Dead Europe (24 page)

Later he would tell me that he had wanted to impress me, had been concerned that as I had only seen him in dirty overalls and shirts, he would seem foolish and out of place at a gallery show. I was kissing the coarse red hairs on his chest, and I laughed.

—I reckon you would have impressed my classmates more if you had turned up in your overalls or Yakka shorts.

—I didn't want to impress them. I wanted to impress you.

He had liked what I had done with the photographs. There was one of him in the show. He is smoking a cigarette at the end of the work day, and he is leaning over a balcony rail, looking down into the city. I had stolen up quietly behind him and then coughed. He had turned and seen me and in that split-second, I took the shot. There is puzzlement and I think there is desire in the startled eyes and tanned face. Underneath this photograph, in the thin type, I had printed only two words.
Fuck democracy.

 

—Do you like Prague?

Syd had come up beside me. Earlier I had excused myself and walked out of the observatory to stand on the balcony and watch the speckled yellow reflections of the city on the black surface of the Vltava. The breeze was biting and I
wrapped my arms around myself. Syd was standing looking down below into the city and again I marvelled at the size of him: it was overwhelming, ferocious. He was tall, his brow wide, his neck thick, his shoulders massive and his belly obscene. His legs, too, seemed thick and long. It struck me that Syd looked like a giant from one of the old fairytales. I looked down at Prague.

—It's almost a different city from when I was here last.

I glanced into the observatory. Maria had descended into a foetal crouch on the settee. Sal Mineo had disappeared. The men were standing over the prostrate woman, sipping their wines and champagnes. They all looked clean and fastidious and tidy. Their skins were clear, their skins were tanned. They disgusted me. I turned back to Syd, glad for his bulk, his solidity. Glad for his dirt and sweat and grime.

—Maybe Prague is too beautiful, too pretty.

—When were you last here?

—Over ten years ago. A decade is a long time ago in Europe.

—Bullshit. It ain't a thing. A decade ain't a thing.

Syd sniffed loudly. He spat out across the balcony rail and onto the yard below. I could almost sense Red and Yellow stiffen.

—Do you like Prague?

He laughed. A rumble from the gut, his whole body quivering; a growl from the back of the throat.

—I can't stand it.

—Then why are you here? I thought of the young boys fucking in the boiling studio, I pictured Syd's large mahogany desk.

His answer surprised me.

—My family is from here. Well, not from Prague. From Pilsen. From little old Pilsen. My mother's family.

—Are they still there?

He turned to me then and there was a darkness on his
face; I noticed for the first time that there was a small, almost imperceptible scar across his right eyelid. I noticed it as he blinked and turned his face to the moonlight.

—Dead. Assassinated. Murdered. Maria's vowels were thick; she elongated and made harsh and beautiful the clumsy English consonants. She staggered as she got to us and Syd carefully wrapped an arm around her naked shoulders to steady her.

—Yes, my darling. Syd clicked his two fingers lightly. They went up in smoke.

Maria's perfume was sweet; it smelt of honey. She leaned against Syd and lightly brushed a finger across his thick bottom lip.

—Have you seen Pano? Is he downstairs?

Syd ignored Maria. He was searching my face.

—Are you sure you are not a Jew, Isaac?

—Have you seen Pano? She was insistent.

—No, I am not a Jew.

He peered closer, grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me towards him.

—Have you seen my Pano? Maria was shaking his arm. Her slight wrist against his immense bulk seemed comical. It was as if he didn't even feel her touch.

He yawned and gently pushed my face away.

—Have you seen Pano?

—No! It was a shout. Maria jumped back, shocked, as the rest of the party fell silent. Syd tilted Maria's chin towards him.

—He's on a job. He touched her lips tenderly. You should get ready. I don't pay you for nothing.

Maria smiled. Her eyes glistened. She pulled back her hair, wriggled her body. And even though it was a body growing old and wrinkling and falling to gravity, it was still also strong, defiant: a sensual, real, robust body. Maria turned to me and kissed me on the cheek. She did the same to Syd.

—Of course, darling, I am the proletariat. There is work to be done. She kissed Syd and walked away.

—She's lovely.

—She is indeed.

Syd lit a cigarette.

—Then why are you such a cunt to her?

He barked a laugh.

—You're just like your mate Steve. There's nothing aristocratic about you Aussies, is there?

I repeated my question.

He was facing me but looking elsewhere, beside me and behind me and above me. He was looking everywhere but at me.

—Imagine this city covered with my shit. This city of spires and cathedrals and testimonials, imagine it covered in my shit. Imagine them all choking from my shit. That's what I would like to do to Prague.

I remembered what my friend had told me the previous day.

—But Syd, Czech shit don't stink.

He laughed again. But he did not look at me.

—That's true. That's what they'd like you to believe. They are always the little innocent in the middle, our darling Czechs. They're never responsible for anything.

—So, why are you such a cunt to her?

—Syd, are we going?

Both of us turned to Yves. He was pointing to the slim gold watch on his wrist.

Syd pulled me into his weight. It was warm. But one snap, I thought, one snap and I'd be gone.

—Yes. It is time to go to the club.

He was looking straight into my eyes. I am the real Jew, mate. Your friend's smarter than that Russian
zoine
, he'll never trust me. Spittle landed on my lobe. You don't know Jews, do you? You think we should be the nice old fella in the
back of the store, wouldn't hurt a fucking fly. Salt of the earth and God's chosen people. I'm not that kind of Jew, cunt. That kind of
mumza
Jew is finished. I hope that mumza has gone forever.

His grip was tight as he walked me down the stairs and ordered the taxis. His grip hurt and I had to pull away. I had to pull away.

 

The door was opened by a man with a boxer's physique and a peasant's face. He nodded at us and we descended stone stairs into a basement cavern. There were empty tables, each with a candelabrum on a lace white tablecloth. Thick curtains of red velvet hung from the walls. A woman was sweeping the polished wood floor, her hair covered by a scarf. Two young men, dressed only in tight black trousers with dark blue suspenders over their smooth naked chests, were sitting drinking at the small semicircular bar.

Syd was already behind the cash register counting money. He smiled at us. Take a seat, he ordered.

I looked longingly at the alcohol bottles on the shelves. He followed my gaze and smiled. Take a seat, he repeated, I'll get someone to look after you. The rest of our party was at a table at the front of the room, before a small podium empty but for a black microphone. I took a seat next to Red.

—Where's Steve? I asked.

Red pointed beyond the podium. He's there, with that Russian bitch.

—What would you like to drink? Syd called after me.

—A whisky.

One of the boys came over with a full glass. The suspenders bit into his flesh and left a clear pink mark. I smiled up at him. He placed the glass on the white cloth without looking at me. I had an urge to stand then, to stand and fling the glass straight into his hostile young face. I could smell his blood. My hunger was an instinct. I excused myself,
jumped on the podium, pulled back the curtain and walked through.

I was in a small dusty corridor. Brooms and mops hung from the wall. It smelt of stale cigarettes. I heard noises behind a door and I knocked and entered. A group of youths, in various stages of undress, were giggling and laughing. I smelt marijuana; the laughter immediately stopped.

—Is Maria here?

One of the youths, his arms crossed, dressed only in white cotton shorts, his wiry legs pale and hairy, threw some Czech at me. I blushed.

—Is Maria here?

Another boy, with a shock of greasy black hair, took my arm and pointed to the end of the corridor. There, he said sharply, and shut the door behind me.

Maria was getting dressed behind a curtain swirling with pale yellow flowers. Sal Mineo sat on a dresser watching a man affix a thin black moustache to his lean, tough face. I recognised Pano from the photographs. Sal Mineo introduced us, and then, pointing behind me, said, This is Mathilde.

I turned around. A thin young woman was sitting on a plastic chair; I must have almost knocked her over when I opened the door. But the face she turned to me for a moment before dropping it again was apologetic and meek.

Pano said something to Sal Mineo, who laughed.

Mathilde said something quietly, and Maria in turn retorted angrily in Russian. The girl stood and offered me her chair. I refused it.

—Please. The one English word was soft and awkward.

I shook my head. Pano yelled at her and she quickly sat down again.

I looked over at my friend. He was watching Pano in the mirror. Sal Mineo's face was softened by desire, a sad, forlorn desire. Pano was dressed in absurd formal clothes: a
black suit, a frilled white chemise and black bow tie pulled tight around his throat. I sat down beside Sal Mineo on the dresser, offered him and Pano a cigarette, but when I turned to Mathilde, Pano held out a large calloused hand and stopped me.

—My wife does not smoke.

Maria emerged from behind the curtain. She was dressed in a voluptuous ruby dress, all lace and silk, all folds and pleats, cut low at the front. She twirled around.

—How do I look?

—Beautiful, I answered. I saw Pano frown. Maria sat next to him, grabbed a cigarette from me and began to arrange her hair. Mathilde rose from her seat to help the older woman. Maria stared at my reflection in the mirror. Pano said something in Russian that made her laugh. She took my hand.

—He asks if you are a faggot. There was defiance in her eyes. Are you a faggot?

I nodded. She dropped my hand.

Pano rose from his seat, pretending to hold a gun in a gangster pose. He shot at the mirror. One day, bang bang, all faggots dead. Bang bang. He laughed again. Sal Mineo's face was severe, impenetrable. Pano was tall, nearly seven feet tall. He dominated the room. He turned to me now, pointing his fingers like a gun to my head. All faggots, bang bang, dead? It was a question. I made no reply. He dropped his hand and with a contemptuous roll of his eyes, turned away, dismissing me. I felt slapped. He kissed Maria softly on her shoulder and hugged his wife. He ignored me and Sal Mineo.

—I have some cocaine, offered Sal.

—You have? Pano had stopped, his hand on the doorknob. I wanted him to keep walking, to shut the door on all of us. Instead his broad back heaved, his shoulders slouched, and something in that vulnerable gesture of defeat reminded me of boyhood.

Sal Mineo followed him out.

—Your friend is in love with Pano.

I looked sharply over at Mathilde, who was combing Maria's lank hair.

—It is alright. Mathilde knows no English.

—Yes. He is.

Mathilde had swiftly crafted Maria's hair into a neat bun. Maria rose from her chair, turned, and smiled.

—How do I look?

—Beautiful, I said again.

—Thank you. She brushed her lips softly on my cheek. You must come to the show.

I nodded. She butted out her cigarette and left. Mathilde and I sat quietly for a moment and I could hear the soft call of music, the sounds of feet, a trace of applause. I turned to the younger woman, who was again sitting down. I pointed to the door. Will you escort me, I gestured.

She smiled, but shook her head. I turned back, wanting to convince her, extending my arm out in an invitation, but she had her hands in her lap, her gaze firmly on the concrete floor. There was quiet strength in her silent refusal. I did not ask her again.

You are in Hell. There were voices from the room next door, there was giggling and then there was a rushing of feet. I closed the door behind me and walked down the empty corridor. You are in Hell, the voice repeated, and I was sure that it spoke in Greek. My belly was on fire, as if a ghostly iron fist was at work, slowly, methodically grinding my intestines and belly to fine dust. I looked down at my feet, one following the other, and found myself surprised at their confident rhythm, at their ability to act, to walk. I did not wish them to go forward, I wanted to return back to the little room, sit beside Mathilde, hide myself from what lay beyond the red velvet curtain. Hell lay behind it, I was sure of that. But my feet, my will, were not my own. I breathed deeply,
and thrust a hand through the curtain opening.

Maria was in front of the microphone. The club was full, all men, all well-dressed, all European. There were more young men in black trousers and blue suspenders, carrying trays of drinks to the tables which were illuminated by the soft light of the candles. The CD that had been playing Puccini arias sung by Maria Callas faded and there was more applause. A gold spotlight hit Maria. She bowed and held out her hand to still the audience. The club fell to silence.

—I will tell you, began Maria, about the day I first lost my virginity. Her voice was soft and melodic, her accent giving the obscene English words a gravity and charm they did not deserve. As her tale continued I realised that she was speaking in the character of an eleven-year old boy who was at the wedding of a favourite uncle. Something brushed my shoulder. Pano stood beside me. Next to him was the young boy who'd refused to answer my English. He too now wore a formal suit; his hair was slicked back, his arms crossed. Ignoring me, they waited in the wings.