Carol Chandler

 

Carol Chandler is an Australian fiction and non-fiction writer who has worked in administration, editing, research and teaching.  She has lived in England, France and Italy and has a particular interest in the link between the creative process, the mind, healing and identity. Carol has also co-edited “Written in Sand”.

One Last Time

As you bend towards me, the softness of your hair brushes my cheek, sorrow clinging to my heart like the ticklish strands of cobwebs, a veil of memories and tears. The damp air of the morning touches my throat. I am suffocating, in mourning as you lean back to the other side of  the car, heavy shoulders hunched forward in an ill fitting suit, hair black as night, skin still a little pockmarked  and scarred from a childhood disease. You turn to face me, still uncertain. You are an ungainly man with many secrets and I smile briefly, aware of the blurred shape of clouds and the outline of your body.

‘I'll be returning back to my country soon,’ you say, as we drive through a glass-paned jungle of skyscrapers and I think of shattered buildings and bodies, the disfigured souls in your homeland, and the complex mix of tribes and politics.

I can see glimpses of the harbour towards the rocky bay, the calm waters of a limpid pool tucked away in a corner near the rocks, the gentle click and hum of cicadas as I catch sight of the ultramarine blue of the sea, remembering those creaking convict ships that navigated between the rocky headlands towards our harbour shores, my ancestors, a cargo of lost and damaged souls who made their fortune, compelled by their fear and curiosity. I try not to think of the burnt orange of your native land, although you tell me that your village is on a slope of thickly wooded trees, rushing rivers and a halo of green leaves. Like you, it defies the stereotype.

Yesterday you forgot the past as I took you to the sea and you marvelled at the swell of the waves, remembering the confinement of barbed wire. An octopus tucked within the rocks distracted you from your thoughts as it ventured from its crevice, out from the dark shadows, swirling tentacles pulsing away towards the harbour, away from both of us, towards the open sea.

You were silent as we returned to my house and I wondered if you will ever heal,  or if you will simply live around the memories. Now you are focusing on the road as we drive towards the ocean, a rocky foreshore, my body leaning towards you as you negotiate precarious bends, brakes squealing. I am pushed towards you with the jerking movement of the car, moving further towards your arms. Our conversation punctuates the silence but you remain focused ahead, your expression impenetrable as you nod and mumble. There's something not quite right.

You say you want to return to your country because your parents are dying and I try to think of a neutral place, perhaps that house made of crumbling sandstone, a warm honey colour, the sun-blest stone of my parents’ country town. A neutral zone between our two cultures, an immense room, the scent of jasmine and wildflowers, diaphanous waves of light, the ceiling cracked and broken, a small balcony looking out on to the square. As we walked along the street last summer, past the decaying bricks, the road was quiet and dusty, hot from the brilliant summer sunlight, and I felt the warmth of your arm around my shoulders as day drifted towards night.

You told me you are bothered by the men you couldn’t save and I told you that my father had the same experience in Europe during the war. But you want to escape the memories, the growl of planes, the women in their long burkhas, their eyes peering through a tiny grid. Your loyalty is confused and you are finding it hard to understand.  Splinters of your faith are lodged in your heart and you are disturbed by the sensuality and contradictions of my hair loosely exposed to other men.

I think of you standing now beneath the patterned mosaic of a mosque and as we reach my house and walk into the lounge room, I notice that your body is turned away at an angle, and I stand gazing up at the heavy curtains and the silver framed window. It is over now and you are staring beyond the window towards the blue sky and the treacherous curve of the harbour, the gateway of your leaving, so I walk to embrace you one last time.