Dead Europe

—Vera, Sam was firm. That’s a very different situation. And the Americans did not cause the civil war in your country.

  —Bull-shit. Equal stress on each syllable.

  —They did not.

  —Their money, their greed, their interference. They caused it.

  I was looking at Zivan. He had put down his fork and his eyes were darting from Sam to his wife. He was silent.

  —We’ve had this argument, Vera. I am not having it again.

  —Of course not, you want to believe that the civil war in Yugoslavia was caused by stupid Slavs who were barbarians and had to depend on the civilised West to assist them from the chaos we make. That is what you believe.

  —I believe that Bosnians wanted independence.

  Vera slapped her forehead loudly with her palm.

  —I am bloody Bosnian. I born in Bosnia. I wanted no independence.

  —That’s because you’re a Serb.

  —No! She screamed out. I was born Yugoslavian. I am Yugoslavian. I die Yugoslavian.

  —Zivan, I asked, what do you think?

  He was still smiling; still boyish, but sad. He leaned over to his wife and kissed her.

  —I am not like Vera. I am not a proud Yugoslavian. Yugoslavia is finished. But I was happy there, I was happy listening to the Rolling Stones and swimming with Vera in the Adriatic. That’s what I remember.

  His words created calm.

  Vera scooped the last juices from her plate, finished her wine, refilled her glass and those of the men, and then lit a cigarette. She pointed it to Sam, and then she looked at me.

  —Do you think your teacher has changed?

  —Yes. I think he has.

  —How have I changed, Isaac?

  —You’ve gone grey.

  He laughed. Anything else?

  —You used to hate America. You were such a bolshie.

  —Used to be. Now, I think that the Constitution and the Bill of Rights of the United States of America is the only creed worth defending in the world today. I really believe that, mate. I am a democrat. That’s how I hope I die.

  He shrugged.

  —Don’t get me wrong, I’m not defending American oil interest or denying that as an indulgent over-developed society it’s fucked. But those are consequences of imperial power. I’m talking about fundamentals of politics, not economics.

  —Economics is politics.

  —No, Vera, I disagree.

  —But, I interjected, isn’t there a contradiction between espousing democracy and then trying to impose it on everyone?

  —It’s a contradiction I am willing to live with.

  —Then you’re a fundamentalist democrat. Zivan’s smile was wide and glorious again.

  Sam laughed ruefully.

  —I think that Islamic fundamentalism is much more dangerous, ultimately, than democratic fundamentalism.

  Vera had finished her wine and poured another.

  —But this is nonsense. It is not one or the other, as if our only choice is between America and the mullahs. This is indeed nonsense.

  —That’s what the mullahs preach.

  —So? She raised her hands in disbelief. And the bloody Pope preaches that you will be condemned to Hell if you are not a Christian. He says I am not allowed to have abortion. He says that Isaac is condemned to Hell for living as a homosexual. How is the Pope different from the mullahs?

  —He doesn’t want to control the politics of a nation.

  —Fuck you. Equal stress on each syllable. He wished to have Poland and Croatia and he has them.

  I had rarely seen Sam raise his voice. He did then.

  —No, the Poles and the Croatians wanted independence. And with that, the choice to be Catholic.

  —And the Arabs want the choice to be Muslim. Bloody religion. When I a teenager, none of my Muslim friends cared for religion. They prayed, they had their rituals and that was that. We studied together, we played together, we holidayed together. We argued and drank together. Now, now we are all religious.

  She brought out a small gold crucifix from beneath her tunic. Even I. I too am now religious. She looked genuinely puzzled as she examined the Cross. She tucked it away. How this happen?

  Zivan was looking at me.

  —And you, Isaac, what do you think?

  I was scratching circles on the greasy surface of my plate with my fork.

  —You know, when I saw those planes hit the World Trade Center towers I was scared. Terrified. I deliberately did not look at Sam. But what shocked me about my response was the excitement I also felt. I thought it could be the end of the world and part of me wanted it to be the end. I thought it would be good if the whole world did go to fucking Hell, that it was the start of Armageddon. I thought that would be just. Maybe I still do.

  Zivan was nodding slowly.

  —Isaac, I think you are correct with your choice of that word, just. I believe it is notions of justice that are the problem.

  —What do you mean?

  Sam leaned over and whispered, loudly, pretending to be conspiratorial.

  —Watch it, Zach, he’s a Nietzschean. He has a doctorate in philosophy.

  —That is true. My doctorate was on Nietzschean philosophy. But I would not call myself a Nietszchean. He was hopelessly a romantic. I am a refugee in England now. I must be a realist. But I believe that the Americans and the mullahs have much in common. A sense of morality, of justice, that originates from the desert. The desert is the original source of puritanism. You, Sam, you admit that Americans do not cope with imperial power very well. Why is that? Because they believe it is immoral. They have the great wealth and power of the supermen but in their minds they wish to believe themselves as commoners. That is indeed ridiculous. They are, if you listen to them, through their movies, through their television, through the words of their President, they still believe they are a part of the world’s great poor and the great dispossessed. And they also believe, again like the mullahs preaching in the desert, that this dispossession also comes with being chosen by God for specific revelation. This is Christian and this is Islamic. But both these faiths are simply children of the greater faith that worships one God. Judaism. They still think they are the Jews of the desert. The Chosen People. As do the Jews. They are not. They are not dispossessed, they are not slaves. If you will allow me to indulge in a Nietzschean pun, they are supermen who still think as slaves. That is why they are dangerous.

  It was clear he had enjoyed the dance of his own monologue, the leaping of words and ideas. He filled his wineglass and stretched his long body against the couch.

  —And Sam, before you correct me, he added, I am only speaking philosophically, not politically or economically. Politically and economically neither the Americans nor the Jews are slaves. Only morally, only ethically.

  —Very cryptic, Sam returned.

  —Not at all. Zivan lit a cigarette.

  —Excuse me. I got to my feet. Can I use the telephone?

  —Of course, Zach.

  —I’m going to ring Colin.

  That’s fine. Go on, speak as long as you like.

  Colin answered on the first ring.

  —You’re home.

  —You beauty, I was just thinking about you.

  —What were you thinking?

  —How much I want to fuck you.

  —How do you want to fuck me?

  —Up the arse. On your back, your legs around my shoulders. I’d fuck you hard. I can’t wait to fuck you hard.

  —Six days.

  —I can’t fucking wait.

  —Six days.

  —I love you, Isaac. Where are you?

  —At Sam’s, in Cambridge.

  —How is it?

  —It’s good. He lives with two Serbs, a cool couple called Zivan and Vera. We’ve been discussing politics and war and religion and philosophy. My head hurts.

  —You poor ignorant Australian.

  —You got it.

  —Have they come to any conclusions?


  —Religion’s fucked.

  —And capitalism?

  —Fucked.

  —Communism.

  —Fucked.

  —Australia?

  —Very fucked.

  —Europe?

  —Doubly fucked.

  —America?

  —Arse-bleedingly fucked.

  —I miss you.

  Suddenly I was scared. Hearing his deep voice from the other side of the world. Who was it that was going back to him?

  —Col, what would you say if I told you I’m giving up photography?

  —I wouldn’t let you.

  I missed him like my heart was on fire.

  —I love you. Six days.

  —Ring me.

  —Do you love me?

  —Of course.

  —Good. ’Cause I love you too.

  I hung up the phone. I was normal. In Enid Blyton’s England, everything is normal.

  The conversation had gone elsewhere while I’d been out of the room. I leaned in the doorway and listened in. Vera rolled her eyes when Sam tried to convince her of the enormity of Stalin’s crimes.

  —I know that, Sam, she exploded in exasperation. Why do all of you in the West believe that you know more about communist history than we who lived it do? What do Stalin’s crimes have to do with communism in Yugoslavia in the decade of the eighties?

  —It’s a legacy.

  —Like the slave trade in the United States. Does that still affect your precious American democracy? At some point, Sam, you must allow for history to become history.

  —Yes, that history still has effects and consequences for the United States today.

  —But does it undermine the validity of your democracy?

  Sam was silent. I bounded upstairs, into his room, put a new roll of film in my camera and brought it downstairs.

  —Alright. Pretend I’m not here.

  Vera waved me away.

  —No. I look awful.

  Zivan kissed her.

  —You look wonderful, I countered, and clicked them in an embrace. I wrapped my arm around Sam, pointed the camera down at us, head to head, and blindly snapped.

  —Colin sends you his love, I yelled, drunk now, waving the camera around. He’d love to be here, he loves arguing about politics and religion. He reckons he is a man out of time. I snapped Zivan’s face. I’ll tell him what you said about the three religions of the Goat-fucker.

  —Goat-fucker?

  —That’s our name for Abraham.

  Vera made the sign of the Cross. She laughed out loud.

  —That is blasphemy, Zivan said, winking at me.

  —Smile, I responded, I want to take a photo of you.

  He was close-up in the frame. His enormous mouth, his unkempt hair. I could see wisps of dirty blond chest hair beneath the short yellow collar of his shirt. I wanted to kiss him. I took a photograph instead.

  —So Cambridge is fabulous, I flirted with him, will you show it to me tomorrow?

  I wanted to put my lips on his lips.

  —I am not a student, Isaac. I work as a porter at a hotel in the city. It is a beautiful old bar. You will come and drink there tomorrow night.

  —I promise.

  Vera grabbed my camera. She pushed me against her husband. He put his long arm across my neck and pulled me into him, tight. Staggering, she snapped the photo. She handed me the camera and fell into the middle of us.

  —You will meet me for lunch tomorrow, Isaac. I show you Cambridge. She pulled at Zivan’s nose. It will be I who will show you Cambridge. It is not so fabulous.

  Drunk, singing to ‘Street Fighting Man’ again, I helped Vera with the washing up. The kitchen was so small we bumped drunkenly against one another as we danced to the song. I kissed her on the cheek.

  —Thank you for tonight, thank you for letting me stay.

  —It is a pleasure to have you stay. It reminds me of being a young girl in Yugolsavia when my mother had parties and people would come and drink and talk all night long. England is not like tonight. She shook her head sadly. England is not at all like tonight.

  She leaned close to me and whispered.

  —I don’t want my husband to hear. It make him angry. She put a finger to my lips. I hate the Jews, Isaac. The Jew Americans, what they did to my country. She kissed me on the lips, hard, wet. She was very drunk. I was glad to see those Jews jumping from those burning buildings. They deserve their towers to burn.

  I was shocked at the venom in her voice.

  The lights were out and Sam was in bed. I undressed and lay down awkwardly next to him. He started to cry. Soft slow sobs. I touched his shoulder.

  —What is it, mate?

  —I’m lonely, Zach. Having you here tonight makes me realise how lonely I am. It’s been a very long time since someone’s lain next to me in bed.

  We made slow, fumbling love, the kind of love possible between a straight man and a gay man who have affection for one another. He had his eyes closed throughout and he came by masturbating. We kissed for ages.

  Then we smoked a cigarette. And then another.

  —Zivan loves to talk, doesn’t he?

  —The guy’s a born teacher.

  —You should be teaching too. Listening to you tonight, you still want to argue and debate. You should be teaching. You’re a fucking great teacher.

  —I can’t.

  —Do they know?

  —I’m on the sex offender registry here.

  —But how come? It happened in Australia.

  —Don’t matter. They know. I had to declare it.

  —Has it got you in trouble?

  —What do you mean?

  —You know. I heard that local communities can treat people on the registrar pretty tough. You know, scapegoat them.

  —Cambridge isn’t that small. And I don’t work with teenagers. He giggles. Anyway, there’s a whole group of us here on the sex offender registry. We meet every Thursday night at one of the pubs.

  —Really?

  Sam burst out laughing.

  —Nah, just having you on.

  I laughed. I could feel myself stumbling towards sleep.

  —Zach, do you ever see Lena?

  Sexy pretty Croat Lena. With the long Hollywood legs, the smart mouth and the Debbie Harry dye-job hair. She was in my class at school. Everyone knew about Sam and Lena.

  —She’s in Queensland.

  —She happy?

  —Who knows?

  We tried to fall asleep in each other’s arms but it didn’t feel right, didn’t feel comfortable. We ended up on separate sides of the bed.

  The next morning when I awoke my mouth tasted filthy and my head was pounding. I was alone in bed but Sam had left a note telling me he would see me in the afternoon. My face was drawn when I looked into the mirror, and large bags sat under my eyes. I had not shaved for a week and the thick bristle was black. I lifted a naked arm and wobbled my flesh. My weeks in Europe were telling. I missed the gymnasium. The sunlight beaming through the small bathroom window was warm but it was a tepid European sun. I wanted the harsh bright open light of home. It was my yearning for such a light that finally made the continent I live in my home.

  The headache subsided with coffee, water and a swig of leftover wine but I was conscious of a gnawing in my stomach. It stirred, it was a living organism within me, and I knew, even as I begged it not to be so, that it was stirring, that it would seep through the lining of my stomach and enter my blood. It was an appetite. Over the sink, Vera—I couldn’t imagine it being Zivan—had placed a square solid icon of the Orthodox Madonna. I found myself praying to it, but even in prayer I was ashamed, conscious of my blasphemies of the night before. In the middle of crossing myself I dropped my hand and turned away from the sink. I had no God to pray to.

  Vera had left me instructions to meet her for lunch in a cafe in town. I wandered the narrow cobbled streets of old Cambridge. The dark streets curved and I found myself enjoying the smells and at
tractions of a medieval town. It was certainly one that had been made comfortable for tourists but it also felt functioning and real. I could not tell the students and academics from the townies. I could tell the tourists. Like me they craned their necks and looked up at high steeples and Gothic statues. I crossed the market square and walked down the basement stairs to the cafe where Vera was waiting. She was drinking a beer and wearing the universal pale blue coat of the service worker. A light yellow scarf was tied neatly around her hair.

  We had a hot pie each, which I struggled to get through, another beer, and then she walked me across the narrow bridge over the Cam. The Colleges of the university were spread across fields of lush green. The tour she took me on was lackadaisical and irreverent.

  —It is a very boring place, Isaac, she told me, these students are devoid of life. This town is like a village. It shuts at midnight.

  But when I pressed her she admitted that she much preferred living in Cambridge to being in London, or Sheffield, which was where she had first been placed when she arrived in England.

  —It was too big, too cold. I felt invisible. I felt as if I was nothing, I was an insignificant little insect when I was in London. It is good here. Zivan loves the libraries. He loves being close to the universities.

  —Do you think he’ll study again?

  —He will always be a student.

  I photographed her on a bridge over the Cam River and she took a photo of me perched precariously on one of the punts.

  She checked her watch.

  —I must go. I have a tea to serve at the College of Kings. She sniffed haughtily. They have visitors from South Africa and it is very formal. They make prayers in Latin and sing an old silly song. I’m sure the South Africans will be embarrassed.

  —Who knows? It is Cambridge. They’ll probably wet their pants at all that traditional shit.

  —Wet their pants? They will urinate?

  —Yes, I explain, we colonials get so excited by tradition we piss ourselves.

  —Yes, of course, all that tradition. She rubbed her fingers together. Tradition makes them much money. She kissed me on the cheek, and with a cigarette in her right hand, she started a slow run across the green. I watched her disappear into the dour melancholy majesty of King’s College.