Maria smoked a cigarette down by the mudflats, by the railway line. Bright light, photographic clarity. Gravel on the embankment sliding drily underfoot, blinding light arcing off the curving tracks. The turning tide sluiced water through the channel, the water flowed towards the estuary mouth. Sticks turned and turned on the surface, milky bubbles in the moving current rose up through the salt and floated swiftly away. By the railway line she smoked and watched, while the deep green water ran down to the sea. Seeing the sticks turn and turn, watching cars through the sunstrike creeping slowly up the saddle of the hill. Cars moving, water moving, wind over the water and nothing changed. Smoking and watching she saw it bitterly, that everything was beautiful, and nothing had changed.
By the railway station a car slowed and she heard yobbish hoots and lewd wolf-whistles, she glared at them smearily, how could they? As she walked back up to the cemetery gates a jogger swerved past and clipped her shoulder, she stared after him in dismay, how could he? Practically pushed her into the hedge, and the sharp sticks scratching her face. She swore at him weakly. Fucking joggers. He passed on with a swish of air and a waft of sweat and didn’t look back. Great overdeveloped hams, tautly shuddering buttocks, legs pistoning away up the street. How could he? But why should he not? Why not?
She hurried on through the bland garden suburb, the indifferent streets. She caught the old man as he was driving his car through the cemetery gates.
‘Sorry,’ she said, getting in.
‘It’s OK.’ He patted her knee. Then he squeezed her knee, relaxed his hand, squeezed it again. At the touch of his hand the hairs rose on the back of Maria’s head. Her nose tickled. She raised her handkerchief to her face and looked at him – it was Leon’s profile, the same features but thicker, heavier, more masculine. Leon grown heavy and male. The big fingers continued to flex on the scratchy nylon of her stocking and Maria suddenly entertained a vision of herself sprawled up against one of the broken graves, her pantyhose around her knees, the old man with the son’s eyes fucking her to pieces on the surreal grass while the grey angels watched through mossy eyes and startled blackbirds rose over ruined bouquets and empty jars and blackened slabs.
But he turned his head and his eyes were weak and watery and not intent but hopeless, and the flexing of his hand was an involuntary wringing and nervous stroking, weak fluttering of an old man who was lost for words, who came to himself with a shake of his head and took his hand away and fumbled with the keys, accelerating the car forward with many muttered apologies and distracted sighs.
Shielding his eyes against the light, he turned out into the impossible blinder of the afternoon sun. Driving straight on into the west, the sun sunk low and burning, burning.
Golden light in the cemetery, yellow light on suburban rows. Weatherboards, neat hedges, rainbow sprinklers over the glowing grass. Maria rode with one hand on the dashboard, flinching when they stopped abruptly at red lights. Those Jews. In your village that time. Did you bury many? Were there many? Did you see? I was a little boy. But the men worked hard all day. Were there many? How could you bear it? How could life go on? I was a little boy. There were twenty of them. Or thirty. Life went on. How could it not? How not…?
They arrived at a brick house in Orakei. Leon’s cousins greeted them at the door. Don, a builder. Vaclav, a dentist. Aleta, plump mother of five wiry boys. All tall and amiable, long-nosed and blond. The old people gathered on the bright lawn, carefully enjoying the late afternoon sun, eating lemon cake, drinking coffee. Maria walked about the garden and the terrace, sat on a chaise longue on a concrete verandah and listened to the ugly-beautiful sounds of foreign languages: Czech, Polish, Yugoslav. She nodded and smiled, murmuring. Yes, I was the girlfriend. I’m the girlfriend. I was. Yes, I adored him. Yes.
An old lady on crutches tottered over and lowered herself down. She looked a hundred years old, dressed like a fortune-teller in heavy eyeliner, bright lipstick, a black scarf over her head tied tightly under her chin.
‘I am aunty,’ she whispered harshly, rolling her eyes to heaven and fastening claw-like hands on to Maria’s arm. ‘When he was this baby, I rock him on my knee…’ She drew in a sharp, rattling breath and peered beadily sideways at Maria. ‘You are the girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
The old lady nodded and sighed, closed her eyes, pressed her claws to her lacy breast. ‘My dear, already you must have cried a thousand tears!’
‘Oh yes, a thousand. More!’ Desperate spray of cake crumbs, flapping of the unfurled hanky. In the reflection of the glass French door Maria glimpsed her own wooden and humiliated smile.
Nodding and blinking and sniffing exhilaratedly, as if a funeral were a stiff walk in the alps or a cold swim in the sea the old lady wiped tears from her own milky eyes, rose and crutch-walked efficiently away. Maria smoothed her hair automatically, silently consumed more lemon pie.
But I haven’t cried, Maria thought. Not like that. It won’t come. And I don’t know how to. Maybe it’s just – and forgive me if this sounds strange – maybe it’s just because I’m so afraid.
From Guilt.