I have visa to stay in Sweden to August 1991 and now I go in school for Swedish language. My life here is very bad because I don’t have money and is very expensive life. I don’t want to ask you for money, but if you have some please give me little. I have big problem down in Yugoslavia and need US$350. Please, please send if you can.

  Rosa, you say you have wait for me and I tell you I wait too and I love you with all my heart. Don’t forget me.

  Isabella takes the flowers into the house. He doesn’t want me to come there but he says he still loves me. I look into the soft yellow of a rose, see a tiny red spider. Lucia brings out a pot of tea and three cups and they sit with me on the verandah.

  ‘Is that a letter from him?’ asks Lucia.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘At last, huh? But it doesn’t make you happy?’

  ‘No. Read it if you like.’

  Isabella snatches the blue page and starts to read it aloud. I watch her eyes crease, try to read her feelings.

  She puts the letter down and looks at me.

  ‘What do you think Rosa?’

  But Lucia answers. ‘The question I ask is why he’s asking you for money to send somewhere else? If it was for him it might sound more reasonable, but that’s just a bit off, don’t you think?’ Lucia swings her legs off the side of the verandah.

  ‘Are you hurt, love?’ Isabella takes my hand.

  Birds come and poke their long beaks into the hibiscus flowers. I think they are honeyeaters. The sky is an immaculate blue.

  ‘I don’t want to be an unwelcome guest. It sounds like there is a lot happening in his life.’

  ‘There are a couple of things that seem a bit dodgy here, Rosa. If you say you’re going to travel halfway around the world to see the guy, why isn’t he saying he wants to see you? Look, if he can’t make time for you, he’s not worth wasting your energy waiting for.’

  ‘Maybe I should just go anyway, then he’ll have to make time for me and if he doesn’t then that will help me decide, won’t it?’

  ‘It might, but is that how you want it to be? It’s a lot to put yourself through, not to mention the money.’

  ‘I think the money thing is really creepy,’ says Lucia. ‘Don’t you? It’s just weird not telling you why he wants it. I get suspicious of that.’

  ‘I do too really. I won’t send it; I’ll tell him he needs to let me know what it’s for first — it might be something really important.’

  ‘You’re too nice,’ says Lucia.

  Maybe I can change my ticket. But not yet. I just want to go anyway.

  On a postcard of black swans in blue water I write:

  Thank you for your letter, I was so happy to hear about your life. I have thought you might have forgotten me but I am glad you say you still love me. I can’t change my ticket now, so I will see you on March 22nd. I will come to the address on your letter if I don’t hear something different from you. I don’t have to stay long, I can go if you don’t want me there, and have a holiday. I can’t send you money if you don’t tell me what it’s for. See you soon. — Rosa.

  I write in the park opposite the post office, sitting by the aviary looking at a richly coloured pheasant. It was probably born far from here. I send the card and walk home between the lengthening shadows of buildings, bodies and trees.

  Anya sends me another letter written on a Christmas card.

  Dearest Rosa,

  I hope everything with the Albanian has turned out for the best. It’s been in the news recently here, I’m sure you’re aware of the amazing changes in Europe.

  I spent my summer holiday in Cairo again this year, so I could meet up with the Bombay man. I have deep confusion about our relationship. I suppose my gut feeling is telling me that it’s time to close this chapter of my life. His words in his letters and his behaviour don’t always match, something’s not right.

  He carries a knife all the time, and this makes me very uneasy. I think he might see me as his escape route from the dullness of his marriage, but I’m not that altruistic anymore. I don’t want to be anyone’s diversion and I don’t want to get stuck with him being here. If he still wants me he’ll have to take extraordinary measures to get me. I really don’t know much about him, he’s very clever and mysterious in his ways.

  I think of you often. We had some wonderful times. Have a wonderful Christmas and a fantastic New Year. Much love — Anya.

  We really are alike, Anya and I, travelling around for men who seem more than a little scary. I place her card on the mantelpiece in my bedroom. I am a bit frightened of seeing him again. The girls have taken the plastic Christmas tree out of our pantry, and the shopping bag full of decorations. Isabella makes us all a cup of tea, hands me a bunch of peacock feathers from her room and lies on the lounge singing. The finest gifts we bring pah-rup-pum-pum-pum … I jab the feathers between the plastic stalks of the tree and Lucia hangs the coloured baubles and strings of beads.

  All is calm, all is bright … Isabella watches us, her eyes smiling.

  ‘Can you fix this, Isa?’

  Lucia hands her our real-feather white angel. She sings out into the kitchen and comes back with her sewing bits to fix it.

  Sometimes I wonder why I would ever want to leave here.

  I am tired. I just walked home from work and it is hot tonight, still hot at ten o’clock. There is nobody home but a postcard is sitting on my bed, of brown wooden cabins and conifers in the snow.

  Rosa, I need money for lawyer visa in Yugoslavia. Please send if you have it. Is very important for my life. All my love to you.

  I don’t know what to do. I wish one of the girls were here to talk to. I have a shower, lie on the hot cotton sheets and draw the mosquito net around me. I am wrapped in my damp towel, alone in the dark. The changing traffic lights punctuate the night with flashes of colour and I can hear the numbers for the orders at Pat’s Snack Bar. Voices float towards me in the warm air but I am not in the conversation. I do not like it that he wants money from me, but then, I think, I am so lucky and he is not. He has a visa he said, so why does he want money now? He has a visa, I don’t understand. What’s a ‘lawyer visa’? Would he lie to me? He said he loves me.

  I am going there soon. Alone, I am going. My blood pounds around me like an exoskeleton, bathing every feeling. I have gone mad. I must have gone mad. Tears are like brands on my cheeks, they leak into my mouth. I give half of myself to my life, so I only have half a life here. Why can’t I just forget him and enjoy it here or go away and have a holiday without it causing me so much grief and stress? It can’t be normal to be so attached. It’s probably because there is nobody else. If I met some nice guy here, it would all change, I could forget him in an instant. But that hasn’t happened — not with Dan, not with anyone. I don’t know why, what’s wrong with me?

  In the morning I go to the bank, then the post office. I send him half of the money he wants. I don’t tell the girls, I’m afraid they will think I am stupid and can’t stand up for myself. Exactly why I do it, I don’t know. Maybe it’s an impulsive act. I don’t write a letter with it.

  Three weeks later there is a letter in the mailbox. I open it alone in my room.

  Hello Rosa, Hello from Sweden

  Thank you for money. I hope you are fine. If you ask me, I am too fine. I am sorry I can’t write so good English but I hope you understand me that I want to write to you. Rosa, for this time you have been alone you think just on me, or also other somebody? Tell me, I want to know.

  I have begin work, is very bad in factory, very dirty. Is O.K. now for you to come here. Come in March when you want. I have small apartment and you can stay but is nothing for you to do. You can write me there now. I will try to come in airport and find you.

  I put it in a drawer in my dressing table and don’t tell the girls about it. I don’t want them to know about the money. I know it’s stupid that I sent it, but he seems to have changed now, like he’s happy to have me there. Maybe it’s the job or maybe it’s the money. Now I don’t know.

  I have been packing up my things into boxes and soon I will leave home again and go to meet him. I feel anxious, worried that something will happen and I’ll never return to my life here. I remember the psychic’s warnings about being careful. And I worry about coming back and that my world will burn away in my absence, I want it to wait, just as it is, for me to come home. I want to live my life better than this. I have been miserable because of him too much and now I will miss my home. I feel safe here. Men don’t notice me here. I can walk home alone in the night, I can speak to people who understand my language. But do they understand me? Only my friends do. Perhaps the entire world is like that, no matter about languages, only a few people connect and understand each other.

  Lucia sits on the bed and watches me pack. Isabella sings, ‘She’s leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when she’ll be back again.’ I know she is trying to make light of my leaving, to help make me feel comfortable about it. But I have very mixed feelings: I don’t like to leave this place, but I don’t think I can live here peacefully and happily unless I do.

  When I finished work they gave me a card and a stuffed kangaroo. I don’t like these kinds of things but I pretended I did. Maureen said she’d be happy to have me back but I should go and do something else that’s better. Big Rochelle was almost in tears. I don’t know why she likes me really, we’re so different.

  Isabella brings me a present, wrapped in twice-used paper.

  ‘This is from both of us. We’ll miss you.’ Her eyes are sad. ‘Just be safe and stand up for yourself, don’t let him talk you into anything. And come back.’

  ‘I will come back.’ They watch me open the present: a full set of white thermal underwear.

  ‘To keep you warm and safe,’ says Lucia, ‘not too sexy.’

  ‘I needed some of these, thanks. You two are the best friends I could imagine. I promise you guys, I’ll be back.’

  All my clutter is gone, my bed is stripped and I am ready to hoist this backpack on once more and go. I waiver between the bubbling thrill I felt when I booked my ticket, and my fear of leaving, my uncertainty about him. But I go anyway.

  Five

  Sweden

  March 1991

  25

  In the airport car park his eyes are hard, like bits of metal and he puts his hand up my dress in the front seat of the car. His tongue is hard. His rigid hands hold me still.

  ‘Don’t!’

  He does not stop to look into my eyes, to greet me tenderly, to reacquaint ourselves. This is not what I imagined would happen. This is not right, I feel stunned, awful.

  ‘Get off me!’

  He has some mercy and sits back in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Rosa, I want you. Is normal, I wait for such long time.’

  ‘Not now, all right. I just got here.’

  He mumbles something that sounds like a curse and starts the car. It blows lots of black smoke into the undercover car park. The interior smells of mould, oil, and vanilla from a scented cardboard pine-tree. I can see watermarks inside.

  ‘Have you learned to drive since you came here?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I watch someone and they help me learn. But I must be very careful, they put me in prison if they find me driving without permit.’

  ‘Do you want me to drive? I have a licence.’

  I watch his face. He looks different, less edgy, not so gaunt anymore. He has put on weight. He is conscious of my staring and tries to smile.

  ‘No, is okay.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a driver’s licence?’

  ‘Cost too much money. In Sweden is very expensive. Why you look like this at me? I am not handsome.’

  ‘No, you are not. I am trying to know you again.’

  ‘I think you know me more than one year, or have you forget Dubrovnik?’

  We travel. Large warehouse buildings blend into fields, still-bare trees, some large patches of snow. I try to feel our connection again. The memory of our time before is different from what I feel between us. I have relived it in my imagination for the last fifteen months and some moments seem to magnify and others collapse together, like a movie trailer. In this moment he is real, but somehow the past seem less so. The silence is strange after such a long time waiting to see each other again.

  ‘Is this your car?’

  ‘Yes, but is shit, this car. I have buy for two thousand kronor and soon I think it will explode, always it have much smoke and water come inside, here.’

  He points to the brown patch radiating from the top of the windscreen, then he reaches behind his seat and hands me an umbrella.

  ‘If rain come, you put this up.’

  He laughs, looks at me. I laugh for him, take the umbrella and hold it on my lap.

  ‘I only buy this car Saturday, to come and get you. I am so happy you come back again Rosa. I be very nervous and I drive this stupid car all over so I can do safe driving with you. I not want to kill you when you come to me after such long time.’

  Do I offer to drive again? Do I say thank you for making such an effort? I feel I should be saying something important so this moment matters. There are conifers, bare silver-grey trees. Little farmhouses, all brown with white-framed windows like mill houses in the empty country towns where the karri forest used to grow.

  ‘Are you hungry, you want eat something? Some drink? Is very expensive to buy food in restaurant or cafe, but soon we must stop for benzine — we can get something if you want.’

  I guess he doesn’t really want me to say I am hungry.

  ‘I’m okay, thanks. They give you lots of food on the plane, and wine and really nice chocolate.’

  We drive. It is cold and my nose starts to run. I sniff in the silence and the wide road unfolds and we follow signs off the main road, without stopping for petrol. The cars drive with their lights on, though it is still day. I sniff, he turns down a narrower road, winding among trees. I am tired, I don’t think he realises I haven’t slept for forty hours. My body feels all askew between the warm, sweaty March and the goosebumpy March, between darkness and light. Askew from being near his lust. I have belonged to myself all this time away from him.

  ‘Believe me, I am very happy you come here, Rosa.’

  He looks at me, his metal eyes blurry with tears.

  We drive up a small track to a large wooden house in a clearing in the forest. Hansel and Gretel might live here, it is lovely, with a little snow, and a table outside. Three men sit smoking, they are not happy.

  ‘My friend live here, this is refugee camp, all Albanian boys in this house, they wait for political asylum. Come.’

  ‘Did you wait in a place like this?’

  ‘No, no, no. I was very lucky.’

  He opens the car door, I open mine and he leads me to a door under a little porch. He takes off his shoes.

  ‘Is tradition for Albanian people to take shoes off when we go in house. These things you must learn.’

  I take my shoes off and place them in the line-up of large male shoes. He opens the door to a smoke-filled hall where men sit in a circle on kitchen chairs. Some stand and approach us, shake his hand. I hear him say Australia to them and they look at me, stretch out their hands to me. It is strange and uncomfortable to shake hands, something I don’t do often, only an uncle’s hand, an employer’s, my friend’s father. To the Albanians it’s as normal as waving. They all speak to me.

  ‘Ay! Hullo! My name is Elvis. Welcome to our big house. Come, sit down we make some tea, or would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be great, thank you.’

  Elvis speaks to another man, older and partly bald, and he shuffles in his white socks through a doorway to make tea.

  ‘Rosa, I must speak with my friend. He is in kitchen, he make dinner for everyone. You be fine here. Speak with Elvis, he speak good English. If he touch you, I kill him.’

  He speaks to Elvis in Albanian, they laugh.

  ‘You like chess?’

  ‘No, not really, I’m not very good at it and I haven’t played it for a long time.’

  He laughs. His hair is long at the back, short at the front. I wonder if he knows that it’s called a mullet.

  ‘Well, you have big chance to win with me. I have learn here in camp, so I have not become expert yet, I only be here five month.’

  He lays out the fold-up chessboard, hands me a bag of pieces and we assemble the game. The wide window illuminates his face. He has clear, young skin, I think he is not yet twenty, skinny in his jeans.

  ‘Is Elvis really your name?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You think I look like him?’

  ‘Maybe a little.’

  He smiles, extends his palms for me to start the game. I move a pawn, he moves a pawn, I move another pawn, he moves another pawn and so it goes on. I find games boring. He sets my pieces, half an Apocalyptic army, beside his tea. We speak a little. He asks about Australia and I have to admit that I haven’t seen much of it, only my little corner and the fauna in the zoo.

  ‘Rosa! See, he win! He imagine you are Serb and his Albanian military have kill you all.’

  I smile at him, Elvis speaks to him in Albanian.

  ‘Come Rosa, we eat something.’

  I leave my queen, her husband and her tower and go with him. Elvis smiles at me.

  In the kitchen is a large table, set for three. Two men serve plates of food and they are ferried out to the main hall.

  ‘Sit Rosa.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This is my friend, Ejup. He come from village nearby me in Kosovë.’

  ‘Hullo, Rosa.’

  ‘Hi. Thanks for dinner.’

  ‘You are welcome.’

  He extends his hand to me, still damp from the kitchen.

  ‘Excuse me moment.’ He moves to the fridge. At a whisper he calls me to him.

  ‘Rosa, you must stand to take man’s hand, is very rude to sit.’

 

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