Nine Summers Page 28

  It was Friday afternoon the day I went there, and the street was bustling with people, carrying shopping bags and rushing home before the start of the Sabbath. Two disparate groups now lived there. The majority were ‘black hats’ or Chabad, the men with side curls, black suits and large hats. The married women wore wigs, as orthodox custom dictates, and had large families. The overcrowding in these small flats must have been daunting. Little girls wore long skirts, not shorts or slacks, and the boys wore side curls and yamulkes. The religious congregated close to their schools and places of worship. For them, this was a close, warm community.

  The others who lived in this street were new immigrants from Russia, who were markedly different from the ‘black hats’. Young Russian girls wore mini skirts, shorts and tops with bare midriffs. Most of the Russians in this street were poor, and many were old. The one-room apartment where my grandmother had once lived was now the home of a 90-year-old Russian woman. Her daughter, a professor in Russia, visited her every year. A soup kitchen had recently been set up in this street to help the aged poor. The need for a soup kitchen in Israel was something new. But then, the country has had to contend with massive immigration and defence expenditure.

  Clothes strung on lines across small balconies waved in the breeze. A large dog, his paws on the ledge of the balcony, watched the passing parade on the street below. ‘A large dog on such a tiny balcony,’ I commented to a woman standing next to me. ‘He’s from Russia,’ she replied. ‘They bring their dogs and cats with them.’

  Russian immigrants who now lived here moved into better accommodation as soon as they could afford it. A large number of them were engineers, musicians, mathematicians, scientists, doctors, dentists, nurses and a variety of other skilled and professional people.

  I stood in front of the below-street-level apartment where I had once lived, where my mother died, and remembered it as it had once been. Small, new and clean. Now I saw a broken lamp, discarded pieces of furniture, and overflowing rubbish. It was too depressing, so I moved on.

  While we were in Israel we visited friends who had left Australia in the late 1940s. They were idealists who had come to Israel to live in kibbutzim, and dedicate their lives to the communal ideal. One friend — once tall, good-looking and strong — was now hunched and in a wheelchair. His chiselled features were gloomy as he spoke.

  ‘It’s over 50 years since I left Sydney to come here and, unfortunately, things didn’t turn out as we’d imagined. Many of our children have left, and most kibbutzim are in a bad financial state. We came here in our 20s, Dora and I are now in our 70s. I guess you could say we’re disillusioned. Once we were the country’s elite. But times have changed all over the world, and Israel now competes in the global economy. “High-tech” is now the country’s forte, a different world from the agricultural settlements we belonged to.’

  By the 1990s the fault line in the society appeared to be between the ultra-religious and the secular. Yet, in spite of the enormous problems of security, life went on. Tel Aviv was a buzzing place, where cafés, theatres, opera and cinemas were all alive and well, and the young were drawn there.

  The most striking difference between Israel and the West was the youth. Compulsory conscription affected everyone aged between 18 and 21. In the army, the rich and the poor mingled, and were exposed to danger together. Here newcomers learnt to speak Hebrew. It wasn’t unusual to see immigrant soldiers reading Russian newspapers. The army was a watershed in every young person’s life. For their parents, this was the most worrying time of their lives.

  We hired a car and toured the north. We especially looked forward to Jerusalem. We’d always loved its colours — the hills, the stone houses, the sunsets across the valley. There we visited old friends.

  ‘We’ve lived in Jerusalem all our lives. I was born here. But the number of ultra-orthodox is increasing and the religious regulations impinge on our lives. Many like us are thinking of leaving Jerusalem. Sam and I haven’t reached that point yet, but our children don’t want to stay. They say that so many of the things they enjoy, they get in Tel Aviv, not here. Jerusalem is a wonderful place, but…well, what can one do? It’s a pity.’

  ‘The two months passed quickly,’ Felix said when we started to organise our departure. ‘We thought it’d be too long.’

  ‘But I’ve now had my wish to sail into Haifa harbour. It’s been a great summer and an emotional one.’

  ‘It certainly has.’

  We sailed back to Turkey and three months later put Galatea on the hard in Marmaris for the winter.

  ****

  The following summer we continued cruising in Turkey and anchored in the now familiar places. Each year there were more discos, more noise, but somehow, we always managed to find quiet bays, and continued to be enthralled by the beauty that surrounded us.

  ‘Look at the seagulls gliding, do you think they’re enjoying the silence?’ I wondered aloud. We were sitting on the aft deck one late afternoon in Cineviz Liman on the Lycian coast, gazing into the luminous glow of an orange sunset. The water was the colour of burning copper, and the sky was streaked, as it often is after a three-day blow.

  ‘I hope so,’ Felix replied, looking up at the sky. ‘It’s hard to believe that this is the end of our ninth summer. We’ll be back in London next week. We never dreamt we’d have so much time.’

  ‘We’ve been so lucky. In spite of our problems, these years have been a gift so few people have. I wonder how many more...’ I stopped there and tightened my arm around Felix. ‘Look, there’s the outline of a new moon over the hills. It’s getting cool. Let’s go down and turn on the lamps,’ he said. The stillness was broken by the wake of two passing yachts, then we were alone in this deserted, silent anchorage.

  chapter thirteen

  It was a brilliant autumn day and we were back in London.

  ‘What do you think about going to Regent’s Park this morning? I need to take photos for Tuesday’s photography class,’ Felix said, fiddling with his camera.

  ‘What kind of photos?’

  ‘Of people in different moods.’

  ‘Great. I’ll take a thermos of coffee and a book to read while you take your photos.’

  Music drifted from barges gliding past as we walked along the canal path to the park.

  Felix was quieter than usual. Now and again he stopped to snap people on barges, with drinks in hand. Londoners stripped to the waist and lay on the grass, in rented deckchairs, their eyes closed and their faces turned to the sun. Parents pushed prams, and children clutching boats collided as they ran along the shore of the pond. Young couples strolled arm in arm. A young man sat on the grass strumming a guitar. Tall poplars and London plane and yew trees had already started to carpet lawns with autumn colours. The park was crowded with people making the most of a warm Sunday at the end of summer. I had brought a blanket to sit on, a thermos of coffee, some chocolate and Zola’s The Debacle.

  A small boy with curly ginger hair and freckled nose clutched a black puppy and watched intently as Felix inserted new film into the camera. ‘Excuse me, but would you like to take a photo of me and my new puppy? His name is Harry.’

  ‘What a good idea.’ Felix looked earnest. ‘I would love to take a photo of you and Harry. And what is your name?’

  ‘My name is Simon and that’s my father over there,’ he said pointing to a man stretched out on the grass. ‘My mother is at home because she’s looking after my new sister. Her name is Helen, but she can’t talk yet.’

  I felt a lump in my throat. ‘You stand over there and I’ll take a photo of you and Harry, and that will always remind me of you.’ Simon’s face was intense as he clutched his black puppy tight. As soon as the camera clicked, Simon rushed off.

  ‘Wasn’t he cute?’ Felix commented. ‘Yes, reminded me of David and Julie when they were little.’ The lump was still there.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No, not really.’ That was unlike Felix. ‘How about c
hocolate? I found your favourite nougat.’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve got indigestion.’

  He walked away in search of suitable subjects before I thought of offering him one of the antacids I always had with me. I continued to read. The Debacle, this brilliant, terrible book about the Franco-Prussian War, was not the right book for me that day. Perhaps the surroundings were too idyllic. Why was I so restless, almost maudlin? Was it the memory of the kids when they were little so long ago? Was it the passing of time? Felix’s unusual response to the suggestion of coffee? Apprehension? Something wrong?

  I found it difficult to concentrate. When I looked up I saw Felix focus on four old people on a bench. All four faced the sun, their eyes closed, wrapped in woollens on this warm day.

  When he noticed me watching him, Felix smiled and came over to sit on the blanket. He put his hand on mine, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk? There’s a fresh breeze and it’s getting quite cool.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked. ‘How about the Rose Garden, we haven’t been there for a long time. Or would you rather walk round the pond?’

  ‘The Rose Garden I think, it’d be shorter.’

  I looked at him. He looked serious. Declined coffee, chose the shorter walk — that was unlike him. We packed up and I took Felix’s hand.

  Petals drifted in the breeze like snowflakes, then coasted onto the carpet of grass below. The garden was a blaze of colours — yellow, pink, salmon, red. The scent of roses permeated the air and I took deep breaths, glancing at Felix. But he was somewhere far away.

  ‘Well, that’s the last of the summer roses.’

  ‘Yes, it’s well and truly the start of autumn.’ The way he said it sent a shudder through me. Was this a metaphor for us? Yes, but surely there was still a long way to winter. He was unusually pensive as we walked hand in hand, and I slowed down to match his pace. The buzzing of bees was constant, peaceful.

  ‘Puss, shall we go to the tube now? Before it gets too crowded?’

  No answer. ‘Puss, did you hear me?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  I repeated my question. ‘Yes, it’s getting late.’

  I had never known him to be like this. Vulnerable. Withdrawn. His thoughts were miles away. Something was wrong, but he didn’t want to tell me, worry me. Maybe he’d found a lump somewhere. But when he had a recurrence of lymphoma he didn’t feel weak, as if he had no strength. We crossed the Marylebone Road. After an afternoon of the scents of autumn, the fumes of vehicles were choking.

  ‘Not much further to the tube, honey.’ Felix was walking so slowly, I wanted to sound encouraging.

  ‘Do you mind if we get a taxi?’

  I was stunned. I couldn’t remember the last time we took a taxi. Something was terribly wrong.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, and locked my arm through his.

  The back and underarms of Felix’s shirt were wet. I resisted helping him take off his shoes. He lay down on the settee in the lounge and picked up the Sunday Observer. Still silent.

  ‘Honey, I don’t understand what’s going on. You’re so quiet, you walk slowly, you’re not yourself. Tell me what’s wrong. I must know!’

  ‘Nothing much, I’ve got indigestion. I don’t feel like eating or having coffee.’

  ‘But it’s not just indigestion. You’ve had indigestion before and taken antacids, it’s got to be something more than that.’

  ‘I’m not sure what it is. I’m very tired. Haven’t been sleeping very well.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it? We’ll be leaving for Sydney in a few weeks. You wouldn’t want to feel like this on the trip or when we get there.’

  ‘Well, actually, I also have chest pains. Maybe it’s something to do with the heart.’

  ‘The heart? Since when have you had chest pains?’ My throat felt dry.

  ‘A couple of weeks or so.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ I bent down, and put my arms round him. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll make an appointment to see a cardiologist. I’ll phone around tomorrow.’

  Suddenly I couldn’t speak. What should I do? We didn’t know a cardiologist in London. What time was it in Sydney? I wanted to talk to the kids. Stupid idea. Why worry them? Funny how when I had a medical problem I switched off, leaving decisions to Felix. He was always in control, thought things through, and decided what to do. But when he had a medical problem all I could do was worry.

  Dr Little was a tall man with a firm, reassuring handshake. In his early 50s, he had thick dark hair, intelligent eyes and a ready smile. The room was impersonal, used by numerous consultants and furnished with the bare essentials. There were no stacks of journals, books or family photographs.

  ‘Please, take a seat. Let me pull up another chair. Where do you practise, Dr Huber?’

  ‘I was a surgeon in Sydney, but I retired quite a few years ago.’ Felix gave him a brief résumé of our last few years.

  ‘That sounds like an idyllic retirement. So what brings you here today?’

  As Felix gave him details of his most recent problems, I realised that he’d been suspicious for some time that all was not well with his heart. He’d kept it from me.

  ‘All right, you go in there, take off your shirt and let’s have a look.’ He motioned Felix to a couch in one corner of the room and pulled across the blue curtain.

  I looked out the window at a tall elm. Its leaves — in shades of dark green, gold and brown — were wet. As I looked, I remembered our old gum tree in Smith’s Creek. We had watched it change over many years. Branches had broken off; its tilt had increased, it had aged.

  ‘Well,’ Dr Little said after he’d examined Felix. ‘I think I’ll need to do an angiogram. Can you come into hospital next week?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  I gave Felix a hug while a nurse waited to give him his premedication before the test. ‘If you come back in a couple of hours, Mrs Huber, he should be back.’ I watched as she drew a curtain around his bed.

  Outside the skies were clear. Here and there fleecy clouds drifted past. It was warm again. A Qantas jumbo, a touch of home, passed overhead. Today I was optimistic, convinced that Felix was indestructible. He’d overcome so many problems in recent years. This would be no different, I assured myself. Was that because it was a warm, sunny day?

  I walked briskly and crossed Wellington Road towards the shops and cafés in St John’s Wood. I bought a paper, then looked into Restaurant Rembrandt. Whenever we wanted to splash, we came here. It was tempting, and with two hours to kill, I went in and sat near the window.

  ‘An “opera” slice and a cappuccino, please.’ I read the paper cover to cover. I looked at my watch. Time to go. At the counter I noticed Felix’s favourite cakes — chestnut with raspberries. ‘I’ll take two of these, please.’ Tonight Felix and I would open a bottle of wine and phone the kids.

  Felix was in the last cubicle on the right. He looked pale and his eyes were shut. The blanket was up to his chin. I bent over, kissed him and squeezed his left hand. He opened his eyes, and looked disoriented.

  ‘Honey, you’re back in the ward. The nurse said Dr Little will be down when he’s finished his list. She said all went well.’

  He looked at me, almost his old self, and gave me a broad smile.

  ‘I feel fine. What I needed was a good sleep.’

  ‘Guess what. I went into Rembrandt, had a cappuccino and an “opera”. Got two of your favourites to take home.’ Felix closed his eyes again. I sat and waited.

  ‘Dr Little will see you in about ten minutes,’ the nurse said. I felt my heart race and apprehension take over. Dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and a conservative spotted tie, Dr Little made straight for Felix’s bed.

  ‘So, how are you Felix?’

  ‘I feel fine, but more importantly, tell me if yo
u think I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you have two blocked arteries that need stenting. That explains your symptoms. I wouldn’t suggest a bypass at this stage. Stenting works well for many people. Certainly you need something done.’ He stopped and waited for Felix’s reaction.

  ‘Well,’ Felix started after a long pause, ‘not much choice really, so I guess we’d better go ahead. When could you do it?’

  ‘I could put you on the list tomorrow. You can come in tomorrow morning, stay overnight and leave the following day.’

  I felt a sudden chill and buttoned up my jacket.

  Felix chatted animatedly all the way home. I couldn’t speak. My mind raced. Nobody in the family had a history of heart disease. Felix had never smoked. He always exercised and ran up stairs. But that was no guarantee, I knew that.

  As we passed Abbey Road, a busload of Japanese tourists packed the footpath, cameras glued to their faces. Crowds always hung about there. Beatlemania. We pushed past the animated laugher.

  ‘Abbey Road, a temple to all faiths. Beats churches,’ Felix said.

  I just hung on to Felix’s arm to reassure myself that he was still there. A small tree at the side of the road was laden with sprays of blue flowers. I picked one. It had a light scent that reminded me of the first perfume Felix had bought for me.

  We were at the hospital early the following morning. I left Felix with the nurse. ‘He’s first on the list, and should be able to go home in the late afternoon,’ she said.

  When I came to pick him up, Dr Little reassured me. ‘All went well, Mrs Huber. I ballooned two arteries and put in stents. This should solve Felix’s problem.’

  That evening Felix was unusually enthusiastic. Could it be the result of a better functioning heart, or plain relief? I wondered. Perhaps a little of both.