She was in charge now. Sam had organised a small hotel room across the busy main road from the hospital, and there she prepared meals for herself and the two men. She was shocked at the price of food in England. She told Colin that they were taking Isaac back to Australia immediately. The doctors were initially resistant but they could not deny that Isaac seemed a little better since their arrival, and the truth was that as there was nothing they could do for him, they needed his bed for someone they could help. Rebecca had been appalled by the shoddiness and desperate poverty of the hospital. She had assumed that England would be not only powerful but rich. But from the haggard expressions of the Slav and African cleaners, and the exhausted faces of the nursing and medical staff, she was aware that there was little money, little of anything.
They were to leave in three days and she knew that this offered scant opportunity to see anything of the city, but on her daily walk from the hotel to the hospital she saw enough. This was not Australia. If nothing of the air and the sky and the earth looked like Greece, she recognised the churlishness and the abrupt rudeness of the people: she remembered this toughness. As if visited by a distant memory, she saw that this city was indeed European, by which she meant ancient. Her husband had called Australians unsophisticated, and looked down at them for it, and she finally understood what he had meant. It was nothing to do with education or the class to which you were born. It had everything to do with one’s place in the world. She had been born in a remote corner of damaged, destroyed Europe but it had still felt like the centre of the world. As a Greek she knew she was at the centre of the world. She could tell, just in three days, that Londoners too knew that they were at the centre of the universe. She could not help wondering what it would be like to have come here, to have migrated here instead, to have remained in Europe. She would probably not feel that hunger for something else, which, for her, was the meaning of being Australian. O neos kosmos. The New World. She realised she envied these cold dour Londoners. But she also marvelled at their acceptance of the little that Europe now offered them.
Waiting for a red light on a busy street corner—such a large, anxious swarm of people, such a mob did not exist in Australia—she saw a young Irish girl begging, her child wrapped in a small blanket in her arms. No one noticed her, the girl’s smack-blasted eyes, the baby’s pallid skin. Rebecca found herself speaking out loud to Lucky. Imagine, husband, all these centuries of being a superpower, of meddling in the world’s affairs, of wanting power, and this is what you end up with. She could hear her husband’s laughter: oh, how she missed that laugh. She thought then of her son and what she must now do. She must prepare to never hear her husband’s laughter again.
Their hotel apartment was tiny but it did not matter, for they spent all their time in the hospital. She got to know the other patients in the room and became friendly with their families. The patients were all suffering from diseases of the blood. The boy in the bed next to Isaac was younger than her son. His family was from Pakistan and she could not help comparing them to her and to her own family and circumstances. The father was large and silent, refusing to betray any emotion. His wife did not leave her son’s side except at night when her husband forced her to leave the ward. She and Rebecca would often arrive at the hospital grounds at first light. Rebecca told her of life in Australia, and Azamir told her of life in London. They prayed together for, as Azamir said, it was the same one God.
Rebecca demanded that she be the one to sponge and bathe her son and Colin had asked her if she wanted him to leave the room. This had made her laugh. Why? she had asked him. If I don’t mind you fucking him, why should I mind you seeing me bathe him? The nurse who was marking Isaac’s chart, a plump Caribbean woman, giggled on hearing this, and then quickly apologised. She and Rebecca were also to exchange stories of exile. It struck Rebecca that if migrants were to form a nation, they could conquer the earth.
She and Colin would bathe Isaac every morning and once again before they left the ward at night. There were moments when she could not bear to touch the ashen paleness of his skin. More than his distended belly, his swollen feet, the putrid stink of his blackened, hungry mouth, the child-like wrists, it was his skin that terrified her. She was grateful for Colin’s calm courage then. Often in the past she had resented his aloofness. It reminded her of the boys and men whom she had lived alongside all her life in Australia; the boys and men who had bullied her and abused her; or worse, for a woman with her pride, who had simply ignored her, remained oblivious to her and her world. She had nicknamed him ‘kokkini’, the red one, and though it was a term that had become an affectionate nickname, it had initially risen from disdain. She was exacting a small revenge every time she used that name and though Colin had never minded, never seen the spite in it, Isaac and Sophie chided her whenever they heard it.
But now, standing across from him as they each sponged down Isaac’s torso, washed his face, as Colin assisted him to shit and to piss and then cleaned up after him, Rebecca silently asked a thousand pardons from the man. Colin, she knew, was convinced that his lover was dying. She now understood that she could not read his grief from his words or tears or cries but from looking into his bewildered eyes, from seeing how his coarse workman’s hands shook whenever Isaac gasped and wheezed in his sleep.
Colin wanted to remain in England and allow Isaac to die here. He feared that the shock of the long flight to Melbourne would only hasten his death. Rebecca had promised him that Isaac would live. She could not help it. She wanted in some way to still his anguish. In this she succeeded, because she saw the flash of fury in his eyes: a red temper indeed. He had said nothing but had left the ward and when he returned she could smell the tobacco on his breath and she could see from his bruised eyes and flushed face that he had been crying.
—I promise you, Colin, he will live.
On the eve of their departure Colin took her for a walk around the city. She had initially refused, not wanting to leave her son to the caresses of the demon, but Colin had been adamant and she had finally acquiesced. She was also curious to see more of the city. She could not quite believe that it was real. It was a city from a fable, at times wondrous, at times malevolent. Colin proved to be an excellent guide. They descended into the great Underground and she marvelled at the swiftness and the extent of the services. Colin explained to her that Londoners were always complaining about their Tube and she retorted that they were English and it was in their nature to always complain. On the train she read the brief notices plastered alongside advertisements which asked passengers to report any suspicious-looking parcel or container. They came up into Piccadilly and it was there that she understood the scale of the city she was in. She felt regret, then, not so much for herself but for what her husband had forgone to be with her. Melbourne and Australia had imprisoned him, he was too big for the cramped Australian cities. It was not a question of space. She knew the moment she stepped out into Heathrow that Australia had more air, more room, more land. But it was, nevertheless, a small country. Population, not geography, made a nation. Her husband needed movement and there was little of this in their lives. For him, heroin had been the way he had dealt with the inert weight of life. For her, heroin had been a way to escape the whispers of conscience, which for her were—and could only ever be—the voice of God. But God was eternal. She finally understood this, standing in the middle of London, comprehending the enormity of Europe. He was patient. In a Lebanese cafe in Kensington filled with pictures of Princess Diana, she wept, and Colin silently witnessed her grieving.
That night they packed up Isaac’s belongings. Sam had placed all the European photographs and proofsheets in a folio, and Colin and Rebecca had flicked through each clear plastic sheet, looking at the black and white images beneath. With a jolt she recognised her ancestral home and had to bite her palm to stop herself from screaming. She had thought that the day in London had made her reconciled to her estrangement from Europe, but seeing the dirt of her father’s ear
th, the light of her family’s sky, the gate and courtyard of Papa Nicholas’ church, the shadows of the poplar trees, she had felt a wave of sorrow flow through her. She was cursed. Never to settle, to have roots, to belong.
Colin was shocked by the obscene, ugly reality of the photographs: the landscapes awash as if in blood; the misery on the cadaverous faces of the figures. After the first few he could not bear to see them and had lit a cigarette and stood at the window looking down at the road below. She could see the night sky beyond him and she thought it peculiar that it was only during the day that London seemed a metropolis. At night it was quiet and still. She zipped up the folio.
—What do you think of those photographs? He was gazing down at the world below.
—I think they are true.
—And what truth is that?
His tone was bitter. She wished he would allow her to touch him, to soothe him. She realised that he would be lost without Isaac. Not that she feared that he could not survive tragedy—he had strength—but without Isaac his isolation would become complete and she feared he would never let another touch him again.
—The truth of Europe.
—That’s not Europe in those photographs, his words rushed out. Those photographs are Hell. What Hell did Isaac see? What Hell is he in?
—Europe has suffered Hell.
—Fuck Europe. What Hell do they know? The truth of Europe is money. I fucking hate Europe.
—Of course you do, darling. She wished she was better educated, she wished she had her husband’s knowledge and his words. He could explain it all. Missed their arguments. You don’t understand Europe. You’re not from here. You feel trapped here, I understand. That is what I see when I look at Isaac’s photographs. Europe scares you. You’re Australian, you don’t understand Europe.
—I’m as European as you. As European as Isaac.
—No, you are not. She was surprised by the vehemence of her own anger. You are not, Isaac is not. What do you know of Europe? You’re children. You’re bloody children here and you are bloody children there.
She was experiencing the frustration she always felt when confronted by the petulance and impatience of her son and daughter. They had never gone hungry, never experienced war or exile and yet unceasingly demanded more from this world. Like the grown man at the window, his arms crossed, angry at the world when he knew nothing of it.
The words were about to tumble from her lips: what do you know of suffering? Then she thought of her child, and reminded herself of the man’s grief. In grief, she reminded herself, you become adult; you have entered the world. The words she did finally speak were quiet and conciliatory.
—You are fortunate, you are Australian.
—They’re the fucking lucky ones, Rebecca. He was not ready to let go of his anger. The poor child, she thought to herself, and with that her fury vanished. Colin nodded to the world outside the hotel room. They’re the ones at the centre of the world. They’re the ones with everything, they’re the ones making all the decisions.
—They will suffer again. She said this quietly. And as soon as she said it, she knew it to be true. Could he not see it? In just three days she had seen it. The beggars on the streets, the Slav girls who cleaned the toilets in the hotel, the train stations plastered with warnings of terror. Their fear, their anxiety, it suffused the city. Could Colin not see the truth of the photographs? Isaac had not photographed the past, he had captured the future. She could not wait to get home.
Colin had come and sat beside her.
—You never think of returning to Greece?
The poplar trees. The dry hard earth. The cemetery gates. Her home in black and white.
—No, she answered quietly. She would have liked to answer that it was only those from a new world who believed that home was a matter of choice. But she didn’t speak because he had taken her hand and was squeezing it tight. His hand was rough, weathered. It was not like her husband’s hands; their softness had always taken her by surprise. Isaac had his father’s hands. But Colin had rough hands, with calluses, scabs and scars, just like hers.
—No, she finally answered. Why should I return to Europe, to Greece? Europe didn’t want me, Greece didn’t want me.
Sitting next to her on the bed, Colin began to flick through the photographs again. A man’s weary, aged face stared out at her, beckoning her. She gasped, and the world became motionless and hushed. She exhaled, and the world moved again.
—What is it, Rebecca?
—Nothing. That man in the photograph reminded me of someone long ago.
Colin picked up the envelope and stared at the man’s face.
—Who?
—A friend from the past. Isaac was named after him.
She stared into the old man’s eyes. Yes, they were calling out to her.
—Who was he?
—A good friend, an old comrade of Lucky’s. He killed himself, a long time ago.
Colin took the photograph out of the plastic sheath.
—Why did he do it?
—Loneliness. He married a beautiful woman, a Dutch woman, but she could not bear Australia. She could not live without Europe, Australia was slowly killing her. But he could never live in Europe again.
—And Isaac is named after him?
—We called him Gerry. The Australians could never pronounce his real name. But his name means Isaac.
Colin got up off the bed
—We should go to sleep, he said softly, slipping his hand away.
—I will put away the photographs.
She clutched at the photograph of the old man all night. She could not sleep. What odyssey have you been on, Isaac? she murmured to herself. How will I bring you back from the underworld? What am I to sacrifice?
On leaving the hospital, Azamir and Rebecca threw their arms around each other, could not let themselves break the embrace. The men had to ease them apart and they wept as if they were sisters.
When they walked through the sliding doors of Melbourne Airport she felt a gust of biting Antarctic wind and was astonished by its clarity. There was no blood in this wind: it was intoxicating. Her wrists were scarred with fresh raw wounds. On the long journey she had used the plastic aeroplane knife to carve at her arms and to feed Isaac her blood. Colin had watched the bizarre ritual and not said a word. But on returning from the cabin toilets she had found him pricking at the flesh on his finger till it bled. He placed the dripping blood on his lover’s lips. From Dubai to Singapore, from Singapore to Sydney, from Sydney to Melbourne, they took turns feeding Isaac.
She had no patience for rest once they reached home. As soon as they had put Isaac to bed, she wrapped her scarf around her head and took Sophie’s car keys off the kitchen table. Her daughter implored her to stay. The girl was half-mad with fear for her brother and wanted to know what the doctors had said, whether her brother would survive. Rebecca pushed Sophie off her. I have to go, she explained. Colin will tell you everything. She kissed Colin’s brow. It will be over soon, she promised him.
First she drove to her own house, and opened the bottom drawer of her bedroom dresser, and took out a small object wrapped in a black shawl. A small wooden box lay inside the shawl’s folds. As she opened it, she realised the wood was chestnut. She remembered that in the grove where her grandmother had always tethered the goats, the air always smelt of chestnut trees. This was one of the few memories she still retained of her childhood in Grece. From the wooden box, Rebecca removed the only necklace that remained, and took out the ring and the brooch. She pushed the jewels into her coat pocket.
Walking through the Jewish section of Springvale Cemetery, Rebecca was humbled by the simplicity of the gravestones. She could see across to the adjacent allotment where extravagant, baroque Catholic angels and saints reached up to the dark, simmering sky.
She remembered that she’d had the same sensation when she was a young woman at Gerry’s funeral and had stood at the edge of the small group who had gathered to pay thei
r respects to the man. She had felt foolish and a little afraid, listening to the chorus of men chant their laments in the ancient Hebrew tongue, her handkerchief tied loosely around her hair because she had not known that she was meant to cover herself with a scarf. If Lucky had been with her he would have explained the ceremony to her; she would not have felt alone. But Lucky had not come and she had been glad for it. She had never seen him as drunk, as furious as he had been that morning. His curses at God, at Anika, had been vile and shocking.
My friend did not want to be buried as a Jew, he had screamed at Rebecca. He wanted to come to the burial, to denounce God in his friend’s name.
This is for Anika, Rebecca had pleaded with him. What good is your rage? The Hebrew is dead.
He suicided, her husband roared. Will they say that? Or will they lie and say he died in his sleep, will they lie and say that he was a man of God?
They cannot bury a suicide, she had answered. No faith will bury a suicide. Anika does not need that shame.
Then let me bury my friend, he implored her, not the priests or the rabbis. Let me bury my friend.
She had become angry herself then. She could not believe that for all his mocking of God and the Church, it was he, finally, who feared death more than she. You will not shame Anika, she had firmly told him. You will not shame me. And she had had her way. She had attended the burial alone.
She slowly crossed the paths, searching the headstones for his name. Rain began to fall. The stones lay close to the earth, and their markings, in English and in Hebrew, gave the barest details of the dead. She wished this too could be her fate. The cemetery reminded her of the Mohammedans’ burial ground. Those people too knew God and their place in His order. She looked around at the grounds that seemed to go on forever, and realised that this earth was to be her home. Lucky was buried there, but not on consecrated ground, as her children had forced her to not betray his wishes. Tassio and Athena were buried there. Gladys and Nina, old Giorgos Atkinas, Sally O’Connor, Manolis Vachis. Kalantzis and the Old Woman, even Eleni was buried here. Her father was buried here, the Hebrew lay here. Soon she would be buried here. This was her home.