, to come to Europe and not to Australia. Australia is good. Australia is the best country but Australia doesn’t want you. He mimed the slitting of his own throat. No niggers, no Arab monkeys for Australia.
One moment I was the centre of the action, the next the men suddenly drifted away. While I had been taking my photographs, the radio was playing agreeable Oriental rhythms. But a new voice rose across the warehouse, the call to prayer from the radio. A mullah chanted from the Qu’ran and a section of the men silently returned to their work. But a few of them walked to the back of the warehouse and entered the toilets. They emerged shoeless and unrolled mats, knelt and faced Mecca. They began their prayers. Gerry touched my shoulder and pointed to the men working.
—You can tell the communists, he whispered. They’re the ones not praying. Come, he continued. Come to my house; come meet Anika.
The drive seemed to skirt the edges of the city. Paris, with its mythical spires and labyrinthine streets, was always in the distance. Untouchable, unapproachable. We were driving northwards and very quickly the endless rows of apartment blocks fell away from view, and we were driving through miles of endless suburban estates. Country music was on the stereo and my stomach was performing its somersaults; the smell of the decaying fruit and vegetables sickened me. I forced myself to listen to the music, to try to make out the words, Loretta Lynn singing that she was a coalminer’s daughter, Merle Haggard declaring he would never love again. I battled with all my will to conquer the convulsions of my body. I was sweating, I could taste my foul, anxious perspiration. Gerry turned into a cul-de-sac, a circle of red-brick terraces, small patches of manicured lawn. He pressed the button of a remote control and a roller-door began its whirring. We drove into a garage.
—My house, he announced. Johnny Cash died in mid-song, eighteen minutes to go.
Gerry touched my arm as I was about to jump from the truck.
—My wife is very different from me.
If the old man was at ease and cheerful in his warehouse, he seemed uncomfortable in the compact bourgeois elegance of his modern home. Anika, his wife, was dozing on a settee when we arrived. Gerry shook her awake. She saw me standing behind him and drew back in alarm. Before she could speak, Gerry placed a finger on her lips.—This is Isaac, he introduced me. He is Lucky and Reveka’s son. He is visiting us, all the way from Australia.
Anika was indeed different from Gerry. She was strikingly thin, with a long neck, and her short grey hair was cut into a bob that suited both her face and her age. She was wearing a simple black dress with a burgundy scarf wrapped across her shoulders. I could tell that she had been very beautiful in her youth; despite the deep wrinkles gathered at the edge of her mouth and spreading out from beneath the slight slanting curves of her eyes, she was still a formidably attractive woman. The old man at once seemed coarser, almost brutal, next to her. Her alarm had disappeared and her manner was now reserved and formal. She offered me her hand and then kissed me on both cheeks.
—You will shower.
It was an order for her husband and she spoke in English. While the old man washed, she showed me through the house. It was simply furnished but every item spoke of her good taste. I was immediately drawn to a handsome polished cedar bureau in the lounge room. Elegantly framed photographs sat on top of it. They were all from the past, all black and white except for one colour portrait of a younger Anika sitting confidently on the arm of a sofa. She was smiling at the camera and behind her the white lace curtains revealed the rooftops of Paris. The copper-orange tiles shone brightly in the summer light. Her classical beauty was intimidating, as if it belonged to a different firmament from the one that shrouded the contemporary world. I must have paused in front of the portrait for a long time because she suddenly laughed.
—I was very young then. That was the apartment I lived in when I first arrived in Paris.
I examined the other photographs. There was not one of her and Gerry together, nothing of their courtship, their marriage, nothing of their time in Australia. A long rectangular frame across the middle of the bureau contained three square sepia photographs of a family dressed in their winter finery: the matron in a tilted black-plumed hat, a fur coat buttoned to her neck; the patriarch fat and beaming, his suit well-cut, his moustache thin and waxed; the two daughters, one of whom I immediately recognised as Anika, dressed in identical fur stoles and dark berets. They were both laughing.
—This is my family, in Amsterdam, before the war.
—Is your family still in Holland?
—They were all killed in the war, she answered coldly as she moved me on. I was the only one to survive.
The kitchen smelt of spices and roasting meats. From the window, in the evening light, I looked out into the small patch of garden. The interiors did not feel like the old man’s house but it was clearly his garden. Thick, long zucchinis grew amidst ropy vines. I could make out three tomato plants and a small row of pots along the back wall with herbs growing in them. It was a tiny space, not more than a couple of metres long and a metre wide and now I could understand the old man’s nostalgia for his Australian home. Sula was right. This was a peasant’s garden and it was calling for more space, more soil, more earth.
Anika had opened the oven door and I caught a whiff of burning meat. My stomach turned and I steadied myself on a bench. I was dreading the thought of dinner.
When Gerry returned from his shower, he had replaced his old work shirt with a frayed denim shirt, and wore a pair of old tracksuit pants.
Anika said something sharply to him in French.
—This is my house, he replied in English, and I will wear what I want.
He turned to me.
—What would you have to drink? Wine? Vodka?
—Have you got whisky?
—Just like Lucky, he laughed. Anikaki, does he not remind you of Lucky?
—I barely remember Vassili. There was a chilly anger in her voice, and realising it, the face she turned to me had softened and she smiled warmly for the first time.
—It was all a long time ago, darling, since I last saw your parents. She took a long look at me.
—Yes, I see Vassili in him, but I also see Rebecca. Yes, he is Rebecca’s child.
My nausea escalated as Anika brought the meal to the table. She apologised for not being prepared for my arrival but there was no need. The meat she had been roasting was a succulent cut of beef, and she had reheated a tray of grilled aubergines and peppers. I forced down what I could, making my tongue work its way around each morsel, clamping my teeth into the food, driving it down my gullet, down to my protesting belly. Gerry, I noticed, ate nothing. He sipped at his whisky and watched me eat; I thought I saw a playful, teasing grin on his face. Anika only picked at her food. She explained that she had friends arriving for lunch the next day and it was for this reason she had cooked a roast.
—How about your husband, the old man interrupted her, didn’t you cook it for me?
Anika ignored him and instead asked me questions about my life in Australia. She was obviously sadd
ened to hear of my father’s death.
—I admired your father, he was an intelligent and learned man.
—Unlike your boor of a husband, no?
Gerry slapped my shoulder to show he was joking, then continued.
—I always believed Lucky and Anika should have left together for Europe. They belonged here. I would have been happy to stay in Australia with your mother.
—You are talking nonsense, his wife retorted. Lucky adored Rebecca. She was not like the other migrants. She was raised in the city.
Anika turned to me.
—She is a very smart woman, your mother. Of course, she was not educated like your father was, but she could laugh at him. She has great strength. And she was truly beautiful.
The talk of their shared past with my parents had momentarily stilled the burning inside me. I wanted to hear more.
—How did you all meet?
—My husband shared a house with your father before we were married, before any of us were married. They were comrades together. There was a biting resentful tone to her answer but she smiled as she continued her recollections.
—The men would take Rebecca and me to communist dances. They were truly insipid affairs.
—We make fun together, Gerry objected.
—The precious moments of dancing and singing were not worth the boredom of those harangues we had to listen to.
—No, of course not, you always prefer the rubbish and lies of the rabbis.
—I never forced you to Temple.
—You did not? Your memory is mistaken, my sweet Anika.
There was ice in the room. The torments in my belly had returned. I was sweating. In order to fill the suffocating silence I stammered out a question.
—Are you religious, Gerry?
He did not look at me as he answered. His fierce gaze was firmly set on his wife.
Dead Europe Page 27
