Kisha studied her soup and saw a fleeting flash of Baba’s coddling. It will be over all too soon, she reminded herself and stirred the memory back into the bowl.
I would love to swim, she said after some consideration. But I have no costume. She stopped short. Actually I have no clothes.
Giovanna laughed. Darling, I know! I saw the size of your bag. Tomorrow we shop, yes? Mama Italia had spoken.
The fortnight passed in that slow-quick way of peaceful immersion. There were times when she could have sworn all clocks had stopped. But at others, whole sequences seemed to rush by in a giddy blur.
She watched the tides – sat on the sand and watched the ocean breathe in and out. If time were like the tides, she thought, I could surge into the future, rush back to the past. And looked down at her toes lapped by transparence. Now, right now, was simply a shifting lip of damp sand on a permanently dissolving border.
Yet what existed if not now? She squinted to the horizon and its constant movement, an in-between zone of sea lapping sky. What could she do if even a moment were unstable? Where could she find firm ground? And she walked the beaches – through driftwood and the detritus of recycled lives.
A beachcomber scuffed toward her, searching for treasure with a magpie’s eye. I have nothing to discard, nothing left to salvage, she thought. My coastline is as wasted as its heartland.
Ah, Kisha. In her melancholy, she watched the happiness of tourists, Italians on holiday with icecreams at midnight. In her melancholy, she heard Samir recite from the Cantigas D’Amor of Portuguese troubadours. The sear of sea salt in an open wound nothing to the pain of love, they sang:
Damn the sea that makes me grieve.
Nonsense! she had laughed at the time. How can you grieve when we’re in the midst of such joy? And kissed his neck, laid her head against his chest.
They sat on a beach, surrounded by the shy tinkle and roll of pebbles and shells pulled seaward. His skin was cool, quick-dried after their swim.
Kisha, he said and tousled her hair. Can’t you see? I take this divine memory of here-now with me to the grave! A memory which cuts out my heart each time we’re apart. That’s the pain of which they sang!
Yes, I know all this now, she said into the memory. Now I too:
Damn the sea that makes me grieve.
She closed the catalogue drawer, placed his file card neatly back in order and crossed the border from then, past now, swam far out. Shape-shifted by an intertidal zone of neither here nor there, neither one nor the other, she floated, eyes closed, gave herself up to the tide, the sun behind her eyelids flooding a memory-tripped mind in molten gold.
Her pale flesh turned bronze with delight, her hips acquired form and shape, and she took the train north to Milano, on to the border and into the Alps. Steep cragged cliffs, grey gleaming, guided her passage through a long tunnel burrowed through the mountains to emerge among neat paddocks and patient cows. Along lakeshores the train raced till the sun slipped in the sky, till she arrived in a city of tall church spires, clear river and a train station filled with peak hour commuters.
She stepped onto the platform, joined the slipstream, consulted her notes. The woman would meet her under the giant clock in the main hall near the sculpture of a blue angel. She searched out the appropriate landmarks – angel, angel – bit her lip till her attention was drawn to the glass-domed ceiling where a gold-winged blue angel in hippie bathing suit was suspended. There was a funky side to the town after all.
She made her way toward the clock, as popular a meeting place as the cathedral steps in Sarajevo in the years before war. Students chatted after class, business types with briefcases looked at their watches, others hovered near the florist, seemingly not too eager to announce they’d been stood up, while she lent against the railing above the escalator stairwell.
Giovanna had been very particular. I shall let them know what you’re wearing and what time you come in, she said giving each cheek a lipsticked kiss. She waved furiously, blowing a million more kisses as the train set sail, another of her foster children on her way to the new world.
Miss Mirvic? A hesitant voice at her side.
Rita Mueller looked at her through the most intriguing metal-rimmed glasses Kisha had ever seen. Rectangular, with heart-shaped side panels.
Your glasses – she began.
Rita smiled. They’re not so unusual, she anticipated. You’ll see a lot of things that seem – how to say? – space-age to you here. Shall we go?
She fell into step beside the taller woman who strode ahead as if late for something important.
One of the biggest problems we have is trying to help refugees understand how to work the taps in the shower, Rita said. Don’t forget you’ve come out of a war zone which was previously a communist land. It may take a little while to adjust and, she stressed with a steely sideways look, not to think everything here is an expression of complete decadence.
Now, she said with rapid-fire efficiency. We’ll head into the office to complete some paperwork and get you settled in temporary accommodation. It’s dormitory living for the moment, I’m afraid. A communal kitchen, that sort of thing. One of our local volunteers has been assigned to help you search out a flat of your own or a share-house – whichever you prefer. She’ll also help with budgeting and so on. This is an expensive city. What you learn from your own experience will, of course, apply in your work.
Kisha let the words skate past her. Why would anyone walk so fast if they weren’t trying to avoid a sniper’s bullet?
The aid agency was several stories of grey steel reachable by tram, Kisha’s volunteer a girl her own age.
Hanna was a philosophy student. I guess I’m trying to make sense of the world, she explained as they went into the kitchen on the ground floor. Believe it or not, working here helps.
What sort of coffee do you want? she asked.
Um – just coffee.
Yeah, but what? And pointed to the machine which filled a corner of the counter with its array of buttons and blinking lights.
Kisha squinted. Um – espresso?
The closest blackest thing to home, bitter-sweet with memory. The kitchen was filled with posters describing the extent of the agency’s work, and she sipped her coffee in the shadow of the past.
They talked long. Until the centre was empty, until the cleaners had come and gone, until Hanna said: God, look at the time. I was supposed to get you to the shelter an hour ago!
It’s OK. Just give me a map.
She scrabbled through her bag. But it’s not OK! You need to be there by eight if you want a bed. She found a piece of scrunched-up yellow paper, went over to the phone on the wall and dialled the number she’d scrawled.
So, she said, hanging up. Do you mind staying at my place tonight?
What?
Well, it’s my fault. And they’re full. And well, my flatmate is away so if you don’t mind …
They walked through twilit streets, took a tram, then a bus, walked some more, turned into a narrow side street off a busy rubbish-strewn road, and deftly made their way around a brimful skip, avoiding the tottering tower of beer cans in its wake.
Welcome to the side of Zurich not shown on postcards, Hanna grinned.
The overnight stay became temporary-permanent.
You’re an easy flatmate, she commended. Thoughtful, quiet, and we’re never out of milk or bread. Priska won’t be back till autumn term starts. It’ll give you time to sort yourself out, decide what you want to do.
How to sort herself out? Her days spent translating others’ pain for the social workers at the centre, her nights spent calculating the cost of living here against her meagre earnings. Options for beginning her own life seriously deteriorated before they could even be considered and she gravitated to sleeping on the couch as the city slid under the damp cold of November fog.
It’s hard for me to accept your charity, she said one evening after making them dinner. But I am ve
ry grateful. There aren’t many ways I could even think of repaying your kindness.
But do you need to? Priska said, helping herself to another bowlful of goulash. I’d be happy just eating your cooking now and then.
Look, said Hanna. If we help you, you have more time and energy to help the refugees at the centre. Which means they’re in better emotional shape to help their families make a life in this country and, and, and … The circle is way wider than you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. She broke off a hunk of bread, dunked it into gravy.
Plus, you’d make a perfect case study for our class in applied moral philosophy, Priska laughed.
Later, they sat on the couch with the dregs of a bottle of red, Priska off to a late night movie with her boyfriend.
You could have been my sister, Hanna said. I look at you and know it could have been me. By a simple quirk I was born here, not there. And it’s made all the difference. To my life. To yours.
Kisha wished Plato were in the room to offer some wisecrack to an increasingly sombre reading of the evening. Was it even worth remarking? she wondered. To question the whys and wherefores when destiny had already been foremarked by the position of the planets or the lines on a hand? Or by the power-hungry bullies who fuelled fear and hate with their lies to achieve selfish geo-political ends? Was it even worth remarking that a quirk of fate had placed her life arc in the path of fundamentalists who sought to hijack ethnic, cultural, religious concerns so they could eliminate the other, the them, the us?
Anyhow, Hanna continued. That’s why I help. Because I can. Because I know it could have been me.
Kisha tried to smile in sympathy with the statement but the weak flicker barely touched the corners of her mouth.
Me too, she thought, her own life on hold as she tried to help others. Knowing it could have been her, knowing it could have been worse. Much, much worse.
Three
Saturday. She was off to see a flat. Had saved and slept on the couch for months under an old quilt, luxury under the laws of relativity. It was spring and the urge to find a nest of her own was keen.
It wasn’t too far from the girls, but on the other side of Kasernenareal, away from the worst of the precinct’s pimps and drug deals. Priska told her to lighten up and quit being so prudish.
It’s not that, Kisha countered. I’m just tired of seeing pain and an absence of hope in dilated pupils every day.
She checked the map and found herself facing a U-shaped court of low-rise apartment blocks each with its own gated entrance of tall iron balustrades fronting onto a small green of maple and linden trees.
She rang the bell for No.9 and a girl came down.
I’m Sara, she said, and they trekked up to the third floor and turned left.
It’s small, she apologised, as they entered the small vestibule with one large room leading off it, a bathroom and kitchen beside. I think I wrote that in the ad?
Kisha walked into the living cum sleeping space. Large windows overlooked the street in front. She went across to the kitchen on the backside, its tiny balcony face-to-face with a courtyard maple.
We’ve still got ages to run on the lease, Sara said. My boyfriend’s got itchy feet. Thought we might go to India. Just go there, you know? Get some serious heat.
She made coffee, brought it out to the balcony. They talked price, capped rents. Timing.
Oh, and do you need any furniture? she asked.
They walked through the flat, through an inventory which documented the spartan together-life of these two. It punched at Kisha’s gut – the couch that folded out into a bed, the cupboard for clothes, the bench fashioned from a slab of timber balanced on two packing crates, the beanbag in the corner, kitchen table, a couple of chairs. But no bookshelf, no book wall. Was it relief she felt? Or surprise?
She went back downstairs, out through the gate and wrapped her fingers around the solidity of iron, pulling it to with a satisfying clank.
Oh and Kisha, Sara called. Do you want my bike too? It’s the pink one at the back. No extra.
In amongst the mountain bikes and town bikes in the gated yard it stood – handpainted by the look of it – with a basket and bell, three gears.
She hadn’t slept alone since those first nights spent trying to shut out the night with her games of memory, flicking through catalogue drawers in the library of the heart. So long ago. More than a year in days.
Do you want us to come over? Be with you the first night? Bit of a party? Hanna had noted the mood shifts, the melancholic staring into space over enough months.
Kisha shook her head. Actually I want to be alone, she said. I’ll need to get used to it sooner or later.
There wasn’t much to shift. Just her backpack, crammed fuller now, and a shopping trolley with a dodgy wheel someone had left beside the rubbish skip.
Priska emerged from her bedroom, watched the slim contents of a life leaving through the front door.
It’s amazing how small a dent you make, she said, giving her a kiss. Still, I’ll miss your little dent. You make a great goulash.
Intermezzo
The chorus now speaks:
Kisha rises in the grey half-light of morning, lights the stove, puts on water to boil and opens wide the balcony door, braced for an in-rush of cold dew-heavy air. The days may be growing longer on their journey toward the solstice but she feels no warmth in the sun’s kiss yet. Nevertheless, she steps over the lip of sill in bare feet, skin tingling as much as under any icy shower, lights her first cigarette of the day, and as the church clock strikes eight, leaves for work, up and around the corner to the tram while children run past on their way to school.
It’s a simple enough task for us to track her journey, follow her passage through this town. If we fall into step, glide alongside, a hair’s breadth to the side of her right elbow, we are close enough to sneak a glance, take note of the measure of her breath, the quickness or otherwise of her step and remark the sights to which she is drawn. If we observe well enough, we may anticipate her psychic stumbles and offer our witness, our heart-felt compassion. And perhaps – yes, perhaps – she occasions the thought, the feeling, the impression, that somewhere, someone unseen cares about her fate and understands what it is to suffer, to change.
On this fine spring morning, we stand beside her at the tram stop, we from the shadowlands, we who cannot return but hope, ever hope, that those of our kin still life-filled with breath can move on from siege, move on through exile and into a brighter tomorrow.
Not long till the tram slowly arrives, gently departs. She sits by the rear door and remarks the river’s progress at the bridge crossing. Lulled by the roll of tram wheels, the luxury of civility, she drifts into non-thought. Round the back of the Hauptbahnhof and across another bridge, the river here flows swift and clear. Not far now, Kisha. She rouses, presses the button, alights at her stop.
We know her route well – not the quickest way to the centre, but the most calming. Stumbled upon once and added to her daily ritual, she walks through the rambling gardens of an 18th century villa now home to university institutes. Students mill about the entrance, a fountain plays in the gravelled courtyard. She walks past ancient beeches and under a solitary oak, its branches almost as long as the trunk is high. Stops, each morning, to breathe deep of its air, share its cocoon of space for just long enough to draw on a mantle as thick as gnarled bark to see her through the day.
It is time to enter the sad grey building further down the street. In past the drop-in centre with its cheap drinks dispenser and tattered couches, she heads straight for the staff kitchen, grabs a cup and hits the espresso button in one fluid movement. Rita sits at the long table checking the roster for the day. Two social workers discuss case notes at a small table near the courtyard door.
I just got a call from the clothing shop in Josefstrasse, says Rita. Jens needs to head out this afternoon for a couple of hours. Do you think you can cover? He’ll need you there by two.
She bypasses the tram at lunchtime, walks down to the riverbank and gets a sandwich at the student-run café beside the metalworking co-op, its colourful frenzy of graffiti and radio rock masking the whine of machines. She sits on a bench, her feet hover over the water. The wind is strong here, like the Miljacka generates through the centre of town. But that is the only similarity and she takes a last bite of sandwich, crosses the footbridge to the far end of the museum gardens where people read beneath huge trees. Perhaps this could be her escape from the centre during lunch breaks in future rather than staying to listen to tragic stories in the staff room, second-hand this time. A second footbridge takes her to Sihlquai and up past the bus station where she has farewelled too many who found this place too hard, too nice. Homesick for the grittiness of the Balkans, their suitcases bearing more scars with each further journey. Here she waits for the tram to Limmatplatz. A couple of blocks further on, then a right, she finds the small storefront catching afternoon sun.
Jens is at the counter, fumbling with an incense holder. He points to the drawn curtain across the change stall, waves a hand in front of his nose. A drunk is trying on jeans.
Kisha nods, lights the incense cone, places it in the open doorway to catch the breeze.
Thanks, he says. I’ll be back by five.
She listens to the cubicle mutter expletives. A vacant jeans leg strays beneath the curtain, displaced by a holey sock. More muttering, but soon enough he’s out, jeans discarded, and he leaves, complaining about the foul stench he’s forced to step over on the way.
After five she waits for the trolleybus in Langstrasse and travels its full length, face pressed to the window, eyes focused on a world beyond a reflection of self. At Kalkbreite, she hops off and takes out a map to trace a route to the second-hand store where she can use her vouchers. Starts off down Elisabeth but is brought up short by a Serb Orthodox church midway along the street. A slight stumble, an eye blink’s worth of registering, sifting, discounting.
The Taste of Translation Page 35
