The rain was now falling heavily and she despaired of finding the grave. But finally she came across the name. It was in English, and below his name was the date of his birth and the date of his death. He had hung himself, Lucky had told her, and it had made sense to her. His death had to be courageous and virile. Underneath the dates there was the Star of David and Hebrew script. She knelt on the damp earth and stopped herself from making the sign of the Cross. Not because he had been a Jew, but because he had not been a believer. She pulled the jewellery out of her pocket and tossed the pieces onto the earth. The stones gleamed brightly and she pushed them into the earth until they disappeared from view. She looked at his name, at her son’s name, and found her resolve. This is what matters, Reveka, she scolded herself, not the jewels. What matters is the promise you are about to make.
If you save my son, Lord, the Devil can have my soul.
She could never understand what brought her to do what she did next. It was as if an ethereal hand had clasped her wrist and forced her to action. Her hand had lifted a rock from the earth and she used it to pound away at the Hebrew’s name. The weathered concrete face crumbled easily and before long she had erased his name.
If you save my son, Lord, she repeated, the Devil can have my soul.
As she made her way back to the car, the rain cleared and sun burst through the heavy clouds.
And so the sickness did pass. Its passing was swift. Isaac returned to the world but as he did they all noticed that his appearance had changed forever. He was no longer a young man. He awoke to find his mother and his sister, his lover and his niece and nephew, around him. He knew what he wanted.
—Zach, Isaac had called out, bring me my camera. You know how to work it, don’t you?
The little boy nodded.
—Good. Isaac lay back on the pillow. Colin, fully dressed, got into the bed. Sophie lay on the other side of her brother. Rebecca, unsmiling, stayed standing, holding her granddaughter’s hand. Maritha. Sophie had called her daughter, Maritha.
—Take it, Isaac ordered, take the photograph.
The following Sunday Sophie asked her mother to go with her to church. Now that her brother was better, she would be driving home to Canberra the next day. Rebecca tied back her hair, fixed her scarf over her head and walked with her child to church. Once inside she stood in front of an icon of Christ, her God, and looked into his face. It was not the Christ Child but the stern mature face of the Christ Pantocrator. The unforgiving eyes of the creator and judge stared down at her and she bowed her head. At the end of the service the congregation began to queue for Holy Communion. The severe Father, still gazing down at her, admonished her as she unthinkingly went to take her place in the queue.
Rebecca pulled away from her daughter, and turned and fled the church. The trees had begun to shed their leaves. She understood now the extent of her punishment. She was never to see the light of the Saviour’s face, she would never again taste of His blood, partake of His flesh. She was never again to hear her husband’s booming, singing laughter, would never be reunited with her father. She was never to find rest with her family and children. This earth, this earth that smelt of sparse rain and parched ground, this earth and this boundless sky, was Hell.
The old woman leaned against a tree and began to weep. The elderly man selling almond biscuits outside the church rushed to her assistance, but she pushed him away. No. She was to be alone, forever alone.
No, whispered the boy, and his cold lips kissed her face, his stone hands clasped hers. He kissed her again and again, whispering her name, wrapping his slender, icy arms around her.
Not alone, but together. You and I, together, for all of time, for all of eternity.
This novel was made possible by the encouragement, support, argument and passion of the following people: Jessica Migotto, Jeana Vithoulkas, Angela Savage and Alan Sultan. Thank you.
And thank you to Wayne van der Stelt and Jane Palfreyman for making it all possible.
Christos Tsiolkas, Dead Europe
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