‘When do you expect the stables to be finished?’ she asked.
Mark stood up and led her by the hand to the large glass windows at the back of the house. He nodded at the stables beyond the courtyard. ‘The bathroom is nearly finished,’ he said, ‘and the kitchen is being installed next week. Painters come in after that. I’ve suggested to Zoe she might like to choose the rugs and furniture, make the place more her own.’ And then, guessing what had prompted her question, ‘I don’t think Zoe’s being here will affect us. She’s working and studying. She’ll hardly be home, and certainly not during the day.’
They stood gazing through the glass to the stables a few moments more, then he turned to her. She thought he was struggling to say something, the muscles around his eyes and mouth would not keep still, but he remained silent.
‘Come to bed,’ she said, slipping her arm around his waist. ‘Come to bed, my love.’
In her saddlery, not far from Mark Asher’s house, Galina was working on her Aussie English picture book. With the Australian vernacular showing a marked preference for the risqué, Galina was thinking it might well be a picture book for adults. Whoever the audience, she was enjoying the work. The hours slid past, and it was early evening when she packed up for the day. With Andrew due in an hour to discuss their High Country holiday, she turned her attention to dinner. There was no time to go to the shops, but she was Russian, and Russians can make a meal out of crumbs.
She settled on an East-meets-West combination: mushroom kasha, leftover barbecue chicken, with a few beans each. She reached for her copy of The Book of Tasty and Nutritious Food, and opened it to the kasha recipe.
There had been no question of leaving this tattered old book behind. It had been her mother’s, a gift when Lidiya joined the Komsomol. Slipped inside the front cover was a photo cut from Komsomolskaya Pravda, depicting the new Komsomol members, with Lidiya, a small grainy figure at the front, marked with an X.
Although Galina knew the kasha recipe by heart, she placed the open book on the bench; she liked having this staple of the Russian home in view while she cooked in her Australian kitchen. She dry-roasted the buckwheat in a pan, chopped an onion, and while it was browning, sliced the mushrooms — three different types bought from a stall in the market because she simply had not been able to choose between them.
Her ability to choose remained at a fledgling stage. If faced with three different types of mushroom, and she had sufficient money, she bought all three. There were two bread shops within walking distance, each crammed with multiple varieties; sometimes it was all too much, and she left without buying anything. While the situation had mellowed in the past two years, she doubted if choice, so attractive in theory, would ever be easy for her.
For a long time she had worried about the quality of Australian food. Food at home might well have been basic and in short supply, but Soviet food was the purest in the world. Here, additives were actually written on the packages. It was Sylvie who set her straight about Australian food labelling, while Leonard questioned whether anyone really could trust the Soviet authorities on food purity. ‘They deceived you about so many things,’ he said, ‘so why not the food?’
The Australian love affair with Gorbachev was continuing. Most of the news items came out of Moscow, but every now and then there were reports from Leningrad, and she would catch a glimpse of a familiar building, or the Neva, or a gathering of people in a square where she herself had once lingered. (Look, she once said, look, Mamochka, only to realise she was speaking aloud in her empty Australian home.) She wanted to prolong these segments, and she wanted to silence the TV translator who was blocking out the Russian speech.
It had been a madness cutting herself off from other Russian émigrés, yet, like an alcoholic who cannot risk even a taste of alcohol, so it was for her with Russian: she had deprived herself totally, and locked herself inside English. It was that common state of the émigré, she realised, that when everything is uncertain, you establish rules and rigid coordinates to guide you, even though they might inadvertently undermine your very identity.
These days, she met regularly with other Soviet Jews. Heavy with nostalgia, fats and sugars, these get-togethers moved at a Russian pace. She relaxed in the comfort of speaking Russian and eating the Russian food. She met a guy at one of these gatherings, an engineer from Moscow. He liked her, and she liked him. But while a Russian boyfriend would enrich her private and domestic life, out in the Australian streets and shops, he would only add to her difficulties. She distanced herself, not without a measure of sadness, before anything serious could develop.
The decision might have been different if not for the Morrow family. Now central in her Australian life, each of them was important to her. Sylvie could not replace her mother, but Lidiya’s absence had hollowed out a space into which Sylvie could easily enter — not fill, but occupy a portion of it. So Sylvie had slipped in with the greatest ease. But Andrew was the most important. It wasn’t just their weekly adventures, nor their meeting for coffee several times a week; he was the one with whom she shared the ebb and flow of her daily life. And then there was Leonard, neither the easiest nor the most important, but surprisingly, the one who seemed to best understand her situation, who was able to recognise that cramping of the familiar self that characterises exile and displacement. Often during dinners at the Morrow home, it was Leonard who would pass a comment or make an aside that coalesced exactly with her experience. And during conversations that involved just the two of them, if she’d not known otherwise she would have picked him to be an exile himself. He had an understanding of the new Australian — he used the phrase ‘being on the outside looking in’ — that was right on target.
She checked the time. With Andrew due to arrive soon, she put all the ingredients in a pot and set it on a low flame. Everything was on schedule, and if she had been a different sort of person she would have allowed herself a brief relaxation with a glass of wine and the newspaper. But being who she was, she needed to watch over the kasha, make sure that nothing went wrong.
‘Connoisseurs of catastrophe’. That summed up the Russian people, even down to cooking kasha. She’d read the phrase not so long ago and it had struck a chord. ‘We Russians are connoisseurs of catastrophe,’ she said aloud. There are the bad times when the shops are empty and the toilet is broken and the winter is fierce; there are the worst times: the siege, the pogroms, the terror of the 1930s; and the better times: being allocated your own flat, a job at the children’s book publishers, a ticket to the Kirov. Bad times, worst times, better times: it is the Russian way. This, she decided, looking around the saddlery, was a very good time indeed.
There was a knock at the door. She checked her watch, Andrew was early. ‘It is open,’ she said, stirring the pot. ‘Let yourself in.’
There was another knock and she called out again. This time, she heard the door open.
‘I am attending to our dinner,’ she said, without turning around.
She heard the scrape of shoes on the floor. Andrew was not wearing his usual canvas loafers.
Then he spoke. Pakhnet, kak doma.
Without thinking, Galina responds in Russian. Yes, she says, it does smell like home. And then she realises: not Russian, not here, not with Andrew. And whisks around.
There’s an old man standing by the couch.
‘Galya, ya by tebya uznal gde ugodno.’ Galya, he says, I’d know you anywhere. And then he utters the words so often spoken by Lidiya. ‘Ty tak pokhozha na tvoyu babushku.’ You look so much like your grandmother.
She knows who he is. She knows immediately. This man who was sufficiently powerful to be a medal-bearer at Brezhnev’s funeral, this old swarthy man who informed on his parents, this man with his dyed hair and his smoker’s voice who neglected his own sister, this man from the Soviet elite who dined on caviar while his own family went hungry, this man is Mikhail Kogan. Her uncle, her mo
ther’s estranged brother is here. In Australia. In her own home. His face is roughened by a day or two of beard, his body is stocky and heavy, and emanating from him is that familiar Russian male smell.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t know what to do.
He approaches as if to embrace her. She steps back, the stirring spoon clatters to the floor. He picks it up, looks in the pot, shrugs as if to say, have it your own way, and settles himself on the couch.
He’s waiting for her to say something, but she is unable to speak.
‘I’m here because of you,’ he says, breaking the silence.
Still she cannot speak.
‘I might have gone to America or Canada, but your mother’s friend, Nadya, told me you were in Melbourne.’ His speech gives off a whiff of tobacco. ‘You are family. I came here.’
At last she manages to speak; her voice is, to her relief, quiet but steady. ‘Why did you need to leave? You and Mother Russia got along extremely well.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve inherited your grandmother’s cynicism — never her most attractive quality. But since you ask, I will tell you.’ The eyebrows contract to a frown. ‘My country is being ruined. That fool Gorbachev is ruining it. I’m a patriot, I’ve always been a patriot. I couldn’t watch any longer.’
So, he too, had taken the Jewish option. ‘Just like you,’ he says. He shrugs in that particular Russian way. ‘Judaism has caused me only grief. It owed me, and as the best ticket out of the Soviet Union, it was pay-up time. Other Soviet citizens without a finger of Jewishness were using the same means to leave Russia, at least I used what was rightfully mine.’
He had been in Melbourne for just two days, and was staying on the south side of the city. Jewish Welfare had consulted their records, saving him the trouble of searching for her.
‘They showed me a map. I saw you were living on the other side of the city, a long way from where I am staying.’ Again, that Russian shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter to me where we live.’ He pauses. ‘Next time, I bring my bags.’
Galina gathers up her full voice, and she lets him have it. She blames him for the arrest of her grandparents, she accuses him of deserting her mother, she attacks him for disloyalty and betrayal, she condemns him for outright cruelty, she harangues him for her own impoverished life in Leningrad.
He watches her closely. He doesn’t interrupt, he’s quite enjoying himself. It’s as if his own mother has returned from the grave. Although why the girl’s so angry with him is inexplicable, he’s done nothing to her. She blames him for this, she blames him for that; given enough time, she’ll probably blame him for Lidiya’s death. When at last it seems she’s finished, he waits a moment before speaking, to let the anger fade.
‘There’s no point in dwelling on the past,’ he says. ‘You know nothing about those times. They were very different, and,’ he pauses for emphasis, ‘they’re over.’ He has nothing to apologise for. One survived as best one could in the Soviet Union, an approach her mother subscribed to even if Galina does not. He has done nothing wrong — not that he expects her to understand, but then neither does he care.
‘The facts are simple, Galya.’ He speaks more slowly now, stressing each word. ‘I am family, and I am old. You are young, and you have a duty.’
‘And what about your duty to family?’
He shrugs. He’s not interested in arguing, there’s nothing she can say to alter the facts. He takes in her surroundings; she is set up very well, with more than enough space for two. He notices the table laden with work — she’s inherited her grandparents’ work ethic, he is pleased to see. She will soon adjust to the new situation. He will give her a couple of days to prepare, then he will move in.
Andrew telephones Galina to let her know he is running behind. She does not answer, and he assumes that, like him, she has been caught up with her work. When finally he knocks on her door he is nearly an hour late. He waits a full minute before knocking again. At last he hears the lock released and the bolt slipped back — odd, as she never locks her door when she’s home. The door opens just a crack. As soon as she sees him, she opens the door wider, pulls him in, slams the door, and shoots the bolt home.
She looks terrified. Her hair is wild, her eyes are red, her face is pale, her mouth is twisted and stiff. Something terrible has happened, and without the usual internal debate, without any thought whatsoever, he steps towards her and wraps her in his arms.
The story comes out in stuttered bursts: a man, rough, unkempt, young, let himself in. Probably a drug addict. Threatened violence, took money, left.
Andrew reaches for the telephone to call the police.
‘No, no. Not the police.’ She sounds so distressed. And then, as if she hears herself, adds more quietly, ‘What can the police do? The man took what he wanted. Now he has gone.’
Andrew sits her down and pours her a measure of brandy. Galya is usually so composed, so self-possessed, he has never presumed to know what she is feeling. But this girl in front of him is shockingly exposed. The intruder might not have harmed her physically, but he’s left her distraught.
Over the next hour she calms down, while he provides comfort and distraction. He asks about the food she has prepared, and insists on being shown The Book of Tasty and Nutritious Food. Despite only the flimsiest interest in food preparation, he plies her with questions about this dish and that. It’s late when they eat. The kasha is tasty enough — with lashings of butter and a teaspoon of salt, so it should be — but the consistency reminds him of lumpy porridge and is not at all to his liking. By the time he raises their excursion to the snow, she seems to be back to her old self, so he is surprised by her lack of enthusiasm for a plan which just that morning had so excited her.
‘It’ll be good for you,’ he says. ‘Separate for a few days from this place. Put today’s events behind you.’
It is as if the past couple of calming hours haven’t happened. She is shaking her head, her face is sunk in gloom, her entire demeanour suggests these events will never be put behind her. He doesn’t understand. He knows she’s had a shock, but she has withstood so much worse in her life. Perhaps all the stresses she’s borne over the years have mounted up, and the incident with the intruder has somehow tipped her over the edge. Whatever the explanation, she is clearly in despair.
He slides his chair around the table so as to be seated next to her. The squeal of wood on the concrete subsides in a soft, safe silence. He puts his arm about her, holding her without speaking. A minute more, and she lowers her head to his shoulder. He thinks she may be crying, but doesn’t try to check: Galya is not the sort of person who would want to be seen crying.
What he does know for certain is she’s scared and she’s shaken. He offers to stay with her. ‘I can sleep on the couch.’
She accepts immediately. ‘But come into my bed,’ she says. ‘Then I will know you are here.’
They both lie between the sheets fully clothed. He wraps his arms around her, she rests her head on his shoulder, and soon she is asleep.
It is morning when he awakes — he’d thought he wouldn’t sleep at all. He’s lying on his side and she is curved against his back, her arm flung across his waist. For the next hour, he holds her hand to his chest, firm to his beating heart. This is definitely not the time to tell her how he feels.
Two days later, Mikhail Kogan moved into the saddlery.
His arrival wrought an immediate change in Galina. Entombed in a weird sort of numbness, she lost all sense of inhabiting her own body. She did not think; she could not think.
And she was as efficient as a robot.
First she made space for him. It wasn’t difficult: the Kogan home at the kommunalka had accommodated both her and her mother, and there’d been four people living there when her mother was a child. Now she pushed her bed from the centre of the back wall to one corner, and moved her work table alongside. T
here was insufficient room for her chair, but she could sit on her bed while drawing — although work was no more possible at the moment than a trip to the moon. She returned to the second-hand shop where she had bought her couch. There she found a sofa bed and a free-standing wardrobe; the sofa was an ugly brown and an impeccable match for her state of mind, the wardrobe was a scuffed and scarred white; a fresh coat of paint would have improved it, but she didn’t have the heart for improvements. Her old work space became Mikhail’s alcove. She positioned the wardrobe so it acted as a screen between his section and the rest of the room. The sofa bed, her desk chair, and a side-table were installed in the alcove, and any of Mikhail’s possessions that were not immediately needed were stacked on top of the wardrobe. The back of the wardrobe was brown masonite; she could have invigorated it with posters, but she didn’t.
Detached from all this activity, she was reduced to a puppet. She saw her hands doing the work, they might have been anyone’s hands. She lifted, she pushed, she dragged, she stacked, she reconfigured her minimalist Australian space with Russian ingenuity. Not a square centimetre was wasted.
When Mikhail had turned up in Leningrad, her mother had done what was required to get rid of him. But that was Leningrad. And that was Lidiya and her story. His being here now, in Australia, created an entirely new story. And it was Galina’s alone: her story, her problem, her decisions, her life, her future.
It was better not to think.
She settled him into her home and helped him unpack his belongings. His clothes, although creased and grubby, were of the best quality. No patched and darned garments for him, no worn-at-heel shoes, no threadbare, warmth-defying cloth: Mikhail’s fine clothes advertised his membership of the Soviet elite.
Invented Lives Page 27