Dead Europe (29 page)

The sharp Slavic cheekbones. I share those. I have his thick black hair. I look like my father.

In the end, I did recognise him. We met outside the final suburban Metro stop on the eastern line. Whereas I had descended into the underground from a clean pristine Paris, I ascended into a bare concrete vault, littered with rubbish and cigarette butts. There was garish graffiti on every spare surface, and a homeless woman was peeing on the concrete. I walked past her and she screamed out for money. I ignored her. Outside the station was a huge concrete car park and a long stretch of motorway; beyond that, empty, barren fields. Behind the fields, blocks of grey high-rise apartments stretched for miles across the blighted plain. The sky was dark with threatening clouds.

I heard my name called. He was now an old man, much thicker around the middle, but he was still tall, imposing and bear-like. His hair was chalk-white, but still thick on his head. I was very young when I had last seen him; he had been one of those figures on the periphery of my childhood for a few summers, and then he was gone. I did not know if I had ever registered his going. I know that he and my father had been very good friends because I could only recall my
father's happiness at being with him. The memory came back of slipping out of bed one night to see the two of them engaged in a loud boisterous argument, one moment shouting, one momnt with their arms wrapped around each other. But there was little else I could remember of him; he must have slipped out of our lives at a time when I was still too young to realise that there could be anyone of more importance to my parents than their own children. My most vivid memory of him was as one of a group of stocky men, seated in their singlets, in high summer. They were in Tassios' garage, drinking beer. On that occasion it was not clocks they were dismantling but ugly, ostentatious sofas and footstools. They were slicing open their cushioned backs. My sister had climbed up on the milk crate alongside me and we were looking through the dirty louvres into the garage. My father then laughed and held up bags of powder that he had pulled out of the furniture. My sister whispered, too loudly, and the men had looked up. Tassios chased after us, shouting and kicking at our bums. The man who was now holding out his hand to me in Paris had said nothing on seeing our young, curious faces. He had continued doing his work. I don't ever remember him having a name. He was always the Hebrew, that was how the Greeks always referred to him. That's what Dad had called him. The definite article was important. Back then I thought he was the only Hebrew in the entire world.

 

He took my backpack and waved off my attempts to assist him. We walked to a small Mercedes truck, battered, rust visible on its underside. A colourful mural of fruit and vegetables was painted across one side of the truck.

—Get in, he ordered. The van smelt and I fought off an urge to sneeze. As soon as he started the ignition, George Jones came in midway through a song about heartaches and hangovers in his baritone voice. The volume was loud and it
was only when the song finished that the old man lowered the sound and spoke.

—Do you remember me?

Again, a faint echo of Australia.

—Yes, but I don't remember your name.

—Gerry. Then he smiled across at me. Or the Hebrew. He used the Greek word.

I laughed at this.

—Yeah, I remember that.

—How did Lucky die?

I only hesitated a moment. I knew instinctively with this man that I did not have to pretend. I mimed pumping a syringe into my arm. He nodded slowly.

—I always say to Lucky that he is a fool for taking that shit. He spoke slowly, as if it had been a long time since he spoke the language. The words were full of French inflections: the long final diphthong when he said my father's name; the stretching of the obscenity into two syllables,
shee-it.

—And your mother?

—She's clean. She's been clean since his death.

—Pardon? I'd confused him.

—She doesn't use heroin anymore.

Gerry let out a long sad whistle.

—Your father very wrong for doing that to your mother.

I had nothing to say.

 

He exited the motorway and almost immediately he pulled up in front of a square squat block of flats. The building was isolated amid the criss-cross grid of motorways. In the distance, rows of tower blocks seemed to fall into the horizon. I grabbed my backpack and followed Gerry up a flight of stairs. He pulled out a bunch of keys and inserted one into a flimsy white door, then he ushered me into the flat.

It was sparsely furnished: a small television, a white electric kettle, a camp stove with two rings, a black vinyl couch, and, incongruously, a junk photographic print of a Bondi Beach sunset on the wall. A door led into a further room with a single mattress on the floor. Gerry indicated the bedding he had ready for me. A small alcove contained the shower and the toilet.

—You can stay, he said. The new tenant is not moving till next week. It is yours till then.

—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. Colin 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.