Scraps of Heaven (25 page)

‘Mrs Shanahan understands. We do not have to say a word. I know who she is. She knows what it is to be betrayed. We should invite her in for a cup of tea. She is alone with her newborn child. She has wounds that cannot heal. Perhaps she is a
lammed vovnik
, one of the thirty-six. Why shouldn't a woman be a
lammed vovnik
?

‘And Bloomfield is a
lammed vovnik
. Yes, he is a holy man. He does no one any harm. Such people uphold the world. I know, because I am one of the mysteries. Zalmanowicz said many things in life remained mysteries, and he taught us many poems. And I remember them all. I have always had a good memory: “And we once lived, and time did weave / Her long and sacred thread.”

‘Yes, I must thread the cotton through the needle. First you wet it with your lips to make the cotton sharp. Then you thread it and get to work. The sewing is piling up. Who will pay the rent?
Dirre gelt, Ai. Ai. Ai.

'

And the white pigeon is cooing. It flies down from the window, and perches on Zofia's arm. She smooths its feathers and it settles down at the end of the bed. And the light is withdrawing and the fever is rising, and Zofia is returning to the crypt.

‘The bodies are in the dining-room cupboard. And there are bodies in the chapel, suffocating under slabs of rock.' She glances around the room and rests her eyes upon Josh.

‘Ah, you are one of the miracles. When you were born we celebrated. We named you after my father, and we drank champagne.'

‘How many glasses?' asks Josh.

‘Many glasses. We had to make up for all the lost souls.

‘This is a rich country. But look at Bianchi, next door, see how hard he works. And the Bassos, and Tallon the shoe repairer. They are
erlekhe menschen.
Fine people, with an honest trade. I hope everything will go straight, and that people will be all right. And look after Mrs Shanahan. She has a husband, but he has vanished, pff, just like that. But I know who she is. She is one of the thirty-six. I can see it by the way she looks after her child.

‘Next time you see her, say hello. And say hello to the parents of the crippled boy. They too are
erlekhe menschen.
They live only for their son. And do not forget Bloomfield. Look after him. I knew many like him, over there, in
yenner velt.
Yes, one is born, and one becomes lost, and one must find their way back.'

Zofia sees the fear in her son's eyes. She wants to reach out, but she is an oak that has fallen. And night has fallen, and Josh has drawn the blinds, and Zofia sees the faces of men laughing, men with bloodshot eyes and the stench of spirits on their breath. She folds her arms over her breasts. She lays her head on the pillow, but it smells of sweat. She longs for fresh sheets, and the scent of perfumes. Her ulcer festers. Her body burns. She grasps the pillow and hurls it across the room.

‘Everyone is mocking me,' she says. ‘Everyone is laughing behind my back.' Her voice is rising. ‘What do they want of me?' she asks. ‘I love life!' she sings. ‘I want to live!' she chants. She wants to reach out to her son, but his face is changing, crumbling. She no longer knows who he is. ‘You too are one of them,' she shouts. ‘And one day you will betray me.' Josh runs from the room. He is back on the street, but he does not know where to run next. Perhaps to La Cumparsita's or the sly-grog shop for a game of hide-and-seek. Or to Aronson's where a rap on a back door may open onto a night of jazz or a game of two-up in the back lane.

When Josh arrives the house is dark. The boys are elsewhere tonight. The lone palm is a Faraway Tree that disappears into the night sky. Perhaps he could climb it and vanish into other worlds. Tonight all he can do is run. He is running from Zofia's uncomprehending eyes. Her arms reach out to embrace him but, just as they are about to touch, she withdraws. And he runs.

He dodges parked cars and changes direction at will. He leaps over gutters and drains to test his jumping skills. He veers in and out of lanes for the touch of stones upon his heels. He knows this patch of earth, every incline and decline, where he must slow down, and where he can launch into a higher speed. Between Fenwick and Curtain the slope propels him into a sprint that conveys him into Curtain Square.

Fevers beget fevers, and the square bobs up and down, and Valerio is there, practising, even at this hour. He arcs the ball into the cyclone fence by the light of a streetlamp, and catches it on the rebound. He too is a runner, a man who wants to move up, and out. The square is dancing. The ball bursts back into the fence. The wire shudders. A half moon skims beneath a thin cloud. Josh's legs are tiring, and he slows to a jog.

Then he sees her, approaching. The Swedish Girl is making her way home along Canning Street after visiting a friend. She walks past the kindergarten opposite the square. Josh crosses the median strip and recalculates his pace so that they will meet on the footpath. She is wearing a grey jumper and black skirt. Again Josh is touched by her perfection, her grace.

She greets him with a smile.

His heartbeat skips.

She stops in front of him.

He cannot believe he is so close.

‘Hello. My name is Marika,' she says.

‘I'm Josh,' he stammers.

‘I've seen you many times,' she replies. ‘Playing football. Always running,' she laughs.

Josh can smell her perfume. He wipes the sweat off his forehead.

My face is too hot, he thinks.

‘You're out of breath,' she says.

Josh can find no words.

‘Is anything wrong?' she asks.

Josh remains silent, though there is much he longs to say.

Marika smiles.

Josh could live in that smile, in its blue mildness. He recalls his mother's dishevelled hair, the delirium in her eyes. Marika reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you all right?' she asks.

Still he can find no words. Each attempt is a stammer. He inhales the scent of cold air and damp grass, the perfume of a winter night.

‘Come with me,' Marika says.

She takes his hand, and leads him over the median strip to the square. They stop beneath a Moreton Bay. Valerio is gone. The square is deserted. She draws Josh closer, and strokes his face. Josh is aware of the quickening of his breath. She guides his hand under her jumper, above the skirt. He feels her belly warmth and reaches up. She has unfastened her bra. His hand moves easily over her breasts. He runs his fingers tentatively over her nipples, feels their hardness, their texture. My hands are too moist, he suddenly thinks.

Marika steps back, and looks at his face. Josh lowers his eyes. She is three years older and enjoys being in command. She guides his hand under her skirt. Her legs are cold. He moves his hands over her thighs, feels their goosebumps, and their increasing warmth as his hands move up.

He draws in the scent of her body, the smell of shampoo in her hair. She reaches down, takes his hand, and places it on her cheek. He tastes the cold of her lips as she kisses him. He savours the fragrance of her breath. She moves back, runs her fingers through his hair, and smiles. Yes, he could live in that smile.

She adjusts her clothes, and they make their way from the square without a word. Josh looks up at the Moreton Bays that arch over the dirt path on which they walk. He is aware of a stillness, a slowing of time. He scans the lights of the houses facing the square, and feels embraced by their glow. Even though he and Marika are now apart, his fingers retain the impression of her body warmth. Marika quickens her steps, and hurries ahead along Canning Street. She glances back with a final wave.

Josh watches until she is out of sight, before setting out, on the run, for home. He feels lightheaded, elated. He zigzags on the pavement and accelerates into a sprint. He veers around corners and laughs. He could run forever.

He recalls the smoothness of her breasts, the texture of her skin. He runs his tongue over his lips as if in search of her breath. He smells her scent on his clothes, and draws in the smell of the night.

Everything around him is imbued with mystery. The poplars are slim shadows, quiet, at peace. Josh pauses by the palm tree in front of her home. It is the sight that greets her when she steps out. These are the streets she walks on, the houses she passes by. This is where she could appear at any time. Everything around him is graced by her presence.

He longs to return to the square and relive the scene. He would not stammer; he would know how to answer her questions. He would be more daring. He would allow his hands to roam; he would hold her gaze. He is barely twelve and she is fifteen, and he senses this will be their only encounter. But she has given him a glimpse, and for that he will always associate winter nights with carnal desire. And touch. And the blue mildness of Marika's smile.

Josh is flying. Floating down onto familiar roofs. He lands on slate and tile, and drops into neighbourhood yards. He is dreaming the dream he longs to dream. He has not fully dreamt it for many months.

And he dreams of Bloomfield. He holds a lantern, and leads a procession around Curtain Square. The oaks and elms are knotted monsters pared back to their nakedness. Their jagged branches crush the sky. Perhaps they are all ghosts, thinks Josh— Bloomfield, Zofia and Romek, Uncle Yossel and Aunt Liebe, and Dobke in her tight satin dress. And Spielvogel the violin teacher, who wields his bow as a weapon whenever Josh makes a mistake, and Zlaterinski the Yiddish teacher, who holds forth as he struts about. Behind him marches Potashinski, in the pose of a hunchbacked fool, and beside him, Posner the hairdresser, followed by bearded men clad in black.

And Mrs Shanahan, her eyes bruised, walks with Mrs Boucher who leads her herd of mangy dogs. One-legged Pete propels himself after her and stares at Josh with accusing eyes; and Sommers sits on a balcony, beneath a regimental banner, pipe in hand. They are crowding in upon him. He is being pursued by a wolf pack. Miles Shanahan sits on a distant verandah, forever rolling that damn cigarette.

‘Run,' says Shanahan, ‘Run you skinny runt.' The dogs are lunging at Josh, reaching for his throat. His feet cannot grip the ice. He can smell their rancid breath. ‘Run,' says Shanahan. ‘Run you skinny runt,' and Josh awakes to Zofia, watching over him, from a chair beside his bed.

She applies a damp cloth to his forehead. Her eyes are mild. Josh sinks deeper beneath the eiderdown. There is no end to its softness. It is as soft as Marika's breasts. He sucks in his cheeks. His teeth feel as though they are pressing down on cotton wool.

The eiderdown is cool, but he is hot. His entire body is bathed in sweat. Zofia lifts a glass of water to his lips. She disappears and returns hours later. Or is it days, or weeks? She guides Doctor Sternfeld towards him. He is a small man and walks with a stoop. His white brows are thick, his head adorned with a white mane.

He leans over and places a stethescope to Josh's chest. The ends of its tentacles are like cubes of ice against his skin. Sternfeld smells of disinfectant, and his baggy trousers are held up by black braces over a white shirt. He pulls out a notebook, scribbles hurriedly, and tears out the page. He speaks Yiddish in staccato-like stabs. He is an ageing warrior issuing orders. ‘Give him plenty to drink, water, vegetable broths.'

Josh reawakens late at night. Zofia is still there, seated in the bedside chair. He can see through her flesh to her skeletal frame. Josh shivers and closes his eyes. He is back in the ring, and Logan is urging him on. He is searching for a way out. Wherever he runs, wherever he turns, he comes up against the ropes. His skeletal opponent is moving in for the kill, urged on by a baying crowd.

Josh wills himself awake. Zofia adjusts his blankets, shifts his outstretched arms back to his sides. Her body glows. Perhaps she is a witch. She brings a bowl of hot water scented with eucalyptus oil and places it on the chair. She drapes a towel over his head as Josh bends his face over the enamelled bowl. He loves the feel of the fabric, the gentle weight of the towel. He loves the way it encloses him. He inhales the aroma of eucalyptus. It expels the sweat through his pores. He sucks the vapour into his chest. Its coolness spreads and, when he lies back, he feels cleansed.

Zofia keeps watch over her son. His fever is abating. She listens to his breath. Her love for him is an ache. The lace curtains flutter in a nervous breeze. Her mind is clear, there are no voices. No distracting sounds. She does not feel the need to sing. Her son is sleeping. The world is at rest. She wants the stillness to never end. Tomorrow the voices will return. They will always return, but tonight, in this small room, she remains at her post. Her purpose is clear. She reaches over, touches his face, pulls the blankets over his chest, adjusts the eiderdown, and resumes her watch.

Josh is awoken by an explosion. It is Saturday morning. His fever has subsided, his six-day illness is almost over. He hears the wail of an ambulance and the drone of excited voices. He feels weak when he rises from his bed. He dresses and steps onto the verandah. There are people running. Josh is drawn by the tide.

On the corner of Canning and Richardson streets a crowd is growing. Two ambulances stand by the kerb. One car is crushed against a telegraph pole. The other is upturned, on its side. Three towtrucks idle nearby. Their drivers are arguing over the spoils. A man is being cut out of the wreckage of the crushed car. On the nature strip a young woman lies unconscious. She is breathing in short gasps.

Josh sees blood on the road, blood on the grass, and makeshift bandages soaked in blood. He gazes at the woman on the median strip. Her face is a mask. Her breath is getting shorter. He can hear it peter out. An ambulance officer pulls a blanket over her inert body. A radio journalist is jabbing a mike at a group of boys. They are all eager to be heard on the news. Josh hears their excited voices from the median strip.

‘What did you see?' the journalist barks.

‘The Holden was goin' fast, along Rich'son Street,' says one of the boys.