Dead Europe (30 page)

—Do you speak any French?

—None.

—Fine, she said, then we shall speak English.

I was surprised by the American twang to her accent. She offered us a coffee but Gerry refused and turned to me.

—You will come to my house for dinner tonight. The statement brooked no refusal and I found myself nodding in agreement.

—I will give you directions.

—I will take him, the woman answered for me.

He said something sharply to her in French and she replied even more sharply. He turned once more to me.

—You will meet me at my work. You still have my telephone number?

—Yes.

—Good. And he was gone.

The woman visibly relaxed once the old man had left.

—I will make us a coffee. Do you take it in the Lebanese style?

I still felt shame from my refusal of Gerry's plea. I didn't
dare tell her I preferred Turkish coffee. I smiled and said, Yes, that would be lovely.

—Good. My name is Sula.

—Isaac.

On hearing my name she hesitated and looked towards the door, as if searching for the old man.

—You too are Jewish?

—No. I hesitated. Greek Orthodox, I guess, but I'm not religious.

—And you are the one who will offer me safe passage to Australia?

Her grin was sly.

—I don't think I can, I said slowly.

—No, she replied, I did not think you could.

The coffee was far too syrupy and sweet and we sat across from one another on plump red pillows while she fired off a dozen questions about my work, my family, my house, my relationship. When I told her about Colin she did not flinch. If anything, it softened her attitude towards me. She took one of my cigarettes and asked if I would like to see Paris with her.

—I'd love to.

—I will prepare myself.

She returned from the bathroom with make-up on her face. The thick scarlet lipstick and the blush of lavender eye shadow had the effect of making her appear older. She had coated her eyelashes with a thick black gel and her round eyes seemed darker and almost too large for her soft fine face.

—It is easier if I leave the apartment looking like this. I am less conspicuous.

—You don't mind?

—Of course I mind, but it is easier.

She swung around.

—What did the Jew say about my situation?

—That you are a refugee.

—And?

—That's it.

—He did not tell you that I am asked for by the authorities?

—No.

—That he should have told you. She walked past me and back into the bedroom. Please excuse me, she said, I desire to change my clothes.

When she emerged from the bedroom, she was wearing a thin wool white sweater and a black thick skirt that fell below her knees.

—Do I look European? She pulled her silk scarf off her head and wrapped it around her neck. Her thick, dark shoulder-length hair shone black and cobalt in the light.

I looked down at my old jeans, stained with sweat and come, and my navy hooded top with streaks of tobacco ash covering the front.

—I should change.

—You look fine.

—I'm afraid I stink.

—Of course, you have had a long journey. Would you prefer to sleep? I can awake you in the evening.

—No, I answered. I wanted to see the city through her eyes. I can sleep when I get back to Australia.

—Good. She slung a white compact handbag over her shoulder. Then we shall go.

 

The afternoon I spent with Sula would forever alter the adolescent romantic notions I once had about the city of Paris. When I had first travelled in Europe I'd bunked down in a hostel near St Germain des Pres and though I walked miles across the mythical city, and though I travelled widely through the belly of its Metro, I realised now that I'd seen only a fragment of Paris. Of course, when we travel, when
we are tourists, we only see that part of a city which has given itself over to the trade of travel. I knew it back then, that the gloriously pretty city of classical architecture and narrow sloping streets was not the whole story. But I believed it to be a significant part of the story. I was enchanted by the beauty of the French capital. Why couldn't our cities be more like Paris? I moaned when I got home. I detested the wide empty streets and grid-like patterns of Australia's modern metropolises. I couldn't bear the vast tentacle reach of suburbia. But the confident young woman who led me through her Paris that afternoon did not take me anywhere near that safe, contained, delightful city. She showed me a harsh place, a tough, crumbling, decaying, stinking, dirty city. The city beyond the Metro.

We waited at a filthy bus shelter that reeked of vomit and piss. Don't sit, she barked at me as I was about to plonk myself on the seat; I looked down and saw a seeping mash of shit splashed across the bench and dripping through the slats to the concrete beneath. I had to fight back the impulse to retch. When the bus arrived, mine was the only white face among the passengers except for a pale teenage girl, her right ear spiked with an array of hoops and rings, whose head was slumped on the shoulder of her bored African boyfriend. Most of the other passengers were also African, the women in colourfully patterned burkas and shawls, the men in thriftshop sport jackets and polyester trackpants. The passengers who were not African were either Asian or Arab. I had my camera around my neck and I held it close to my chest with one hand while the other hand jabbed my wallet deeper into my jeans pocket. Sula paid my fare and the young Vietnamese driver impatiently handed her two tickets. The bus jolted, lurched and picked up speed until it abruptly stopped for an old French couple. The frail old woman required a walking stick and her husband solicitously assisted her to a seat near the front. With extreme care, with
diligent purpose, the old man and the old woman made sure that their eyes were not once in contact with anyone else's on the bus.

When the white French couple had boarded, I automatically felt lighter. I could suddenly merge into one with the rest of the passengers on the bus. The old couple looked at their feet and said nothing to each other. With my tanned skin and dark features I too blended into this mob of faces which was and which was not Europe. Only the camera that hung around my neck gave me away. I fingered the lens. I raised the camera and brought the old couple into focus. In the foreground there was the bright sunshine-yellow burka of an African woman and I could sense her back stiffen at my action. The old couple looked away from me; the old man scowled. A young Arab man, sunglasses on, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, was sitting across from me, but he smiled at my camera. I took his portrait. Sula ignored me. I noticed a torn sticker on the window of the bus. There was the outline of the map of France and within the borders of the map there was a jumble of symbols: the Islamic Crescent, the Star of David, and a caricature of a veiled woman. I could not make out the French. What does that say? I asked Sula.

She sniffed dismissively.

—That is a fascist sticker. It is anti-Semitic.

I pointed to the half-moon crescent.

—And anti-Arab.

—What did I say? There was fury in her voice. Aren't I a Semite as well?

 

Why anti-Semitism? Colin once mused. Why is that one form of racism the only one given a name? And why that divisive name? Do you think, he continued, that it was all planned, the playing off of the Zionists against the Arabs, the bungled administration and handover of Palestine, all
deliberately organised by the European Christian powers to split the Jew and the Arab?

I laughed out loud over my coffee.

—You're exactly like my old man. That's what unites the fascists and the bolshies. A love of conspiracy theories.

—And you're a classic fucking democrat. You don't want to believe that those with wealth and power would deliberately organise and conspire together. And you're the one who went to fucking university.

 

The Crescent, the Star of David, a veiled woman. I fumbled in my pocket and found my pen. I leaned across Sula and I daubed a crucifix into the French borders. I smiled as I was doing this.

—See, I said gleefully. Now everyone can relax. Now it is truly France, as it has been for centuries.

Sula looked at the graffiti I'd added to the sticker. She said nothing, she stared ahead.

We got off the bus at a square that reminded me more of the Paris I'd encountered on my previous travels. Sula pointed out the beginning of the Metro line; we were in a small valley between two hills: the shopfronts were a jumble of modern steel and concrete, and eighteenth-and nineteenth-century terraces. Many of the shop windows had Arabic as well as Latin lettering advertising their wares, and the square was full of young people: white, brown, black, Arab, African, European and Asian. We took a seat at an outdoor cafe and I watched the youth casually flirt with one another. Destiny's Child was singing ‘Independent Woman' in one corner and from across the square Youssou N'dour was challenging with ‘Allah'. A huge banner flew from the entrance to the Metro: a thick-necked man with a basketball in his arms was holding up a soft drink. The enticement to drink was in English, not French.

—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.