by Derek Hansen
I screamed and cried and fought and I would not do it. I would not break open the egg. When Milos brought me home I lay down on the sofa and curled up into a ball. I stayed like that for hours while my mind sought a safe haven. It took me back to Tokaj Street, it was so sweet there and pleasant. So safe. There were times when my mind retreated so deeply Milos could not awake me and he feared he’d lost me. For six months, my friend the doctor gave me an egg and a spoon each time I went to see him. It was torment, but slowly it occurred to me that each time the torment was a little less than before. One day I summoned all my courage and broke open the egg. That sound! That sickening, wet sound! The egg opened and so did the floodgates. I cried and screamed and remembered every detail. I relived every second of that terrible night. My hour became two, became three. I told him about the eggs and about everything else I had hidden from him. The doors burst open and everything came tumbling out. My friend the doctor took me in his arms and told me I was the bravest woman he had ever met.
He was wrong, of course. My friend the doctor had set me free like he had promised to do, but by then I had acquired more chains. All those years of taking compound analgesics had finally exacted their toll. My kidneys failed, destroyed by the powders and tablets which had helped me cope. Three times a week I needed to be connected up to an artificial kidney, a dialysis machine, to have my blood taken out and washed. It is a humiliating, drawn-out and often painful process. I could not bear to do this in hospital so Milos learned how to operate the machine.
Home dialysis was better but not good. I hated that machine. It took out my blood, washed it and gave it back to me, but each time my blood lost a little of its vitality. It kept me alive, that machine, but alive is not the same as living. My skin turned sallow and yellow. I endured the most terrible cramps as the machine stripped water out of my body. Afterwards my skin itched so badly Milos had to rub me until I fell asleep. It governed our lives, this infernal machine. Milos used to joke about it. ‘Time to have your oil changed,’ he’d say.
To keep my spirits up he told me stories. He used to tell me stories to take my mind off my visits to my friend the doctor, and now he told me stories to distract me while my blood channelled through the machine. Milos has always told wonderful stories, even when he was a child visiting us at Tokaj Street, but four years ago his stories got better, more varied and more stimulating. That was when he met you and you began your Thursday lunches. I cannot begin to tell you how much I looked forward to Thursday afternoons when Milos brought your stories home to me. They were the most precious of gifts. I learned how each of you speak by listening to the way Milos retold your stories. I learned the way you think through the way you constructed your stories. We would argue, Milos and I, always trying to guess the ending or uncover hidden agendas. Your stories helped me forget the pain of having my memories raked over. Your stories helped me forget that I was dependent on a machine. They gave us moral dilemmas and made us look deep inside ourselves to find the truth. They helped me forget that I was growing weaker and that soon I would die.
For five years my life depended on that machine while I waited and hoped for a transplant. Salvation came two years ago, tragically, on the back of a motorbike. We had all but given up hope when a young man riding home from work in the rain skidded and crashed. His head hit a lamppost, causing massive brain damage. The doctors kept him alive on life-support machines while they sought permission from his grieving family to remove his organs for transplant. What a gift! What kindness from strangers! My heart went out to that young man’s family. A young girl in Melbourne received one of his kidneys, I received the other.
Milos told me your stories as I lay in hospital while my new kidney made up its mind whether it would work for me or not. Sometimes the level of toxins in my blood was so high they’d think about putting me back on dialysis. The threat was always enough to get my kidney working again. I refused to go back on that machine. After six weeks I was well enough to come home.
The last two years have been the best of my adult life. After all these years I am free. Free of the machine and free of my fears. Imagine that. After so many years! Of course I still have nightmares occasionally but I can deal with them now. They are almost like old friends and I would miss them if they went away. I take every opportunity to demonstrate my freedom. I leave both front and back doors open all day in our house in Bellevue Hill and the sunlight streams in. I leave the windows open. I go shopping by myself. I ride with Milos on the train to the city. I speak to strangers. For the last two years I have been living my life to the full. I sit in theatres and cinemas. I can walk in crowds. But for all the new things that I do, Thursday evenings are still the most precious. When Milos tells me the next instalment of your stories.
‘That is very flattering,’ said Ramon.
‘Flattering? Why would I flatter you? I know your stories are just a pleasant interlude in your busy weeks, but for me they are much more. They were diversions when I most needed diverting. They were the crutch that supported me through my troubles. They made me use my brain when it wanted to shut down and retreat. They gave me reason to live. How could I possibly allow myself to die in the middle of one of your stories? How could I, before I knew how it ended? No, I didn’t come here to flatter you, Ramon, I came here to thank you. To thank you all and repay my debt to you in the only way that is appropriate — by telling you my story.’
‘Gratifying. Perhaps that is the word I should have chosen,’ said Ramon. ‘It is always gratifying to learn that we have helped someone whether or not that help was intended. It was never our intention to put you in our debt, but you have repaid us many times over. For us, telling our stories requires only skill. Telling your story required courage.’
‘Great courage,’ said Lucio. ‘Whatever debt existed has been repaid with interest.’
‘You are both very kind,’ said Gabriella.
‘Perhaps,’ said Ramon, ‘but there are a few points I don’t understand.’
‘Such as?’ said Milos quickly.
‘Why the urgency?’ said Ramon. ‘Why did you have to tell this story ahead of Neil’s?’
‘Yes, Milos, why the hurry?’ cut in Neil. ‘You did the full drama queen number and I for one would like an explanation.’
‘Drama queen number?’ said Gabriella. ‘You are saying my Milos is a drama queen?’
‘Damn right! You should have heard him. He went off like a cheap alarm clock. And what about your precious schedule, Milos? Why did the story have to be finished today?’
‘I told you, I had no choice over the subject matter and no choice over the timing of the story,’ said Milos.
‘Time is running out, that’s what you said,’ prompted Neil. ‘You used that as an excuse to jump the queue. And you ordered a cognac before your meal. Pure theatrics. Bloody hell, if I’d known where you were going to take us, I’d have ordered one too.’
‘I thought you appreciated our story,’ said Gabriella.
‘Ignore him,’ said Lucio. ‘He enjoys being insensitive.’
‘There is a deadline,’ said Milos doggedly. ‘And time is running out.’
‘Explain,’ said Ramon.
Milos slumped back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair.
‘Tomorrow Gabi and I fly back to Hungary. To Sarospatak, to be exact.’
If Milos had announced they were going to the moon he could not have silenced his friends more effectively.
‘Visiting, or something more permanent?’ asked Ramon tentatively.
‘Both,’ said Milos. ‘I am going back for a visit. Gabi … Gabi is going home to die.’
‘What?’ said Neil. The colour drained from his face. Gabriella still had hold of his right arm and he covered her hands with his.
‘Yes,’ said Gabriella.
‘But you’re cured!’ protested Neil. ‘You’ve got your new kidney and you’ve got your head back together.’
‘Now do you understand, Neil?’ said Milos
bitterly.
‘Understand?’
‘Why I had to tell this story and why I had to tell it now?’
‘Of course, but —’
‘Do you still think it was a wallow? Another boring serve of European tragedy?’
‘Of course not!’ He turned to Gabriella. ‘Gabi, I’m so sorry. But what happened? What’s wrong with you?’
‘My kidney is failing, Neil, and I will not go back on the machine. My story was my gift to you. My farewell gift.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Neil.
‘Why are you so upset? Five weeks ago I was just a bagful of bad memories best left behind in Europe.’
‘I never said that.’
‘Oh, but you did.’
‘I never meant it.’
‘Oh, come on!’ An edge crept into Gabriella’s voice. ‘You accused Milos of feeling superior because he had suffered and you had not. You accused him of being proud of his suffering, of wearing it like a badge. Get over it, you said. Have a bit of counselling, a few sessions with a shrink, and get over it. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’ Gabriella let go of Neil’s arm and put her hands on her lap, distancing herself. ‘That was the total extent of your sympathy.’
‘She’s right,’ said Ramon. ‘That is what you said.’
‘I was just winding Milos up,’ said Neil. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘You meant it,’ said Milos.
‘I agree,’ said Ramon. ‘You were openly hostile to the idea of Milos telling his story. Scornful, even. Time heals, you said, where there is a will to heal. By implication you accused Milos of self-indulgence, of not having the will to heal. By implication you accused Gabriella as well.’
‘That was not my intention,’ said Neil.
‘Then what was your intention?’ pressed Milos.
‘I was just speaking generally. The comment wasn’t directed at you specifically.’
‘Rubbish. You had no compassion, Neil,’ said Gabriella. ‘That is what hurt us. You had not heard our story and didn’t even want to hear it. You made no effort to understand us or the events that have shaped us. You were dismissive of them as if they had no relevance. You were dismissive of us. You had no compassion for Milos, for me, or anyone else driven to this wonderful country by suffering. You hadn’t heard our story and you didn’t care. You hurt us, Neil, you really hurt us.’
Neil recoiled as though stung. But Gabriella wasn’t finished with him.
‘Five weeks ago my life meant nothing to you. Now you claim you are upset because I am dying. What am I supposed to believe?’ Her hands renewed their grip on Neil’s arm and, by doing so, begged a response.
‘We’re waiting,’ said Milos.
‘Believe both,’ said Neil eventually. ‘What you say is true. Lucio says I am insensitive and I suppose I am. Five weeks ago I didn’t care, but your story’s made me care. And care deeply. Whatever you think of me, I’m not made of stone.’
‘None of us are,’ said Gabriella.
‘You think I wasn’t moved by your story? Christ Almighty, your story would bring a tear to a bookmaker’s eye. It sure stuffed up my Thursday nights. You know it did. I said so earlier during one of our breaks.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Ramon.
‘I’m sorry, Gabi, if I hurt you. And I’m sorry if I hurt you too, Milos. It was unintentional. I accept my comments were born of ignorance.’
‘We know. That much has always been obvious. You have always worn your ignorance like a badge, a source of pride,’ said Milos, his irony deliberate. ‘But where do you go from here, Neil? We aren’t the only people who’ve suffered. We aren’t the only people who’ve come to this country weighed down with baggage.’
‘Where do I go?’
‘For God’s sake, do I have to spell it out for you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘Have I been wasting my breath these past five weeks? Has Gabi? I’m sorry, but I thought we’d manage to topple your edifice of ignorance. Or at least open up cracks in it.’
Neil hung his head. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I don’t want you to say anything,’ said Milos angrily. ‘But let me ask you this. When I return from Hungary, what will Gabi’s legacy be? Will I find a new tolerant, compassionate Neil? Or does your newfound compassion extend only to us?’
‘Milos is asking if you will try to be more understanding,’ said Gabriella. ‘Will you? For me?’
Neil nodded but wouldn’t look at her.
‘More tolerant and compassionate?’
Neil closed his eyes and appeared to struggle for control.
‘Yes, I’ll try.’
‘Try? Is that all?’
‘No,’ said Neil heavily. ‘I will be more tolerant and compassionate.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Gabriella pulled Neil towards her and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’d like to believe that, Neil, I really would! What a wonderful legacy that would be.’
‘I wish Milos had brought you to our lunches sooner,’ said Neil, trying to deflect attention. ‘We meet you then lose you. It’s just not fair.’
‘Unfair, perhaps,’ said Gabriella, ‘but I am not afraid of dying. I have won, you see? Despite everything that has happened to me, I will go to my grave a free woman. That is my victory. It is cause for celebration, not tears.’
‘Then we should celebrate,’ said Lucio. ‘Open a bottle of champagne and drink to your story, your life and your victory.’
Gabriella shook her head. ‘That is a lovely thought, Lucio, but I am tired. Telling my story has been a bigger effort than any of you could possibly realise. I need Milos to take me home.’
She rose wearily to her feet. The four men stood immediately.
‘Goodbye, Neil,’ said Gabriella. She embraced Neil and kissed both his cheeks. ‘Remember my legacy. Keep your promise.’
‘Goodbye, Gabi,’ said Neil. There was a tremor in his voice and a redness to his eyes. Except for the blind man, his friends looked away in embarrassment. This was a Neil they’d never seen before.
Gabriella let go of Neil, turned and embraced Ramon.
‘Goodbye, Ramon, it has been wonderful meeting you. I knew I would be impressed and I have been.’
‘Now I am flattered,’ said Ramon.
The blind man bided his time, waiting patiently as the remaining farewells were made, taking note of the sadness in the voices.
‘So when will we see you again, Milos?’ he asked.
‘Six to eight weeks.’
‘Not sooner?’
‘No.’
‘Doubtless you will visit Tibor’s grave?’
‘Of course. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Something of little consequence. But I was wondering. I have a friend whose son was on dialysis before his kidney transplant. He had a device called a shunt implanted into his left arm to make it easier to insert the canulas. I was wondering, Gabi, just out of curiosity, which arm did they put your shunt in?’
‘Does it matter?’ said Gabriella warily.
‘Indulge me.’
‘My left arm.’
‘The arm with the tattoo?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when I asked to feel your tattoo I felt no shunt. They are quite prominent. Difficult to miss.’
‘It was removed after the transplant.’
‘Really? I felt no scar either. If I could feel your tattoo, surely I should feel a scar?’
Neil and Lucio turned to look at Gabriella as the implication of Ramon’s words slowly dawned on them.
‘There is no shunt,’ said Gabriella. ‘I had no kidney transplant. I am not dying.’
‘What?’ said Neil. ‘You’re not dying?’
‘Why don’t we all sit down,’ said Milos.
‘Milos has a habit of underestimating you, Ramon, and I’m afraid he has done it again. The part about the kidney transplant and my immin
ent death was an embellishment. I argued against it, but Milos believed it was necessary to teach Neil a lesson.’
‘Teach me a lesson? Why me? What do you mean?’
‘Let me guess,’ said Ramon. ‘Your insensitivity and lack of compassion towards refugees finally irritated Milos to the point where he decided to do something about it. Am I right?’
‘As always,’ said Milos.
‘Milos shares our stories with Gabi and she was equally outraged. Disgusted even. She became Milos’s willing accomplice. I suspected something that very first day. Milos knew how you would react to another European tragedy, as you so insensitively put it, and he knew you would press your claim to tell your story. You were set up, Neil, deservedly so.’
‘Your story was for my benefit?’ said Neil.
‘To teach you a lesson, yes,’ said Gabriella. ‘To teach you tolerance.’
‘What about the rest of your story? How much of that is true?’
‘Do you think this tattoo on my arm is fake? Do you think I would fake a thing like that?’
‘What about your escape to Czechoslovakia?’
‘Milos, take off your tie. Show Neil the bullet hole.’
Milos unbuttoned his shirt and revealed an ugly but old scar at the base of his neck.
‘What about Tibor?’ asked Neil.
‘We are leaving for Hungary tomorrow, like we said. We are going to visit his grave.’
‘But were you married to him before you married Milos? Or is that another embellishment?’
‘I married only once and that was to Milos. But it was Tibor who first slipped this gold band on my finger.’
‘So all the rest of your story is true?’
‘Neil, don’t be so naive,’ said Ramon. ‘You know better. Milos and Gabi are storytellers. How do you know if Gabi’s answers are the truth or a continuation of a fiction? You don’t know. Like all good stories, significant elements are true, but it is up to each listener to gauge how much and which parts.’
A sly smile spread across Neil’s face. He looked from Gabriella to Milos and back again.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I’m flattered that you think I’m worth the effort. I suspect most of your story was true, which makes me all the more appreciative. But as far as teaching me a lesson goes, you miscalculated. You got the balance wrong.’
