Dead Europe (44 page)

 

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 their 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.

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.