patrimony

 

‘It’s a ghost land,’ Julie says. She pretends to shiver in her seat then looks up at me, grinning. Our train takes us past abandoned mines and deserted farmhouses. I have never been out to the West Coast before; I am struck by the damp, haughty gloom of its tree-fern forests and hills. The landscape seems empty, devoid of human presence. Julie’s grin starts to ebb and she looks away from the window. ‘We’ll be in Greymouth soon.’

I nod and return to my book. I am rereading Plato’s Phaedo, my way of preparing for what is to come. How do you mean, Socrates, that it is not right to do oneself violence and yet that the philosopher will be willing to follow one who is dying? I mark my place as the train pulls into the station.

Julie leads me to her father’s rental place where a car is waiting, the keys left under a brick at the back door. We drive through Greymouth and then out into the nearby hills, heading deep into mist, mud and drizzle.

‘Where exactly is this bach?’ I ask.

‘Exactly fifty-five minutes from the nearest hospital.’ Julie shifts down into first as the hillside grows steeper. ‘I’ve timed it.’

We drive on in silence for a while, then I ask another question. ‘Does your father know I’m coming with you?’

‘No. But he’ll be okay with it. I think he liked you.’ She smiles. ‘Maybe you could tell him about your dad. Maybe he’ll talk to you, I don’t know …’

I have met Julie’s father only once and that was eight months ago, back when Julie and I were still in the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ stage of our relationship (before she settled very firmly on ‘won’t’). I remember him as an oddly passive man who spoke only in single words: ‘Yes,’ he would say. ‘Come.’ ‘Please.’ ‘No.’ ‘Sit.’

‘Your father doesn’t speak very good English, does he?’ I remember asking. Julie had looked at me, confused. ‘He doesn’t speak any other language. Mum came out from Canton, but Dad was born here. His side goes back a couple of generations.’

I didn’t have a chance to learn anything more about her father. His business kept him in Greymouth for most of the year; he returned to Christchurch only to spend the occasional weekend with his family. Julie didn’t talk about him; neither she, nor her mother and younger sister, seemed to resent his absence. So I was surprised when Julie asked me to accompany her out to the coast. Surprised, but not reluctant.

‘We’ll be there soon,’ says Julie. ‘Don’t be nervous.’

‘I’m not nervous,’ I say.

‘Good,’ says Julie.

‘Yeah. Good,’ I say.

Why am I here? I think as we drive. Because I am Julie’s friend. A good, Platonic friend. Thank God for Plato.

We find the bach at the bottom of a long muddy track, a small, flat-roofed house with a porch and sliding doors.

‘We used to come out here in the summer,’ Julie says. ‘When I was little.’

Julie parks the car in the gravel pit outside, next to a mud-splattered sedan, and we walk into the bach. ‘Dad!’ she calls. There is no response. We wait for a while in the living room, awkward and unmoving. Julie is about to call again, but then Mr Chong emerges from one of the bedrooms, walking slowly, a smile forced onto his face.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Julie. Hello.’ He is sick. He is not just thin, or pale, or ‘unhealthy’. There is a look and a smell about him that touches an instinct in me. I want to drop my gaze, hide my eyes.

‘Rosen,’ Mr Chong says, looking at me. ‘Michael Rosen.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘I brought Michael with me because —’ Julie starts to say, but Mr Chong waves a hand, cutting her off.

‘It’s good. Fine. Close the door.’

‘You two can sleep in there,’ Mr Chong says, pointing to the other bedroom.

‘Uh … no Dad, that’s not why Michael …’

‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ I say.

Mr Chong shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. Hold on.’ He walks back into his bedroom. Julie and I wait for a while, but he doesn’t re-emerge. We go back outside to fetch our bags from the car.

‘You see?’ Julie says.

‘Yeah …’

‘Why is he like this? Your dad isn’t like this … is he?’

I shake my head. My father is stoic and practical. Illness, diagnosis, treatment, remission. A doctor himself, he knows the paths that have to be followed and follows them without complaint. ‘You don’t need to be here so much,’ he would tell me, sitting straight-backed in his hospital bed. ‘You don’t understand all this. I don’t want you worrying, getting depressed.’ He sent me off to carry on with my studies, which were concerned, in no small part, with matters of life and death and knowing and not knowing. Despite that, I still could not be expected to understand anything. In my father’s mind, those studies were not serious. But still, I went away. Julie and I were taking the same philosophy classes at the time.

Julie cooks dinner and I sit next to Mr Chong on the couch.

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

‘Why did you come here?’ he asks.

‘Why won’t you come back to Christchurch?’ I ask. ‘You’re not well, you must know that …’

‘What do you do, Michael?’ asks Mr Chong.

‘At the moment, I’m studying …’

‘Did you pay for your own ticket? To come out here?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Despite having the financial resources of … well … a student, I paid for my own ticket.’

‘Ah,’ says Mr Chong. ‘Excuse me.’ He stands and moves towards the bathroom. I go to help him but he says ‘No … no …’ and waves me away. He closes the door and I hear him lock it. Julie returns to the living room and together we listen to her father vomiting behind the closed, locked door.

‘Are you warm enough?’ Julie asks. ‘Can you sleep?’

‘Yes,’ I say, lying on the couch, rolled up in my blankets. ‘Can you sleep?’

‘No.’

I pull up my feet to make room for her. In the dim light I admire her thick, syrup-like hair, her dark eyes, her lips and her body.

‘I know why he won’t come back,’ Julie says. ‘We’re a house full of noisy girls. He hates living with us, I know he does.’

‘I’m sure that’s not it.’

‘We’ve never got on. Never.’

‘Really?’

‘I can’t talk to him. He nods, he says “Ah”. He apologises when he throws up; he says “Sorry, sorry,” while he’s puking his guts out. I say “You’re sick”, “You should be in a hospital”, and he says “No”. Just that. No.’

I want to put an arm round her and pull her to me. Not to comfort, but to possess.

In the morning, Julie talks to her father.

‘Would you like breakfast? I can make you some …’

‘No.’

‘There’s not much food in the fridge, Dad. Should we go into town? Do some shopping?’

‘I’m fine. Go. You go.’

Julie ducks back into her bedroom to dress. Mr Chong sits in his dressing gown at the kitchen table, hunched down over a cup of weak tea. I feel I should say something, I should at least try to reason with him.

‘Mr Chong …?’ I start to say.

‘I am fine,’ he says, not hearing me or still hearing Julie. ‘Go … go …’

Julie and I drive down into Greymouth and walk along the pier.

‘He must be afraid,’ Julie says.

‘Yes.’ It is drizzling and windy; I huddle in my coat. Julie flicks her long wet hair away from her eyes. A few strands fall across my face, sticking to my cheek and mouth.

‘I mean, he doesn’t know what’s going on, that has to frighten him.’ When we reach the end of the pier we turn back. Maybe three or four other people are out walking this morning. Greymouth seems as empty as the landscape around it. ‘And he knows so much,’ says Julie. ‘He puts so much energy into knowing things. When I was little he could answer my questions; I’d have a question and Mum would say “Ask your father.” Do you think he knows he’s dying?’

‘I don’t know.’

I think about my own father while I walk with Julie. Although he is in remission now, it never takes him long to turn conversation to the subject of his inevitable demise. He has no faith in life after death, but his belief in a life after Dr Rosen is unshakeable.

‘I’ll be gone one day, Michael,’ he will say. ‘I’ll be gone sooner than you think. So get serious, Michael; it’s time to get serious …’

‘I want him to come back, right?’ says Julie. ‘I mean, even if he doesn’t want … treatment … he should be with us; he should be with his family …’

‘Yes.’

‘But sometimes …’

‘Yes?’

‘Sometimes I think it’s good that he’s come out here, to be on his own.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind, right? Of course that’s terrible, I don’t really mean it …’

‘Of course.’

‘I want him to come back. That’s definitely what I want.’

Julie showers in the evening. Mr Chong and I sit together in the living room. I’ve stacked some of my textbooks on the coffee table. Phaedo is open and underlined. There is the explanation that is put in the language of the mysteries, that we men are in a kind of prison, and that one must not free oneself or run away …

‘Why the books, Michael?’ Mr Chong asks.

‘What?’ I am surprised. He has not spoken to me all day.

‘These books,’ he says. ‘Why are they here? You’re not writing an essay.’ Mr Chong picks up the Phaedo and reads from it.

… perhaps there is a child in us who has these fears; try to persuade him not to fear death like a bogey.

‘You should,’ said Socrates, ‘sing a charm over him every day until you have charmed away his fears.’

‘But where shall we find a good charmer for these fears, Socrates, now that you are leaving us?’

Mr Chong closes the book and raises a single wry eyebrow. Embarrassed, I say nothing. ‘I read some Plato when I was at university,’ Mr Chong says. ‘He has a nice sense of humour. A rare thing for a philosopher.’

Julie returns, in dressing gown and towels. ‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asks her father.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Please. There is nothing wrong.’

I pack my books away for the night.

In the early hours of the morning I am sitting on the couch, unable to rest. On each side is a closed door — behind one lies Julie; behind the other, Mr Chong. At times, I think I hear Julie snore, or Mr Chong coughing in his sleep. Julie’s father is dying; my father is dying. I will die of cancer; she will die of cancer. Cancer is the new old age. Death is serious; the dying have weight. Oh, to be weighty and serious, like our fathers. Why did Julie bring me here? I can’t talk to him. Julie can’t talk to him. He doesn’t want to talk.

Mr Chong sleeps late while Julie and I pack our bags. Julie has to get back to work. I have classes. It’s time to go.

‘Michael,’ Julie says. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here, I’m sorry …’

‘It’s okay …’ I start to say.

‘It’s not okay. You’re my friend; I shouldn’t be burdening you with my problems …’

No, I want to say. Go ahead, burden me. I must have weight.

We brew some coffee and drink it with our toast. After a while, Mr Chong opens his door.

‘We have to go, Dad,’ says Julie. Mr Chong nods and sits down on the couch, pushing my scattered blankets aside. ‘I’ll try to get back next weekend, or the weekend after, maybe,’ Julie continues. ‘Do you have any messages for Mum and Ruth?’

‘No,’ says Mr Chong. Then: ‘Love. Just give my love.’

‘Come back,’ says Julie. ‘Get your things, get in the car. We’ll take you home.’ Her tone is flat; she does not expect a response; she does not look at her father. He does not look at her.

‘Mr Chong,’ I say. I know I should not speak, but I can’t help myself, because I also know that this is my last chance: I may never have an opportunity like this again. ‘Mr Chong,’ I say once more. He looks at me, so does Julie, and though I want to talk like a philosopher, to talk about life and death and knowing and not knowing, I can only say what has already been said, again and again: ‘You’re sick. You should come back.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Please. I am fine.’

And then Julie shouts at him, but I cannot understand what she is shouting. At first I think she is shouting in Chinese, but then I remember that her family was here before mine, and that she, like her father, knows no language besides English. I pick up my bag and walk out. Some minutes pass before Julie follows. She throws me the car keys. She is not crying.

We are quiet, the pair of us, all the way back to Greymouth, but I am hoping that the silence will not last forever. Mr Chong will die of passivity and Dr Rosen will perish in spite of his practicality, and that leaves Julie and me to peak, pine and expire in our own time, as passive or as practical as we like. She must talk to me soon. There’s no one else left. The dark hills disappear; empty streets and squat houses stretch out before us. And here is Michael Rosen, a serious person.