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.May God forgive him, but whoever had murdered Lucia had done him a great favour.He was finally released from her enchantment.It must have been mercifully quick.When he had found her by the goat-shed she had been lying on the dirt floor as if asleep.There was a bullet wound at the back of her head.There were some in the village who gossiped that it was he himself who had murdered his wife.He hadn’t, but again asking understanding from God, he sprinkled the crushed camomile on Lucia’s grave and was grateful.COLIN HAD BEEN arrested twice in his life.The first time was when he was eleven and he was caught for shop-lifting a small transistor radio from a store in High Street, Northcote.The second time was when he was fifteen.Along with two other boys he had taken the train into the city, from there a tram to the beach, and after scabbing enough money from passers-by to pay for two cheap bottles of bourbon, they had ended up drunk, and scaling the high wall of the East St Kilda cemetery.Once inside, they attacked and desecrated a row of Jewish graves.The alcohol fuelled both their recklessness and their hatred.They had not noticed the surveillance camera in an alcove in the high brick wall.The cops arrived and interrupted their rampage.Colin spent that night in the Caulfield lock-up.—What did it feel like?—What do you mean?—How did it feel destroying those headstones?—It was fun.—You weren’t scared?—No, I wasn’t scared.I was high.I thought I was doing God’s bidding.I thought God was on our side.—So what did it feel like?Colin had turned away from me.I kissed his freckled shoulderblade.—It felt like I was fucking flying.—What exactly did you do?—I didn’t smash any headstones.The others did that.—What did you do?—I pissed on one of the headstones.He turned around and faced me now.—There was no English on it.It was all Hebrew script and I remember it shat me off that I couldn’t read it.I let my piss flow all over the grooves of the script.I couldn’t stop laughing.The others wanted me to shut up but I couldn’t stop.I turned away from Colin and looked up at the ceiling, examined the fine cobwebs suspended from the lightshade.I wanted to look anywhere but in his steel-cold eyes.—You must have really hated the Jews.Colin said nothing.—Maybe you still do?I felt him stiffen.—What’s with the fucking interrogation?—Do you?He got up from the bed and looked around for his overalls.The streetlight fell on him and painted his pale skin a golden hue.He found a cigarette and lit one.I reached out for one as well.—It’s as if I hated the very word.Jew.I hated the very sound of the word, does that make sense?—No.I could tell he was uncomfortable with the conversation but I also knew I needed it to happen.The swastika tattoo was invisible in the dark of the bedroom but it was as concrete an obstacle between us as a mourned past lover.—It wasn’t as if I knew any Jews, Isaac.It wasn’t as if they were the only ones I hated.I was full of hate.I hated everyone.—And what did you hate?—If I saw a father playing with his son, I hated them both.If I saw some migrant woman tending her beautiful vegetable garden in the sun, I hated her.I hated the actors on the movie screen, I hated the politicians on the news.I especially hated anyone who spoke of justice and right.I hated those cunts who used to come around pretending to care about Mum and me.I hated social workers.I hated social workers and teachers much more than I hated the Jews.—So it was indiscriminate? My voice must have sounded hopeful because he looked hard at me.He was guarded, suspicious.But I continued to talk, finding hope in what he had just said.I wanted his hostility and hatred to have been random, purposeless; or at most the inevitable consequence of an adolescent raging against the hypocrisies and inequalities of the adult world.You didn’t really hate the Jews, I continued, my words tumbling out, hopeful, expectant.You just hated everyone.He had turned his face away again.—I did hate them.I hated them completely, passionately.It was a joy to experience such a hatred.Such a pure, directed hatred.I think it stopped me going mad.I hated everyone and everything but I could focus it all on one thing.That one word, Jew.That’s what made me feel alive, when I was pissing on that old Hebrew grave.I hated everyone and everything but they were at the centre of my hate.—Do you still hate them?—The cops congratulated me.As they were taking my shoes and socks, before throwing me in the lock-up, one of them knelt and whispered in my ear, Good on ya, son.—Answer my question.Colin pointed to his tattoo.—I am ashamed of this, Zach.I’m forever ashamed of this.—Do you still hate them? I had raised my voice.I could barely conceal my contempt.He took my hand but I tore it away from his.—I don’t have any of those old hates any more, Isaac.I promise you that.I have my envies.I can’t fucking change that.—What are you saying now? That you envy the Jews?There was a pause before he answered.When he spoke, there was wonder, surprise in his voice.—No, no, I don’t.I still envy the rich.I envy you wogs because you can be passionate and touch each other without cringing.But I don’t envy the Jews.I’ve exiled myself from the Jews.—What the hell does that mean?That moment I did hate him.—You know how you can see a black man on the street or an Aboriginal woman or an old Vietnamese geezer and the first thing that you are aware of is their difference from you? You understand that?His tone had become cold and distant, but there was an urgency to it.I reluctantly nodded.—And then you know how you can talk to the stranger, get pissed with them, ask about the weather, the football, talk about a film, and the difference just disappears? It’s no longer about skin colour or language, it’s just you and the other person, does that make sense?—Yes.—Well, that can never happen between me and a Jew.He tapped his arm.This tattoo, it’s not ever going to go away.I leapt out of the bed then.In the toilet I punched the wall.It was him I was wanting to hurt.You fucking romanticise your past, I wanted to say to him, you fucking use everyone as a scapegoat for the idealisation of your own poverty and pain [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]