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.—She bewitched me with her dancing.She had no one.She needed a strong man.She wanted me then.But if I had met her in Amsterdam, she would not look at me.She would not even spit at me.She would be ashamed to be seen with me.Such hatred, I could hear such hatred in his voice, and so much passion.—In Australia, all she speak of is Europe.Europe destroy her family but she never stop talking about it.I’m European, I’m European, she say all the time, I no belong here.—But you’re European too.Didn’t you feel that way? My mother does, I wanted to add, my father did all his life.It was the migrant’s song.He laughed at my question.—Me, I’m a Turk.He waved towards the house.That is what she call me.—Where are you from? I was searching his broad face, looking for clues, but I couldn’t decipher the mystery of his skin and features.He certainly wasn’t Turkish; he wasn’t European; but he wasn’t from the East either.He pronounced a long complicated word.—What’s that?—It is a Bulgarian word.It means the place where the wolves fuck.—So you’re Bulgarian?—Who knows? This time his laugh was bitter.Where I come from doesn’t exist now.He snapped his fingers.Poof, it has disappeared.The wolves no fuck anymore.He tossed the cigarette butt into his garden.—It has been erased.God has erased its name.The table was cleared and coffee was brewing in the kitchen.Anika was on the phone and hastily put it down when we returned.—Who were you phoning? Gerry’s tone was suspicious.—I was speaking to Helene.I have cancelled tomorrow’s lunch.I am not feeling well.She made us coffee and as I drank it the acrid liquid raced through my body.My eyes were weeping and I had to wipe them with a handkerchief.We were back at the dining table and the smell of the food was still overpowering and obscene to me, though the old man and woman seemed oblivious to my agonies.I wanted to hear more about my parents’ lives before I was born.—How did you and my father meet?—We are workers together at a factory in Abbotsford.We become friends.—Did you work together for long?—Not there.Gerry laughed out loud.Your father never work at one place for too long.But we become very good friends.Then, as my wife say, we move into a house together.In Park Street, Fitzroy.We have many parties there.Here I was, in Paris, and the familiar street names of my childhood were being spoken.Anika remained silent.She seemed nervous.I felt like an intruder in her home.I knew she didn’t want me there.—Your father taught me to read.Anika glanced up at this statement.It was as if everything her husband said was aimed at provoking her.—You must understand, he continued, I was illiterate.A dumb animal.He grinned at his wife across the table.—I am just a dumb, ignorant peasant Jew.Once upon a time, there were so many of us.—How did he teach you to read?Gerry turned back to me.—He teach me as if I am a child.He teach me letters and words.Like a proud schoolchild, the old man carefully, slowly, recited the English alphabet.I laughed out loud.—Excellent.Anika laughed as well, but her laughter was bitter and poisonous.—He still cannot read.—I have no need.I use my hands.Gerry spread out his hands on the table.They were enormous, with long calloused fingers.He pointed them at his wife.—Anika hates my hands.They are a real Jew’s hands.Hands of the earth, hands made for the land.These are not European hands.These are not a poofter rabbi’s hands.These are hands for work and suffering.I was finding it hard to breathe.It was as if the hatred in the room was pouring into me, merging with the toxic bile in my stomach and threatening to rip through me, to crush me.—They are murderer’s hands.—Yes, he agreed, nodding in agreement at his wife’s words.But his smile was arrogant.They are murderer’s hands.They know pain and suffering.—As do I.Her voice was powerful.Her answer was imperious, her tone commanding.Do not dare say I do not know suffering.I thought of the photographs on the cedar bureau.The laugh of a young girl that had been forever stilled, forever banished.And Colin was there beside me.I could sense him.He too smelt of the earth.He was there, shirtless, the blue tattoo on his skin gleaming fresh and sharp.I staggered to my feet.Dizzy, I grabbed the back of my chair.—Where is the bathroom, please?My voice cracked.Hands led me to a corridor, I stumbled into a small room and fell to my knees next to the toilet.I raised the lid and vomited a spray of such volume that the basin was covered in streaks of black and red and purple slime.I retched again and again, into the basin, onto the floor.A light was switched on and Anika was beside me, stroking my brow.I was enveloped in her arms.I closed my eyes.For a moment there was peace.In the darkness, she spoke to me.You are hungry, she said.You must eat.You must feed.Do you know who I am? she asked.I am exiled, as you are, from Paradise.You are mine, she whispered, but there was no French lilt to her accent – instead the voice was childish, a boy’s speech, he talked to me in my mother’s tongue and the arms holding me then were thin and icy-cold.I felt a kiss on my neck, a hand plunging down into my crotch, it was freezing and with a start the blackness disappeared.I was lying on the floor, my head on Anika’s lap.She was stroking my hair, gently, soothing me.I was spasming.—You fainted.She said it simply, calmly.—I’m sorry.—Do not apologise.It is a warm night, the food was very rich and you have been travelling.You are tired.Do not trouble yourself with the madness between my husband and myself.We are cursed to be together.Yes, I am cursed as well.I lifted my head off her lap and slowly rose to my feet.She was still sitting on the floor, not looking at me.Slumped against the cold white tiles she looked old, frail and wasted.She looked exhausted.I wiped the saliva from my lips and, offering her my hand, I lifted her to her feet.As she switched off the light, we heard the doorbell ring.A policeman was at the door, speaking to Gerry.Anika offered me a whisky and I drank it gladly.The smooth, biting liquid stilled my stomach.When Gerry returned he resumed his seat and poured a large splash of whisky into his glass.He was looking hard at his wife.Anika had a small, discreet smile on her face.Without looking at me, he tapped the ashtray, indicating he wanted another cigarette.At this, Anika broke her silence and spoke in French
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