The Nature of Blood (9 page)

That evening, Papa asked the man to dine with us. Clearly this
was a special man, for Papa had never extended such an invitation to any of
the others. The man sipped gingerly at a glass of red wine as he ate, but
soon the bottle was empty. However, the man kept his tongue and spoke only
when spoken to. Once the plates had been cleared, Papa and this newly rested
man retired to the drawing room. I asked Margot what she made of him, but
all she would say was that he was not as old as he looked. To her mind, he
was a young man who had thrown away his youth. Mama and I stared at Margot,
who began to colour. She then stood and asked if she might be excused from
the table.

Papa had used all his contacts and resources to let it be known that he would happily reward anybody who might help him solve the mystery of what had happened to his brother. It transpired that this man, who now sat in the drawing room, clumsily sucking on one of Papa's finest cigars and introducing himself to a second bottle of red wine, was prepared to help Papa solve this mystery. Margot and I eavesdropped by the door to the drawing room as the man explained to Papa that Uncle Stephan was one of the leaders of the Palestine underground army, and that among these young idealists he was something of a legend. As the story of brave Uncle Stephan's exploits began to be told, I found myself thinking that perhaps Uncle had been right to try to make a new home in Palestine. Things in our country had raced rapidly downhill since the morning when Papa had walked with his brother to the end of the street.

According to this man's report, Uncle Stephan had not been seen or heard of for six months, but the man was sure that nothing adverse could have happened to Papa's brother. Apparently, the nature of Uncle Stephan's work meant that occasionally he would have to undertake secret missions, but he had always emerged at the conclusion of his duties as though nothing untoward had occurred. Papa seemed painfully unconvinced, but the man pressed on and began to speak now of the world he was rediscovering, with its restrictions and new laws, and he expressed both surprise and anger that we should be treated in this fashion. Fortifying himself with the dregs of the second bottle of wine, he encouraged Papa to abandon the land of his birth while he still had time. Papa glared at this scruffy young man, who clumsily pawed at the expensive cigar and who swilled down his fine wine as though it were water. And then, as though a cloud was suddenly lifted from his evening, it occurred to Papa that the vulgar rogue was simply waiting for money. Papa reached for his wallet, and Margot and I looked at each other. And still the young man puffed away.

Later that same evening, Papa told his wife and daughters that
his brother Stephan might be dead in a hot country, among people who did not
know him, or love him, or care for him. Papa paused, the look on his face
so poignant that only now do I realize how desperately unhappy Papa must have
been. Papa needed his family. He needed his wife. He needed his daughters.
He needed his brother. At this stage, he even needed his parents. Mama looked
on helplessly, and then she smiled in the direction of her girls.

I think of Uncle Stephan sitting on the bench in the garden and making his decision while the night blackened the trees. Uncle Stephan trudging up the stairs to pacify the children who teased him relentlessly, but only because they were so proud of him. Uncle Stephan steeling himself for a life of commitment, trying to justify to himself the enormity of the crime of leaving his wife and daughter. Perhaps he saw something that we did not see. Perhaps he knew that he had to throw himself into the building of another world, even if this meant setting himself adrift from those who loved him. Including us. Two annoying young girls. I like to think that, wherever he is, Uncle Stephan might sometimes remember Margot and Eva. Two annoying young girls.

IT WAS raining heavily now. Through the window
of the cafe I could see passers-by bent almost double, leaning into the wind
and trying to shield their eyes from the rain. Occasionally the wind would
roar and catch an innocent, holding him or her for a second or so, a single
leg hanging half-suspended, and then the wind would stop its foolishness and
let the victim fall back to the ground. I felt particularly grown-up as I
observed the world bustling by on that dark November afternoon, for I was
out with Papa. I looked across at him, but Papa had no interest in anything
beyond his own thoughts. He idly stirred the spoon in his coffee, seemingly
intrigued by its circular journey.

A drenched couple stepped inside from the rain. They peeled off their coats and hung them on the brass hooks by the door. Then they looked around and began to push their way across the cafe towards us. Once they reached our table, the man took off his glasses and asked if anyone was sitting opposite us. Papa looked up and shook his head. The man bowed quickly and asked, 'May we?' meaning would it be all right if they shared our table?

'Of course.'

For a moment, Papa became the old Papa, courteous and charming.

'Please,' he said, and gestured with his hand to the empty seats. The couple smiled, but their smiles marked the onset and conclusion of their engagement with us. The man replaced his glasses, while the woman dabbed at her face with an embroidered lace handkerchief. And then they sat and quickly angled themselves so that they faced each other.

'But the larger hotel. On the lake. It's so pretty.'

The woman shook her head firmly. I could see that she was considerably younger than the man, perhaps by some thirty years, but they talked intimately and as equals.

'A larger hotel is better.'

Again, the woman shook her head.

'Too much money. A waste.'

She was dressed simply in a brown sweater and matching scarf.
Her hair was pulled back tightly and fastened with a dip, and she wore just
a little make-up under the eyes. He, on the other hand, was attired more formally
in a dark suit and tie, but it was the additional elements – the tie-pin,
the cuff-links and the trouser-braces – which betrayed both his age
and his manner. He was used to doing things in his own precise way, and her
refusal to obey him was causing him some distress.

'Are you all right?'

I looked at Papa and nodded. I could see that he was embarrassed that the lovers were making no allowance for my presence, but I was thrilled with this development. I began to imagine this woman as the most glamorous person in the world: a French cabaret star who had travelled from Paris and deposited herself in our country, in a cafe in our city, at our table.

'Papa, may I have some coffee?'

'Are you sure?'

Again, I nodded.

The cafe was becoming increasingly crowded and noisy. The rain
showed no sign of letting up and, although people continued to arrive and
wait in the doorway by the cashier's till, nobody appeared to be leaving.
The two waitresses were being run off their feet and, as they dashed around
taking repeat orders, they pointedly removed cups and glasses from in front
of those who had clearly finished, and with their most commercial smiles they
pacified those who waited impatiently. Papa held up his hand.

Eventually, the waitress returned with a cup of coffee for myself and another large glass of wine for Papa. The couple barely noticed as the waitress set two coffees in front of them.

'But the spring is my favourite time of the year. We cannot risk waiting until the summer.'

The woman looked disappointed.

'You know this is difficult for me.'

Papa snatched up the glass and gulped a hasty mouthful of wine.
I glanced across at him in surprise, but he was staring at the couple opposite.
He seemed nervous at the prospect of what they might say next, and then I
heard the clasp of a handbag being unfastened. I looked over as the woman
produced a blue cigarette case with gold trimming. She pulled clear two cigarettes,
handed one to her companion, put one into her own mouth, and then lit them
both. The smoke billowed across the table and I stifled a cough. Again, Papa
whispered, 'Are you all right?' I smiled and nodded. Poor Papa. He picked
up his glass of wine.

Papa and I had stopped at the cafe on our way home from the
funeral of one of his colleagues. Over the weekend, Dr Singer had suddenly
died from heart failure, and his death had shaken Papa badly. Two years younger
than Papa, there had been no sign of illness, no shortage of breath, no putting
on of weight, nothing. After hearing the news, and sharing it with his family,
Papa sat slumped at the kitchen table. We left him to his thoughts and followed
Mama into the drawing room. Three days later, neither Mama nor Margot were
interested in venturing out on a cold November day to attend the funeral of
someone they barely knew. Papa looked so lonely that I simply could not bear
the thought of him leaving the house alone, so I pulled on my coat and boots,
and slipped my arm into his.

There were only three others at the funeral. An old woman dressed
in black, who I presumed to be the doctor's mother. A younger woman in a worn
coat and ill-matching hat, who I imagined to be his faithful receptionist
or housekeeper. And an older man, about Papa's age, who I immediately presumed
to be another doctor. It soon became clear that Papa knew this man, for, once
the brief service was over, they shook hands warmly and Papa introduced his
daughter to a Dr Lewin. This done, Papa turned to the two women and introduced
me to Dr Singer's mother and his housekeeper, and then we stood together,
a small awkward knot of people, until it began to rain and hasty excuses were
proffered. For some reason, Papa and I were the last to depart. We stood together
on the stone steps and watched the three mourners fan out in their separate
directions.

As we began the walk home, the rain became more insistent.
I looked across at Papa and knew that his mind was churning. We would soon
have to give up our beautiful house, and most of our possessions, and move
to a special part of town. Papa had already been forbidden to practise medicine,
and, although people still sought him out, he was able to prescribe only patience.
These days, he spent his time at home either staring into mid-air or trying
to occupy himself by reading a book What little money remained was slowly
draining away. All of this he tried to hide from his children, but there are
some things that cannot be hidden. And then it occurred to me that perhaps
Papa's friend did not die of heart failure. Perhaps Papa's friend had no one
to live for. Like Papa, he was no longer permitted to practise as a doctor
and, his elderly mother apart, had no family. What else was there?

There was humiliation. There was the daily anxiety of being
easy prey for groups of men who ran through the streets yelling slogans. There
was the torment of their cruel laughter. There was the fear of being betrayed
by a gesture, a slip of the tongue, or an accent. There was the waiting and
the worrying. There was the knowledge that you might be pointed out by classmates
or friends or colleagues. There was the constant bullying. (Remove your hat!)
I knew why Papa stared into mid-air. I, too, stared into mid-air. I, too,
had tried to bury myself in books. There was blackmail. An earring. A watch.
There were muffled tears at night. Margot and I both understood this. There
were those who had already gone into hiding. The classroom was shrinking.
And everybody dreamt of escape to America. But in the meantime, there was
humiliation. Forbidden to ride on a trolley-car. Forbidden to sit in a park.
Permitted to breathe. Permitted to cry.

The rain continued to fall, and there was now a sizeable cluster
of people huddled in the doorway waiting for a table. Occasionally the door
would open and one or two would leave, having decided that they should try
elsewhere. I turned from both the drama by the door and the antics of the
couple sitting opposite, he now pressing her smooth, well-manicured hands
between his own, and I began once more to observe life in the windy street.
As the afternoon gave way to early evening, there were fewer people struggling
against the wind. I imagined that most had either reached their destination
or had decided not to venture out at all. The streetlights were now lit, and
the mysterious half-world between day and night fascinated me.

'What do you want, Eva?'

Papa's voice was tired. I turned from the window and reached for the menu.

'No. What do you want. In this life?'

I panicked inside, realizing that Papa was asking me an adult question. In fact, an impossible question. I searched his face for some clue as to how I might answer him, but I discovered nothing.

'I want to be happy, Papa. To marry. To have two children.'

And then I stopped, disturbed by the realization that I was answering as a child might answer. But what did Papa mean? Really, what kind of a question was this?

'You want to be happy?'

Papa smiled as he asked the question. I nodded.

'That is enough, Eva. That is a fine answer.'

The woman opposite glanced across at me. I was sure that she
had overheard some part of our conversation, but she smiled quickly, then
averted her eyes. Meanwhile, her friend released her hands, broke off a piece
of bread, buttered it, and then placed it on her plate. The woman looked quizzically
at him and I wondered if my glamorous woman was truly happy with her old man.

The door opened wide and cold air rushed in. It was now dark outside and the rain was cascading down. A tall, elegantly dressed woman, in a thick black coat with an elaborate brown fur collar, made her entrance. Quickly, somebody moved to close the door behind her and keep the heat inside. The woman hardly broke stride. She was led past those who still congregated in the doorway to a space where a single chair and small table suddenly appeared. Papa looked up at her.

'That's the singer, Leyna,' whispered Papa.

Other heads turned.

'She's going to America next week. It's all arranged.'

The woman opposite reached into her handbag and again pulled out her cigarette case. She gave a cigarette to her friend, lit it, then took one for herself. One of the two waitresses bolted the door to the café, turned the sign in the window, and drew across a curtain. But the large windows to the street remained undraped. Papa turned from Leyna, raised his hand, and beckoned the waitress who had previously served us. She was tired. It was nearly time to go home. Papa ordered another large glass of wine and a coffee and then, with his eyes fixed firmly on Leyna at her single table, he idly wafted smoke from his eyes with a slow branch-like movement of his arm. The old man immediately stubbed out his cigarette, but the young woman did not appear to notice. I looked at Papa and realized that his family and his dead friend were far from his mind. Papa continued to stare at Leyna.