‘The bus stops in the middle of fucking nowhere and we have a few hours to wait till we get on the next one that will finally take us to Rajan’s home in what he no longer calls Turkey, in what he insists is Kurdistan. I am in this town with literally one street, there’s an old woman herding goats down it, there are snow-capped mountains in the distance. “That’s Persia,” Rajan tells me. “Or so they say. But that’s also Kurdistan.”
‘Next to the bus stop is this small bazaar and we wander through it. The men are open-mouthed, wondering what we are, men or women, human or alien, the women cover their heads and faces as soon as we approach them, while the kids are all following us, touching us, asking for money, for cigarettes. I’m hungry and thirsty after the long, dirty bus trip and I start bartering with someone for some food when I hear Rajan shout out and I turn around. His hand is gripping tight onto this young boy, he can’t be more than seven or eight, who is struggling and kicking at him. Then I notice that the boy has my money belt in his hand, that he must have stolen it off me while I was pointing to what I wanted to buy.’
Vince stopped and looked around at us, as though reminding himself that he was no longer there in Kurdistan but back here in boring and safe Melbourne. ‘I rush towards him and grab my belt from him. I didn’t care about the money or the traveller’s cheques or the passport, all of those could be replaced, but I didn’t want to lose the crucifix I’d bought for my mother. I open the money belt and everything is still there. I am about to turn to Rajan and tell him to let the kid go, that there’s nothing to worry about. But at that moment, with the gold cross and chain heavy in my hands, the kid looks up at me and grins. A sly mocking grin. And it is as if Nazin is in front of me, not this little kid. The little bitch is laughing at me. I flick the chain and the crucifix whips across his face, and the grin disappears alright — he’s not yelling or cursing after that. There’s blood on his chin.’
Marie flinched. Vince continued, now speaking directly to her. ‘The kid’s gone quiet but everyone else is shouting, all his beggar friends, they’re all around us, yelling, trying to grab him, but Rajan still has a grip on him and I can’t stop myself, I start hitting this child, slapping him, on the face, on the head, on the neck and shoulders. By now all the women are crying and screeching, the kids are screaming louder, the men are walking towards us looking like they want to slit our throats. I know we could be in terrible danger, that what I am doing is unforgivable, but I don’t care. I just want to punish the little bastard, I want to make sure that he never grins that grin again.’
Then Vince suddenly leapt up and shouted so loudly that Marie jumped back in fright: ‘Polizia! Polizia!’ He was laughing, towering above us, alive and on fire. He sat back down, his voice softening as he spun us back into his net.
‘Everything goes quiet, there isn’t a sound. The gods are smiling on us — Rajan has just yelled out the one word that can silence them. Everyone suddenly looks terrified and it seems that half the market has just vanished. Then from the middle of this crowd an old man emerges, like some kind of apparition, with a long grey beard, a turban, robe and sandals, like he doesn’t belong to our century at all. He comes up to us, grabs the kid, and then he starts laying into him. He is screaming abuse at him, he’s hurting the kid much more than I was, but the child is too scared to complain. He just howls and takes his punishment. The old man looks at me and starts speaking and Rajan translates. “This child is cursed! This child has the demon in him. Call the police, arrest him if you must.” He gives him one final slap and then throws him at our feet. The old man is looking at me and his eyes are full of tears. He is asking me to do something, he’s begging me, but I can’t understand a word he’s saying.
‘“What’s he saying? What’s he saying?” I ask Rajan.
‘“He wants you to punish this child. He says he doesn’t know what to do with him, that he is his poor departed brother’s child, may God have mercy on his soul, that he cannot do anything to discipline the child, that he will only bring shame on them all. In the name of God, will you do something?” ’
I had somehow become conscious of Madeline. She had wrapped her arms around her knees, dug herself deeper and deeper into the sofa, moving further and further away from her lover. She was entranced and fearful. I knew this because I was in exactly the same state. We were all mesmerised.
Vince didn’t look at any of us as his voice lowered. ‘It must have been the heat. The heat and not having eaten and the burning sun and the noise and the sheer animal stench of the place, but above all it was the old man appearing out of nowhere as if he were some Old Testament prophet. It was all of that and the kid being the exact double of Nazin. Her eyes, her face, her softness. I wasn’t in time, I was out of time, and I was looking into this old man’s eyes, this old man who looked like Moses, who looked as if he had spoken with God and he’s asking me what to do and all I can see are his Old Testament eyes and all I can sense is the crucifix in my palm and I just say, “An eye for an eye.” That’s all, I don’t know where it comes from but it does. An eye for an eye. The old man looks across to Rajan, who translates for him. Then it is as if all the fear and anxiety in his face disappears. There is still weariness and sadness but there is no longer fear. He grabs the kid with one hand and my arm with the other and we start following him.’
At that point Hande rose, took a cigarette and went out to the balcony. Mark told me later that she had gone utterly pale, her face drained of all colour and life. It was strange, he told me: Vince was talking about the old man’s face being weary and despairing and that was exactly how Hande looked at that moment.
‘I am following the old man, Rajan is behind me and behind him is all of the marketplace, all of the village. The little boy is now walking in front of his uncle and what astonishes me is that he doesn’t make a move to run away. We haven’t gone that far when the old man opens a door in a wall that leads into a courtyard. A group of women and girls are standing around a stove but they cover their heads and go indoors as soon as they see us. The old man pushes his nephew through the door, lets Rajan and me through but closes the door to anyone else. Some of the village kids have climbed the wall and are sitting up there cross-legged, looking down at us.
‘The old man picks up a hatchet from against the wall and hands it to me. The blade has been recently sharpened but there is rust at the base, the handle is made of knotted wood. He then grabs the kid and pushes him down so his arm is lying across a stone block that one of the women had been sitting on. He points to his nephew’s wrist. The boy is crying now, so hard that the cries are soundless. It is as if he can’t breathe, and there is piss running down his legs and wetting the earth under his bare feet.
‘Rajan is saying to me, “No, enough, what are you doing?” but the old man keeps pointing to his nephew’s wrist and ordering me and it is as if I can understand him, that he is saying this is justice and I am thinking the prophets have walked this land, we are where gods were born and destroyed and resurrected, and I am thinking about how Nazin hurt me, how she scarred me, and I am thinking of how that evil grin of hers hurt me and can still burn, can still burn through me, and I think, this punishment is just. I raise the hatchet.’
‘You’re a fuckwit, mate, you are such a bullshit artist!’ sneered Antony as he stumbled away to join Hande on the balcony.
For the first time since beginning his story, Vince looked directly at me. I’m not making it up, he mouthed, shaking his head.