by Tamar Hodes
I told Maria that we don’t need her at the moment. I thought she would be upset about the loss of income but she seemed fine about it. If we get tenants, she can do cleaning and cooking for them, I suppose.
Your mother has been making trouble, going to the Oslo bailiff’s office, saying that I am not paying for my son. I imagine she wants to ruin my reputation. Please talk to her and try to make her see sense. When I can afford to, I will help you, but you have Leonard to support you now. I hear that he is making splashes around the world so he surely has some money spare?
My film Line has been nominated for a Palme d’Or award in Cannes so maybe my luck will start to improve. It’s about time.
I am writing a new novel but some days go better than others.
Are you well?
Axel
Marianne smiled wryly. It would have been good if he had asked about his son. She drank her coffee. It was powerful, as if trying to strengthen her. She opened Leonard’s letter:
My darling Marianne,
Last night I sang in front of 3,000 people at a benefit concert in New York. I tried to give everything to them. Judy Collins introduced me. It was by no means my best performance: my voice was dry and hoarse after the long journey, my guitar was out of tune, but the audience still seemed to like it. I was pleased that I had failed. It made me happy to recall how flawed I am and reminded me that I must keep on striving.
People appear to like my songs. Maybe they know that I feel the pain with them and it is real. They play them on the radio and John Hammond and Columbia want to bring out an LP of my music. They will include Suzanne, Winter Lady and some others. Maybe Sisters of Mercy. I am writing a song for you. I have the image for the cover. I found it near here, the Chelsea Hotel (where so far I have spotted Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell) in a Botanica. It’s a Mexican image of the Anima Sola or Lonely Soul portrayed as a woman breaking out of chains and flames and her eyes are gazing towards heaven. I really like the symbolism of the spirit triumphing over the material, the abstract over the concrete.
Donald Brittain and Don Owen want to make a documentary about me called Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Leonard Cohen. They would film in Montreal and Hydra. Would you mind them coming to see us?
I miss you day and night. I do not sleep well when I am without you. The loneliness eats away at me and gnaws at my soul. I know that suffering is good for me and so I welcome it. It makes me write better and love you more but how I wish I was with you, the candles lit, sharing the good light with you.
How is Kyria Sophia? Is she still disapproving?
And how is that beautiful blonde boy? Please hug him for me.
To you, Marianne, I always send my heart.
I love it when it rains because the sea and the tears we have shed are up in the sky and coming down upon us and we are united.
Your loving Leonard.
Marianne dropped his letter to her lap and the tears streamed in straight lines down her face. So this was what it had come to, her on her own, linked to two men only by paper. She worried about her future. Was she going to trail all over the world with her child, following Leonard, living in his shadow and being grateful for the little time they had together, in-between gigs and adoring girls screaming at him? It wouldn’t be good for Axel Joachim. Her mother missed them. Maybe Oslo was the answer?
She hugged herself, feeling confused, alone.
Not far away, in the wood behind the two wells, Shane and Baptiste lay among the wild cyclamens, dabbing the earth with their white snow. He had been gentle and he had been patient, which she appreciated but as time went on, she became more confident, too. She did not need him to treat her like a child.
They lay side by side, their heads touching, her blonde hair curled over his dark, and it was Shane who rolled onto and kissed him. Her white skin pressed upon his swarthy skin so that they merged, their mouths, their bodies, united. Their love and passion leaked from them.
Elsewhere Carl and Frieda were in her studio. They had made love and were reclining on the blue settee, a blanket draped over them. Their skin and eyes were shining with the aftereffect of sex. She stroked his face, the planes and shapes it made, chiselled, angular.
‘I have something to show you,’ said Carl. He went to his bag and drew out a folder of photographs. ‘My father has bought me a place in Toronto,’ he said.
Frieda leafed through them and was amazed to see a large detached house, red brick, so solid and rooted that it looked as if it were planted in the earth. It had many large windows and looked light and spacious. There was space around it, with a garden behind. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘Lovely, isn’t it? It’s in a smart suburb near his law firm.’
‘That is so generous of him.’
Carl laughed dryly. ‘Don’t be naïve, Frieda. It is all part of his plan to lure me back. Good job, great salary, lovely house. He still doesn’t understand that I do not want to be a lawyer. I love my painting and – I love you.’
Tears fell soft and fast from Frieda’s eyes. ‘There is no solution,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot see a way forward for us.’
‘I can. I need to speak to my father again and then I have a proposal for you. You will need to think very carefully about it. It will change both of our lives for the better.’
They kissed before he dressed and left but not before he had given her more money.
‘More? That’s fantastic, Frieda.’
She could not look at Jack as she handed over the wad of cash. It had become increasingly difficult of late for them to have any contact with each other, either physical or verbal. It was as if their eyes knew it was over before their minds did. They had begun speaking through the children: ‘Ask Abba if he wants honey in his yoghurt’, or ‘Tell Mummy that Evgeniya is going home now’. There had been awkward moments when Esther had tried to join them together.
One day they were all on the terrace, the four of them together but apart. Gideon was admiring his rocks; Jack was reading; Frieda was sitting with Esther at the table, but her eyes were searching the harbour as if looking for answers there. Esther had drawn a family of four in a white house by the sea. They each had a triangular body with flapping, skinny arms and legs and were holding hands. Frieda could see from the features on each that it was their family. Esther was small with short dark hair next to Gideon, who was taller than her and with glasses. He was linked to Frieda, who was not much bigger than her son, but she had long brown hair and she held hands with Jack, taller with a big beard and moustache.
Esther tugged at her mother.
‘Ima. Look. Mummy, Daddy, Gideon, me.’
‘That’s lovely, sweetie.’
‘Let’s hold hands, like the picture.’
‘No, darling.’
‘Yes!’
Esther’s face had gone red and she looked like she was about to cry, something she had been doing a lot lately. The teacher at nursery had mentioned this to Frieda. To avoid upsetting her, Frieda and Jack reluctantly held hands.
‘Come on, Giddy,’ said Frieda gently. ‘It will make Esther happy.’
Sulkily, he dropped the rock he was studying. It landed with a thud on the terrace.
And so they stood in a line across the tiled floor, imitating the drawing. Esther did not seem pleased, as if she could detect the pretence. She cried without understanding why, her little face red and hot with confusion.
‘Now, then,’ said Jack picking her up. ‘Shall we see if Peter’s in my beard?’
Although the child was consoled and Gideon was relieved to be released from the charade, Frieda was neither.
She knew at the point when she and Jack obediently linked hands, and could hardly bear to, that her marriage was definitely now over.
xxxiv
It began as a normal day. Everyone was in their set place, chess pieces on a board: Jack in his study, Frieda in her studio, Gideon at school, and Esther with Evgeniya. It was early afternoon, bright light, and the little girl
had returned from nursery and eaten her lunch – salami, olives and salad prettily arranged on a ceramic plate, with a slice of watermelon as a treat. Afterwards, the maid had wiped Esther’s messy face, the red juices having stained her chin and sticky fingers. As the sun was so much stronger now, she insisted that the little girl play in the shaded part of the terrace, while she went inside to carry on with her chores.
Esther was plaiting her dollies’ hair when she heard raised voices and crashing plates. She had heard this cacophony before and knew that Nikos was there with Evgeniya. She could hear the maid’s usually soft voice, now high-pitched and screaming, and a man’s deeper voice, shouting. Usually she did not go and investigate, staying on the balcony, gripping onto her dolls for comfort, but she heard a terrific thud on the floor below and then saw Nikos’ bulky body storming up the hill. Esther dropped her dolly, hair half-tidied, and ran into the kitchen.
Evgeniya lay on the floor: her dark hair flayed out, her eyes closed and blood pouring from a gash in her head, staining the stone tiles. Esther knelt by her side, tears welling, and called her name, ‘Evgeniya! Evgeniya!’ No response, no movement at all apart from the blood which still sprung like an ugly fountain.
Esther ran from the house, her heart thudding, not knowing where she was going. She did not know where her father’s study or her brother’s school were, but she could certainly find Demi’s bakery in the harbour with her mother’s studio behind it, so she ran there, her face hot, her white T-shirt and shorts sweaty in the searing sun, her legs running as fast as they could. Tears sprang from her eyes and streamed down her face.
Esther could smell the yeasty bread as she approached but bypassed the bakery and went round the back. She pushed open the studio door.
Her mother was lying on the blue settee with a man on top of her. They were both naked. It was difficult to work out which limbs belonged to whom as they resembled an octopus with sprawling tentacles. The room smelled hot with sweat and wisteria scent. It was not an odour Esther could identify. As soon as her mother saw the open door and her daughter standing there, she jumped up, grabbing a towel to cover herself with, which seemed strange to Esther as she had often seen her mother nude.
The man leapt up too. Esther did not recognise him.
‘Sweetheart,’ said her mother, smoothing her hair, her voice rasping. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Evgeniya’s hurt, she’s lying on the floor, covered in blood. I think she’s dead.’
‘Oh my god.’ They both hastily put on their clothes. Frieda whispered something to the man. He nodded and left without a fuss, avoiding the child’s puzzled eyes.
Hand in hand, Frieda and Esther mounted the hill to the house in Kala Pigadia. The air was oppressively hot and they panted as they climbed. They passed Maria who was on her way to do errands at Katsikas’ and Frieda grabbed her. ‘Dr Benedictus,’ she cried. ‘Go and get Dr Benedictus. It’s Evgeniya.’
The colour drained from Maria’s face and she ran down the hill to obey.
When Frieda and Esther reached the house, Evgeniya was in the same position; her eyes were closed but she was breathing. The blood on the stone floor had formed a pool. Frieda kneeled down to her, ‘Evgeniya, dear Evgeniya, we are here now,’ but the woman did not answer. Frieda unbuttoned the maid’s overall to help her breathe, dabbed her forehead with a cold flannel and tried to stem the flow of blood, but there was no response.
Dr Benedictus arrived with his doctor’s bag and his usual air of calm benignity. He tended the cut, wound bandage around her head and he and Frieda helped her onto a chair, him speaking quietly and reassuringly in Greek as he worked. A bruise was spreading across Evgeniya’s face like a flower opening. She had her eyes open now and was conscious.
The doctor and Frieda helped her to her feet and to the front door.
At that moment Jack came running in. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Evgeniya,’ said Frieda without catching his eyes. ‘She had a fall.’ She did not want Esther to know what Nikos had done. ‘You stay here with Esther. I will help Dr Benedictus walk Evgeniya home.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘Comfort Esther, please. She has had a terrible shock.’
For many years afterwards, Frieda remembered this as evidence that deception did not come naturally to her. Had she been more cunning, she would have let Jack help the doctor and she would have stayed with Esther to beg or bribe her not to say a word about what she had seen. But she did not. And then it was too late.
By the time Frieda returned from Evgeniya’s house she could tell from Jack’s face that Esther had told him everything. They were on the terrace, Esther on her daddy’s lap.
‘Who is he?’ Jack said. His face was ashen.
‘What does it matter who he is?’
‘George? Leonard? Norman?’ His voice trembled with anger.
Esther was crying and had now wrapped herself around Frieda’s legs. She stared at her father as if he were a stranger.
‘No, none of those men. Let’s discuss it later. Not in front of Esther.’
‘I want to know who it is.’ Jack’s face had swelled purple with rage and a blue vein on the side of his head protruded.
‘He’s called Carl.’
‘Carl?’
‘Yes. I met him at Olivia’s party.’
‘At Christmas?’
‘No. The party before that.’
‘Just after we had arrived? So all this time you have been pretending to paint in your studio, you have been screwing another man?’
‘I have also been painting, Jack. You know I have.’
‘Do I? Can I trust anything you say?’
Frieda was stroking the hair of her daughter, wiping the tears that sprang from her hot little face.
‘It’s alright, Esther. I’m sorry, Jack. What I did was wrong but I was lonely and unhappy.’
‘This was supposed to be our year of healing, of sorting out our marriage.’
‘I know but it hasn’t worked. We both know that it’s over.’
Jack collapsed, his anger dissolving into tears. It broke Frieda’s heart to hear him howling, like an animal in pain. She cried, and so did Esther.
Gideon came back from school and onto the terrace. He looked at them all weeping. To Frieda’s shock, he walked calmly over to his rocks and started cleaning them.
‘Hello, Giddy,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there’s been some upset today.’ He did not answer or look up.
‘I was going to give you good news,’ Jack said when he had stopped crying. ‘My publisher likes the book and is offering me another advance to do research in the States.’
‘That is great, Jack.’
‘I was going to suggest that we all moved there. Before I knew that…’
‘Of course you must go. It is a great opportunity for you.’
‘But what about you and the children?’
‘I don’t know. I need time to think. Can you give me an hour?’
He nodded. Frieda turned to Esther. ‘Sweetie, stay here with Abba. I am going out and will see you soon.’
‘Come, Esther, love,’ called Jack softly, wiping his face. ‘We’ll have a story, shall we?’
On her way to see Carl, Frieda noticed how the island had painted itself yellow and sweet for spring. Narcissi and blossom seemed girly, innocently pretty. It seemed tragic to her that as her marriage was dying, the island was being reborn.
She pushed open the door of Carl’s house and called to him. He was upstairs in his studio, a paintbrush in his hand. The canvas he was working on was covered in blue and yellow swirls and it conveyed to her the sea and sun. It felt strangely optimistic.
‘Frieda!’ He put down his paintbrush when he saw her tear-stained face. ‘How is Evgeniya? Is she alright?’
‘I think so, yes. The doctor came and she has gone home now. But, of course, it has all come out about us. Jack knows.’
‘Oh god. How did he react?’<
br />
‘Angry, shocked, and then very upset. It was terrible to see him like that. But it was strange: it’s the first time in years that we have had an honest conversation where we have both spoken the truth, actually looked at each other.’
‘Shit. What now?’
‘He has been invited to go to the States to research his next book. But what about you and me?’
Carl took Frieda in his arms. ‘This is what I have been trying to sort out with my father and we have finally come to an arrangement. I was going to tell you later.’ He wiped his paint-stained hands on a cloth and faced Frieda. ‘He has agreed to me being a senior partner in the firm but on the condition that I will be allowed time to paint.’
‘That is wonderful, Carl. Such good news for you.’
‘For us. Come with me, Frieda. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You saw the photos of the house. It is beautiful. I will support you and you will never have to worry about money again. You can paint all day long if you want to.’
Frieda’s face brightened. She felt her body tingle. ‘And your parents would accept that?’
‘They would have to. That would be part of the agreement.’
‘Gosh. This is incredible. Today has been the strangest day of my life. An hour ago, I thought everything was over. Now the future seems full of exciting possibilities.’
‘It is. And you’ll love Toronto. It’s a great place.’
‘And I could really spend my time painting?’
‘Absolutely. I want to support you. You are so talented.’
‘And I’m sure Toronto has good local schools?’
‘Schools?’
‘Yes. For Giddy and Esther.’
The smile fell from Carl’s face. ‘No, I didn’t mean them.’
‘What?’
‘I am asking you to come with me. You know I never wanted kids.’
Frieda laughed drily. ‘You think that I would leave my children?’
‘They were never part of the deal.’
‘The deal? Listen to me, Carl. There is nothing in the world, nothing, that would induce me to abandon my son and daughter. Not you, not anyone. Do you understand? I am not interested in any deal, no matter how big the salary or the house, if it means losing them. Go to Canada. Live out your deal. And never, ever contact me again.’