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Often when I go to the airport to meet someone arriving, or to accompany someone departing, I wish I was the one carrying a suitcase, bound for another clime, a distant city in the other hemisphere. But when I go to meet my brother Krisztofer, such thoughts are far from my mind.
The distance from his home to mine is about 1500 nautical miles (2800 kilometers); the flight lasts four hours.
Krisz (aka Chris) comes to stay with me for 3 or 4 weeks in late spring or early summer, unless I’m unwell or he has other plans or is overseas. He has been to Bali a dozen times, to Singapore, Malaysia and China; to New York and Oregon, California and Illinois, and to most capital cities in Europe. On each of these journeys one of his six siblings accompanied him.
In a photograph taken of Chris when he was three years old, he is dressed in a sailor's suit, and is standing on the front verandah of my parents' home. His hair is very fair and catches the light, and he is smiling.
Though he cannot read many words, and can only write a few without the help of his siblings or caregiver, he has steadily acquired skills—such as making a bed, growing vegetables, mending a puncture—and is a champion net-worker with a wide assortment of friends.
He has worked all his adult life (for almost 40 years now), and continues to work at a plant nursery one day a week, and at selling
The Big Issue on Saturdays and Sundays. His work at the nursery begins at 7.15 am. Chris rises at five (or even four), does his exercises, has a shower and then makes his breakfast. His caregiver prepares the lunch he takes with him. At half-past six he sets off on his bike.
When he stays with me we work out a routine together. He rises before me, goes out to get the newspaper, perhaps to a local deli to buy milk or orange juice, and may then go to the nearby park to exercise, before a shower and breakfast. By that time I'm awake and, over cups of tea, we discuss what we will do that day.
During his stay I keep his nails trim, help him with flossing, and give him a shave using a disposable razor every second day; on the alternate days he uses his electric shaver. Chris would prefer to do these things all by himself but, because he has a tremor, he sometimes needs assistance.
We go to cinemas—ideally to those without many steps as descending sets of stairs can be taxing for him. I book appointments for him with a local osteopath, who now knows Chris well and who discusses football and cricket with him as the physical adjustments are made.
One type of excursion that is always on the agenda is going to galleries. The last time he was here we went to a new gallery in the CBD, all the work exhibited being that of indigenous Australian artists. Chris, like anyone else, might merely glance at a painting and then move on to the next one. At this gallery he stood gazing at certain paintings for an extended time. We spent two hours there.
As we were leaving Chris said to the woman at the counter: They're good. And added: I paint too! The woman, her silvery hair drawn up into a chignon, her facial expression indicating a twinkling of interest, came out from behind the counter and asked him what he liked to paint.
—Oooh...clouds. And...trees. Cars! And small p—people.
Chris paused, placing a hand on his hip.
—Would you like to see them? I could come back.
The woman smiled: Yes. I'm sure they are very pure.
One exhibition that we went to at a gallery more than fifteen years ago was of West Indian miniature paintings. He still speaks of it. The tiny elephants, birds, musical instruments and minuscule people must’ve made a deep impression on him.
For a Christmas present, a cousin once gave Chris a chef's hat and a striped apron. He likes to wear them when he invites friends over for a barbecue.
Usually a few days after Chris arrives here to stay, he will begin suggesting what we might have for dinner that evening.
Let's have something Hungarian, he might say. Or: chops with garlic, celery and p-potatoes.
And who will do the cooking? I'll ask.
He might point at me and laugh, or point at himself and say: I can cook!
And so we would go out to buy the ingredients for
Rakott Krumpli (which we called Ragged Crumbly when we were kids), or
Halászlé (fisherman’s soup), and whatever else we need.
Chris likes to sing, and will break into song anywhere at any time: at the airport, in a supermarket, walking along a street—anywhere at all. He sings loudly and with gusto.
After several very hot days there was a thunderstorm and the temperature dropped dramatically. As we drank our morning tea Chris proclaimed: This could be a Ragged Crumbly day!
I grinned and agreed; it was now cool enough to have a baked meal.
That afternoon we bought the ingredients for Rakott Krumpli at a local, partly open-air market. Having handed over the money for a dozen eggs, Chris treated the stall-holder to an impromptu performance of Mr Sandman. The man serving us looked at me, then at Chris, unsure how to respond. (He needn’t have worried—Chris rarely sings more than a few bars of a song at a time, though he may resume singing a short while later.)
On the way home in a tram, Chris again broke into song. This time it was Blinded by the Light. Our fellow passengers accepted this display of enthusiasm with amusement or good grace—mostly.
One little incident will always stay with me. We were going out to send postcards that Chris had written to friends. He was waiting by the front door. I’d put on a fresh shirt and a different pair of jeans even though we didn’t have far to go. When I appeared Chris gave me a look.
—What, Chris? I asked.
—You’re not going out like that!
—Why not?
—When you go out somewhere you’re supposed to look nice.
Needless to say I changed into something more acceptable to meet the exacting standards of my brother.
When we are ready to cook, Chris and I gather the ingredients, take the necessary saucepans, frying-pans or baking dishes out of the cupboard, and I ask Chris: Well Chef, I think we've got everything. What should we do first?
—Ummm...
—Cook the eggs and potatoes for the Rakott Krumpli?
Some hesitation and then: Yes.
—Okay, Chef. Shall I fill two saucepans with water? This one for the eggs, and the potatoes in the big one?
—Yes. Good. The eggs must be in the small one.
—Yes Chef! What about the turkey bacon? Do you want to fry that, Chef?
And so we begin. I consult him at every step and he does some of the preparation, including the slicing, some of the cooking and most of the stirring, while I do my bit under his supervision.
—Could you taste this, Chef? Does it need more salt?
He gives me his considered opinion.
Once the Rakott Krumpli is in the oven, Chris asks me to set the table.
—Don’t forget the tablecloth! he says. This is a—a—a special day.
—Yes it is, Chef.
Half an hour later, Chris carefully serves the meal and we sit down to eat.
After dinner we go for a stroll in the park. We walk in silence for a while, then Chris tells me of dreams he's had—the previous night, or twenty years ago.
When I am seeing him off at the airport, I take a last photograph to remember and celebrate this visit: Chris gazing into the window of a bookshop because a book about cars has caught his attention.
The twenty-three days he has spent with me have flashed by like high speed trains.
We sit together, waiting for the announcement that passengers may begin boarding.
We hug, I kiss his cheek.
Chris is near the head of the line. He turns and waves. The line moves forward. He presents his boarding pass and, without another glance, is gone.
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Below are a few of the songs that Chris likes to sing.
Fill your cup and pull up a chair.
What‘s on your mind this morning?