In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

8 The Garden of the Dead I visited my mother’s plot in the middle of winter in 1993. I went on a whim and didn’t want to bother my father or my uncle or any of my friends. The cemetery was one and a half hours by public transport from the student hostel. On the train, I sat in a seat by the window and warmed my hands under my thighs. The seats were sticky with brown soot, and the walls of caramel plastic were smeared with the wet graffiti markings of a purple text pen. My stomach was tight for the want of food. I had skipped breakfast, spent what little money I had on the travel fare, and it was now two hours past lunchtime. Commuters grew sparser as the train entered the outer suburbs. I made no eye contact with anyone. There was no interaction, no hassle. It would have seemed impossible to behave in such a way when I was a boy in Bendigo, even rude; but that day, I found it easier to not acknowledge anybody. The city was teaching me to be impersonal . I waited as patiently as one can with an empty stomach and was the first to arrive at the steel doors when the train slowed toward my destination . A group clustered about me dressed in shabby mismatched clothes. The reek of old shoes reminded me of my own and that it was time to buy a new pair. The train came to a standstill and there was the familiar chugging of the motor before the door whistle sounded. The door remained jammed. A flush of embarrassment heated my cheeks. I pulled the door handle again, but it didn’t yield. “It’s fucked,” said a youth. Others walked to the next door down the aisle. I followed, fearing the doors would close before I arrived. We exited in time. A bored-looking ticket conductor stood at the gates where people piled through, showing their tickets on the way. The 63 path from the station led to a major street. I came to a shopping precinct with stores that sold things that were used or useless. Potential customers walked by with their eyes cast downwards, walking nowhere in particular . Roots of sick trees had cracked what once was smooth white concrete . It was hard to imagine people once admiring the brickwork of the houses I passed for their aesthetic design. Maybe they never had. The architecture hadn’t aged well. I didn’t take the logical route but instead walked for one kilometer and arrived at a highway. It would have been easier for me to catch a taxi, but I was pinching coins to save. The openness of the highway exposed me to the wind. My hands and face stiffened in the cold. Soft rain fell from low swirling clouds. Walking kept me warm under my trench coat. Cars sped by, spraying water. My boots were wet from the grass. I wanted to go back, but I was halfway there. Aging pines scattered on a hill slope in the distance. The road ran alongside it and gravestones began to appear in greater number. A formidable high-wire fence stood beyond the pines. It was a fiveminute walk to the gates—a no-frills entryway befitting such a somber place. I reached the caretaker’s office. It was a minimally furnished room where a well-groomed woman seated behind a computer was serving an elderly couple. I noticed a map on a wall and stood there perplexed, until the secretary asked, “May I help you?” She was blonde and smelled of too much makeup and cheap perfume. I asked for the location of people cremated in 1975. “Yes,” said the secretary. I couldn’t read her for the remaining sentence . She looked at me, wondering if I had heard her. “What name are you looking for?” she repeated. “Jacobs. Ann Jacobs.” She turned to her computer and whispered the name with a click of keys. She scratched behind her ear while scanning the screen. “Here we are,” she said. “Ann Jacobs. Born on the 27th of February 1942; died on March the 4th, 1975. Is that the person you are looking for?” I gave a slight nod. The secretary picked up a photocopy of the map I had been looking at, stood up to the ledge separating us, and gave me the instructions. Unsure, I walked out the door...

Share