She’s already dead.
—Stop it.
I tell you I can’t. It’s done.
—Stop it.
She’s just a whore. Why do you care?
Reveka began to pray. Angelo cowered at the edge of the mattress, his body jerking with fury. Reveka prayed louder.
And still Stella died.
It was soon to be holidays. Reveka was almost asleep; the smooth, soft voice of Mrs Cowan was reading the class a story. She felt something land on her back. She turned around. Roger was throwing spitballs at her.
—Stop it, she whispered.
Wog, he mouthed, dago, refo, grease-ball pig.
She turned and faced the blackboard. The wet paper projectiles kept landing on her shoulders and the top of her head.
It was the last recess before the holidays. Reveka hoped that she would never have to come to school again. She didn’t see why she couldn’t join Eleni in the factory, assist her in working the sewing machines. The factory was full of Greek girls, not like school. She sat underneath the wooden steps, sheltering from the sun, watching the girls play their games with rope and string. She could hear the yells of the boys at the other end of the playground.
—There she is.
Roger’s blue eyes were looking down at her from above the wooden steps. She turned to run from her shelter but she felt the strong grip of another boy’s hands. She could not even see who it was. She just wanted to run away from the leering Roger.
—Hey, relax, said the boy, I’ve got a present for you.
She squirmed and tried to bite the hands of the boy holding on to her. The girls had stopped their game. They were all looking in her direction.
Roger slapped her hard across the face.
—Wog, he sang.
—Wog, answered the other boy. The girls began to twitter and laugh. Wog, wog began the chant. Reveka fell quiet and the boy’s grip on her body tightened. It was Andy McBride, she was sure of it. She could smell him. It seemed all her senses were sharp and clear and strong. She could smell Andy and Roger and the girls. She could smell her own fear. Had she pissed herself?
No. In his hands Roger was holding a small milk bottle. A neck of foam, the liquid thick and gold. She could smell it. She gagged.
—Not yet, laughed Roger. He brought the bottle to her nose. The stench of the urine made her gag again. The boy tried to open her mouth and she fought hard against him. He simply laughed. Another boy was now behind her, holding on to her legs. She bit Roger’s finger, and he punched her hard in the stomach and as she fell to her knees in pain, her mouth open, he grabbed a handful of her hair, jerked her head back, and poured the contents of the bottle into her mouth, over her cheeks and chin and ears and eyes and hair. The liquid burnt her tongue and gums and throat. The girls were shouting with laughter. Dirty wog, dirty wog, Rebecca is a dirty wog. The boys let her fall. She fell to the ground and as the urine stung, as its stink filled her mouth and nose, she began to retch. Above her Roger was laughing. Her eyes burned and she found that she could not open them. The world was dark and she was spitting out bile. She heard her voice and it seemed to float above her. It was in Greek and the boys and the girls did not understand, and they kept laughing, but beside her she felt Angelo’s freezing hands grip her shoulders.
What did you say?
I wish they were all dead.
That summer was full of mourning. Mothers nursed their feverish children throughout the night. The doctors prescribed medicine. But still the children died. The adults feared an epidemic. A rumour began that it was an exotic disease, a plague brought into the country by one of the filthy refos. The refos themselves kept silent, though in their own homes they agreed that there was truth to what the Australians were saying. Their own children were indeed safe. This was not an illnes to be cured by doctors and medicine. They prayed. They prayed, but they also placed garlic under their children’s pillows, offered supplications to their saints, rained down curses on their demons, implored their One God while secretly doing penance with pagan spirits. At last, the children stopped dying. But not till thirteen small caskets had been lowered into the ground. Only then did Death stop his visitations.
Reveka remained inconsolable throughout all this time. Michaelis attempted to assuage her fear and guilt, first with gifts, then with kisses, then with pills. Nothing would do. Can’t you see him, screamed the little girl, the Devil, can’t you see him? He’s right beside you. She was taken to the priest, who warned that she was possessed and who brought frankincense and the Bible into the house. The girl sickened and refused to sleep. Her eyes widened, her face thinned. I did this, she screamed at the priest, I’m guilty, it is all my fault. As February moved into March, as summer began to vanish and the girl remained sleepless and ill, Old Woman Kalantzis offered her advice.
—Michaelis, she said, take her to Dora. Dora will help.
—I don’t need witches, he answered angrily.
—You do, replied Old Woman Kalantzis, her voice firm and kind, take her to Dora.
The old woman who opened the door wore black, her house smelt of cat’s piss and her eyes were round and smiling. She took Reveka in her arms and attempted to soothe the little girl.
—Can’t you see him? Reveka screamed. Can’t you see that the Devil is always with me? He makes me do things. It’s him, it’s him.
Michaelis hung his head. The old woman could smell the lager on his breath. She smiled down at the little girl.
—Of course I can see him, she replied and she touched Angelo’s shoulder; he turned to her and bit at her wrist.
The old woman just laughed and slapped him. She showed the flaming pink bruise to Reveka.
—See, he’s not that powerful. We’ll deal with him quickly.
She could see Angelo thrashing furiously at the old woman’s back. His face was clouded with hate; black and fierce with hate. Reveka closed her eyes tight.
—I don’t want to see him, she screamed. Make him go away, make him go away.
The old woman rested the girl on a couch covered with a thickly woven shawl, and took a small green bowl of poppies from the top of a creaking heavy wooden wardrobe. She turned to Michaelis.
—Go and have a cigarette in the night air. It is not necessary for you to be here.
He hesitated, but her tone had been as firm as it had been kindly. Stooping to kiss his shivering daughter, he left the room. The old woman offered cucumber and tomatoes to the little girl, who refused it all.
—Suit yourself. The boy lunged again, this time with a force that nearly knocked the old woman off her feet. She swung around and pummelled the empty air. Angelo was laughing.
The old woman ignored him. Sitting down, she grabbed a knife and began to slice at the wizened skins of the fruit. A small stream of sap and water fell onto a dish. She rose and took a large heavy wood crucifix off the wall. Come, she ordered Reveka, come to the fire. Reveka could hear that Angelo was calling her to stop. But the old woman’s grasp was strong and she forced the little girl to kneel before the dancing kitchen fire. Angelo was now pounding his fists on the woman’s legs but she just laughed and jabbed at him with the crucifix. This only maddened the boy further. He bit into the wood. Reveka tried to run from the old woman’s grasp but her nails bit hard into Reveka’s flesh. She could hear the woman chanting. She was singing out names. They were the names of saints, then the names of the Trinity, then the names of the prophets; and then there were names that were older even than these. Angelo was now shrieking in fury; he roared through the small wood house, drowning out the rumble of the cars and trams, the whistles of the kettle, Michaelis’ pained sobs outside, and the angry hissing of the cats. The old woman placed the dish above the flames and pushed the little girl’s face towards it. Breathe it in, she ordered, and the smell was putrid and the little girl resisted and held her breath but the woman’s grasp was strong and the smoke stung at Reveka’s eyes till finally she had to inhale and when she breathed again she could
hear the boy’s furious screams and she could still hear the old woman chanting, searching for the name. It seemed that all there was in the universe was this litany of names. The terrified boy’s hands reached out to her. Again, Reveka attempted to rush from the old woman but then one name was chanted that filled the world with silence.
Elias. The world was in this name. Elias, the woman repeated, Elias.
The little girl collapsed to the floor.
—You can come back in, Michaeli. Her father rushed to the stricken figure crumpled on the cracked linoleum.
—What have you done to her, you old bitch?
Dora lifted the dish off the flame, knelt before Reveka and leaned over to kiss the little girl’s brow.
—She’s fine, I’ll get her some water.
The number 72 tram rumbled down Church Street. A factory whistle blew. Reveka slowly sat up and drank greedily from the water. Her eyes were languid and far away but for the first time in months a contented smile was on her face. She looked around the room. She could see her father, the old woman, the cats. But no one else. Should there have been someone else? She smelt again the sharp stench of the poppies’ juice.
—Can I have some more?
The old woman nodded. Reveka inhaled, breathed in the glorious dreams of the fumes, and she fell asleep.
Dora and Michaelis sipped their coffee and sat in silence. The fire wheezed and sparkled in the kitchen hearth and the room was warm. Michaelis took a small box from his pocket and handed it to the old woman. Dora’s eyes flashed wide at seeing the exquisite scarlet and silver stones inside. She slipped a charm over her wrist. The demon’s bite had all but disappeared. But reluctantly she took it off and laid it back in its box.
—They are the Devil’s, Michaeli, she whispered, do not keep them.
The man said nothing; he stroked the hair of his sleeping daughter. Reveka did not stir. Her arms tight around her father’s strong neck, her body slumped across his knees, the little girl lay in grateful, contented, serene sleep.
IT WAS AN Enid Blyton morning when I finally cleared English customs. The ferry from Rotterdam landed in Harwich at seven in the morning and it wasn’t till just before noon that the customs official handed me back my passport and waved me through. They’d checked my bags and asked me a hundred questions. How long do you intend to stay? What do you have to declare? How much money do you have on you? What is your purpose for being in the United Kingdom? Do you have relatives who reside in the United Kingdom? From Cyprus? From Greece? Are you sure? Would you be prepared to sign a statement to this effect? Have you ever been convicted of a criminal drug offence in Australia? Have you ever been convicted of a criminal activity involving a minor? Have you ever been a member of an organisation designated as a terrorist organisation by the European Union? I answered in the negative, I declared that I had the equivalent of two hundred and thirty pounds to last me the week in their country, and I showed them my plane ticket confirming that I would fly out of Heathrow the following Monday evening. The customs official was all blank eyes and clear pale skin. She was young and officious, with an insipid smile and a polite blank expression, even when asking if I was carrying a bomb or if I was a child rapist.
It was a contrast to the last time I entered the country. Then, the customs official could barely bring himself to look at me without making his contempt clear. I remembered him distinctly. He was short and reeked of tobacco, balding, bony and wiry, and his leathery skin reminded me of the faces I had seen on countless late-night black and white English movies. An Ealing face, a kitchen-sink face. The young woman relentlessly interrogating me this time was a new face of England, a post-Thatcherite face. Youthful, officious, pretty and blank. No, I answered, I have nothing to declare. No, I have never knowingly consorted with terrorists. No, I answer, I have no intention of working illegally in the United Kingdom. She handed me back my passport and waved me through. I knew I was fortunate. Those with Oriental features, or with African faces, those with the broad flat faces of the Europeans not admitted to the Union; they were all made to wait, and were eventually taken through into private interrogation rooms. She accepted my answers at face value. She searched my bag but did not take away my passport, she didn’t ask me to strip, she didn’t demand to search my mouth, my hair, my arse. The Asians and the Africans and the Slavs were not afforded that luxury. Their papers, their bags, their arses, their cunts, every pore would be checked.
She smiled clinically and waved me through into England.
The world I entered was green and lush, and there were birds trilling in the trees as I walked across to the railway station. The elderly head-scarfed English woman at the kiosk called me love and promised to make my coffee strong. I bought The Guardian, a packet of Marlboro Lights and sat down in the sun. Pure happiness.
Colin, whose ancestors’ Celtic blood had mingled for generations with the Anglos and the Saxons, told me that every moment he was in England he felt estranged and wary. I didn’t feel that way at all. The first time I visited here I had been surprised to feel comfortable and at home. Not a sense of home as in belonging. Nothing of that. It was in Greece where those emotions and contradictions played out. I was simply who I was when I was in England. A stranger. Myself. There were no colonial ties. I was blessedly free of identity. I was not a wog in England. It was Colin who was a wog in Europe.
—Where you from, love?
—Australia.
The old woman’s face lit up, and then she looked puzzled.
—You don’t look it.
I smiled and opened The Guardian. There was news of terror and security. The Europeans had become New World. They were puzzled by the senseless attempts of the world to place obstacles to their pursuit of happiness. For myself, under the caress of the fine English sun, I was just content to not be feeling the call of blood. I was not hungry.
There was a train leaving for Cambridge in an hour. I took out my tattered address book and searched for a number. I asked the old woman for a pay phone and bought a telephone card from her. The phone was answered on the second ring.
—Yes?
His voice had not changed. It was as gruff and as deep as it was when I first knew him.
—Sam, it’s Isaac.
There was a moment of silence, and then his laugh sang down the line.
—You bugger. Where are ya?
—Harwich.
—You fucking wog, you don’t pronounce the ‘w’. It’s Haridge.
—I’m in fucking Haridge then.
Immediately his manner changed. He became serious and reprimanding.
—Why didn’t you phone before?
I didn’t have an answer to that.
His manner changed once more and again he was laughing and sounded pleased to hear from me.
—Come on over.
—Can I stay a few nights?
—Of course.
I told him what time the train would be at the station at Cambridge and he promised to pick me up. When I put down the phone I could hear something poppy coming from the tinny radio over the kiosk counter. I found myself whistling along to it. A boy, not much older than fifteen, was standing alongside the old woman, smoking a cigarette. She took it from his mouth and had a drag. Though he had ebony skin, he had her eyes. Grandmother and grandson? Mother and son? There was nothing Enid Blyton about them.
The train wove through the orderly English greenery. An old man in a threadbare tweed suit shared the carriage with me but he immediately fell asleep to avoid conversation. I had the newspaper with me but I didn’t read it. Instead, I thought back to the last few days in Europe. I found myself childishly wishing that the crossing of the channel had somehow delivered me from my curse, that the journey across the waters had shaken off my demons. I was convinced by now that it was indeed demons that had been following me incessantly on my journey across Europe. But I was too much a child of both my father and my mother. Her Orthodox superstitions were in my blood, and I pondered the worth
of exorcism. And then I heard my father’s rationalist scorn. I wondered if it was psychotropic drugs that I needed instead.
I was missing Colin greatly, his size, his affections, his love. More than God or medicine I felt the need for him. I found myself praying to him, my eyes closed, the rhythmic rumble of the train leading me into a mantra. I promised him that I would return, that from then on I would stay safe in his arms in the home he had created for us. I disavowed my ambition and my art. I would not seek fame or success, I would be humble, I would be ordinary. I was sick, sick to the soul, of wanting, desiring greatness, of never being satisifed. More, I was always wanting more. I was always hungry for more. This was the nature of my illness. I would forsake the world for him. I opened my eyes. The old man was snoring. I unzipped my backpack and took out my camera. I pulled free the lens cover and took aim at the old man sitting across from me. There was a flash of light as I pressed down on the shutter.
By the time the train pulled into Cambridge station the clouds had rolled across east England, the sun had been banished and it was a grey, Orwellian afternoon. Sam was waiting for me under a large black umbrella. I was struck by how much he’d aged. When he taught me at high school he’d been the epitome of the hippie teacher: long unkempt hair, a shaggy moustache and baggy ugly earth-tone clothes. His hair, now cut close to his scalp, had gone completely white, as had his stubby thick moustache and close-cropped beard. I chuckled as I approached, on seeing that he was wearing neat cotton trousers and a freshly ironed shirt.
—Very smart, I teased.
He grabbed me in a huge hug and kissed me on both cheeks. Then he kissed me again. We pulled apart, and though we were both grinning happily, there was a brief moment of embarrassing silence. He stooped and picked up my backpack. He rolled his eyes at the drizzle of rain.
—Welcome to sunny England, Zach.
Dead Europe Page 31
