He recalled an idea of Yeats’ that had appealed when he was a young man writing poetry: We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry. He now wondered whether his desires would have been appeased and the conflicts of his life resolved if he had been a better poet, a more committed poet, like Yeats himself. Far from bringing him sense and clarity, his poetry had been little more than a hydrant for pent-up emotions. These past months without Winston he had written some new verse, the first for years; but fraught discipline and a lack of practice had undermined his efforts, and already with reason enough to despise himself, he had put his notebook away. Poetry wouldn’t save him. Perhaps nothing would.
He checked the time. He needed to be heading home, and looked around to determine exactly where he was. Up the slope from where he was standing he noticed a church, Victorian-era, with patterned red brick and a spire. The service had just finished and the doors were open; chill wind notwithstanding, the minister and his wife were outside, greeting the parishioners as they left. The crowd was large and diverse; clearly this was a popular church. But it was not the congregation that drew his attention; it was the intriguing couple at the church door, the minister and his wife.
The minister was dressed in what appeared to Leonard’s secular eye to be full ecclesiastical regalia. Over a white cassock hung a creamy cloak heavily embroidered with gold; a large crucifix, a gaudy affair of brightly coloured stones, dangled mid-torso; and draped around his neck was a crimson stole, also encrusted with gold embroidery. But more compelling than the decorative garb was the minister himself: he was fabulously handsome. Tall, with blond curling hair, carved cheekbones, a jaw set in perfect symmetry, and a face so cleanly shaven as to look pre-pubescent, this minister had movie-star looks.
The wife was everything the man was not. Short and stocky with a sensible haircut that might well have been barbered, she wore a blazer over a shapeless skirt. Hers were functional and unfashionable clothes that emphasised her square frame. Her face bore no traces of make-up, and there was no jewellery that Leonard could see. She was as unadorned as her husband was decorative, and as defiantly plain as he was beautiful. If Leonard were ever required to describe a marriage of convenience, this pair would provide the perfect model.
As he watched, a boy and a girl, both of primary-school age, joined them. This then, was the family. The girl leaned against her father, who wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her close. The boy squeezed in between his parents, gazing up at the passing parade of parishioners.
Leonard remained motionless on the footpath until the last of the congregation had drifted away. It was then that the minister turned towards him, and with an arm still wrapped around his daughter, his gaze connected with Leonard’s. It was one of those loaded exchanges that Leonard had responded to so often in his long and complex life, an unmistakeable acknowledgement that each recognised the other.
At the same time, a young woman appeared from inside the church. She was tall and slender and androgynous; Leonard expected she was often mistaken for a boy. The wife said something to her husband, then went inside the church with the other woman and the children. For a moment, such a protracted moment, the two men were left alone, locked in each other’s gaze.
It was the minister who broke the spell. ‘You’d always be welcome here,’ he called out, and held Leonard’s gaze a moment longer before joining his wife, his children, and his wife’s friend inside the church.
Standing alone on the footpath, Leonard stared up at the closed door. He felt a charge of longing and envy. What, he wondered, occurs in front of us every day, what unusual and creative arrangements? This man and his wife were not in exile from God’s family; this man and his wife were not exiled from the society of humankind. What deals and alliances will people make in order to live in peace?
The traffic, swollen by the Sunday-afternoon football crowd, inched forward, but rather than his usual impatience on the road, Andrew welcomed the delay. His mother was right: it was up to him to speak to Galina, but that made the prospect no less nerve-racking. He rehearsed several opening gambits, but they either came across as too much about him (You seem to be avoiding me), too sharp and personal (You’re not yourself, Galya), too vague (There appears to be something bothering you), or too revealing (I’m really worried about you). By the time he passed the football ground, he was still searching for an opening sentence, the traffic had cleared, and he was just a short distance from her place.
He’d never arrived unannounced before, and wondered if he should stop at a phone box and call her. As indecision over his unexpected arrival fired up his already heated anxieties, he tried to defuse the situation by considering what other people would do in this situation. With the problem shifted away from himself, reason found room to move, and reason was clear: it was daytime, and it was the weekend when behaviour tended to be more relaxed, so people might just pop in.
He decided not to telephone.
Eight minutes from the football ground, with green traffic lights all the way, he pulled up in the lane outside Galina’s place. At the same time, the clouds parted and a sharp, white sun hit the windscreen. He sat with the engine extinguished until the pale warmth of the sun penetrated the glass and then, his heart pounding and a wad of words pinching his throat, he made his way to her door.
He took a moment to smooth his breathing and then he knocked — perhaps a little too quietly. He counted one, two, three, four, five slow seconds before knocking again. As he waited, he tossed between relief that she was not at home and disappointment that having worked up the courage to see her, he was being denied the opportunity. Then he heard a noise. It was the sound of the safety chain being slid into place, followed by the release of the lock. The door opened a few centimetres to reveal not Galina, but the unshaven face of an old man. Andrew stepped back.
‘Yes?’ It was just a single word, but enough to expose a heavy accent and a lifetime of cigarettes.
‘Galina?’ Andrew said, and added slowly, ‘I am a friend of Galya’s.’
He heard Galina’s voice from inside; she was speaking Russian. He’d never heard her speak Russian before. They’d been friends for more than a year, and never had he heard her speak her own language — nor had this occurred to him until now, he who had given her so much thought.
The man withdrew, the door was closed, the chain was released, and now Galya appeared in the doorway. He was shocked by her appearance. Slumped against the door frame, she looked exhausted and unwell. Even if she’d wanted him to leave, he doubted she’d have the strength to ask.
She moved aside to let him in. The saddlery, too, was shockingly changed. Her minimalist space had disappeared: every surface, every inch of floor, had been put to use. Her work area had been partitioned off with an ugly wardrobe, and there was an additional rack of clothes near the glass door that blocked out most of the natural light. The room was very warm, and stank of cigarettes. Clothed in a khaki shirt and brown trousers, the man stood front-on to Andrew; stocky and thickset, his feet were apart, his fisted hands were on his hips. With his deliberately threatening stance, this old man cut a powerful figure. Galina, in contrast, just stood in the clutter, her eyes downcast, her arms hanging limply, a picture of defeat.
The man had clearly moved in. But why? And who was he? Andrew did not wait for an explanation; rather, responding to Galina’s helplessness, he gathered her coat and bag, took her firmly by the arm, and said they were going out — just the two of them. That she didn’t protest was testament to her sorry state. She did, however, say something in Russian to the man, who responded angrily, his beefy arms punctuating a torrent of words. Andrew felt her hesitate, but he allowed it no traction and pulled her through the doorway into the lane. He led her to his car, sat her in the passenger seat, and drove to his place. She remained silent throughout the short journey.
He guided her from the car to his
couch. He was about to make tea, then thought better of it, settled down next to her, and took her hand. For several seconds there was no response, then tears started rolling down her face. Still she made no sound. With his free arm, he drew her close. When she was comforted, she would speak. In the meantime, he would wait.
It was mid-afternoon when Andrew telephoned his mother. ‘Galya’s with me,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem, a personal problem, and we could use your help. Could you come over?’
Sylvie explained the situation to Leonard. He offered to accompany her, but he was not one for emotional matters and she suspected he’d prefer to stay home. She reassured him they would manage. ‘If things change, I’ll call you.’
The cold hit her as soon as she entered Andrew’s studio. It was not simply that the cavernous space was impossible to heat, but mostly Andrew did not even attempt it. Galina and Andrew were sitting on the couch; his arm was around her, and a tiny two-bar radiator was glowing in front of them.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ she said.
Andrew laughed. ‘We had a bet that within two minutes of your arrival you’d remark on the cold. You’ve surpassed even yourself.’ And turning to Galina, ‘Hasn’t she, Galinochka?’ He spoke so lovingly, so nakedly, that Sylvie felt a stab of anxiety for her son.
The girl raised her head. She looked wretched. The luxuriant features were pinched and arid, her skin looked like putty, her eyes were sunk in deep trenches. A stranger seeing her now would judge her as plain.
‘Galya’s told me the whole story,’ Andrew said, once Sylvie was settled in a chair.
It had taken considerable time for it to emerge. Galya had remained silently crying while they sat together on the couch. When the tears stopped, he had made a pot of tea. The hot drink seemed not to touch her; she swallowed quickly and with thirst. He refilled her mug, and only then, taking occasional sips, had she responded to his questions. Her speech was rusty, the words issued in jerks and breaks.
‘Galya’s told me the whole story,’ Andrew said again. And just as he was about to relate it, Galina unfolded from her slump, filled herself with air, put a restraining hand on his arm, and began to speak. She explained to Sylvie that it was not a drug-addicted intruder who had barged into the saddlery a couple of months earlier, but her uncle, newly arrived in Australia; two days later he had moved in. She gave a potted family history, mentioning, but not emphasising Mikhail’s long estrangement from her mother. She said that from her uncle’s point of view, it was irrelevant what he might have done in the past, irrelevant what her mother might have felt about him, and utterly irrelevant what Galina might think of him now. The time was the present, the place was Australia, and he was family.
She shrugged. ‘And he’s probably right.’ Though she did not look convinced.
Andrew believed she owed him nothing. ‘The man informed on his own parents.’
‘It was long ago, times were hard.’ And again Galina shrugged. ‘I do not know for certain what he did.’
Andrew couldn’t understand why she’d defend him.
‘He is family, and he is old.’
And he had acted reprehensibly, Andrew wanted to add. But he kept his thoughts to himself. Even bad family, it seemed, was better than no family at all.
Sylvie had listened without comment. Now she posed a crucial question.
‘Imagine,’ she said to Galina, ‘this is an ideal world where anything is possible. What would you like to happen with your uncle?’
There was a long silence; ideal world or real world, there seemed no way out of her dilemma. Galina felt as if separated from herself; she hardly felt she was living at all. As for her brain, her active rational mind, it had fallen to pieces. If she were not managing the practical routines of life, the shopping and cooking and cleaning, she would think she was having a nervous breakdown.
Sylvie was repeating her question. ‘What would you most like to happen?’
Galina collected a few stray thoughts. ‘I suppose I want him out of my place, but living somewhere comfortable where he is looked after.’ Even while she spoke, she knew this was impossible. ‘I cannot force him to leave. He would never forgive me, and anyway it would not be right.’
She felt utterly defeated; nonetheless, she managed to add, ‘I would like my life back.’ A long silence followed. ‘Are you able to work wonders? Are you a magician?’
Sylvie smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I am.’
‘My uncle is no ordinary man.’ Galina knew she must warn them. ‘He thrived during the most dangerous of times. Compared to the obstacles he has overcome, I am a little pebble.’
‘Are you afraid of him?’
She saw Sylvie’s concern, and wished she could allay it, but did not have a ready answer. ‘He is the only family I have in all the world,’ she said at last. It didn’t answer the question, but it would have to do.
There was a tension in the air, they all felt it. ‘I think we could do with a drink,’ Andrew said. He went to the kitchen, and returned with wine and a packet of chips. ‘Your favourite brand,’ he said to Galya. And then to his mother, ‘They are the saltiest, oiliest chips you can buy.’
‘They are the most Russian,’ Galya said, helping herself.
Once their glasses were filled, Sylvie got down to work. ‘We need to provide your uncle with some Australian life that’s independent of you. What contact does he have with other Soviet émigrés?’
Galina shook her head. ‘This is part of the problem. He refuses to mix with Jews, and they are the only émigrés I know.’
There was a long silence while Sylvie pondered. When at last she spoke, it was with confidence. ‘We need to smoke him out.’
Galina did not understand.
‘We need to devise a situation where Mikhail will want to leave your place of his own accord. He needs to see that life is better beyond your door.’
A possible solution was soon found. With the aid of the telephone directory and a few phone calls, Sylvie found an ethnic Russian organisation, located in the inner city not far from Galina’s place. The centre provided a social forum for Russians living in Melbourne, as well as offering a range of leisure programs and educational courses. Sylvie’s optimism about this place was equalled by Galina’s pessimism. It had become a struggle, she said, to get Mikhail to leave the saddlery for any reason whatsoever.
‘He is not interested in Australia. He was born a Russian and he’ll die one, no matter where in the world he might be.’
‘Exactly,’ Sylvie said. ‘And that’s why an ethnic Russian club should appeal.’
The possibility of change gave Galina hope. Hope, in turn, gave her strength, but it was knowing she was not alone that gave her courage. Both Andrew and Sylvie made themselves available, over the phone and in person. And while this was easy enough for Andrew who lived close by, it was not for his mother — until Sylvie explained she was doing some work at the University of Melbourne, so was often in the area.
A few days later Galina was ready to approach her uncle. She had bought two Napoleons from a French patisserie (millefeuilles, as far as the French pastry chef was concerned, but her uncle need not know this), and over tea and cake, she told him about the Russian club. He said he was not interested in clubs. She emphasised it was an ethnic Russian club. She saw a glimmer of interest, and moved her account up a notch. When the glimmer segued into a couple of questions, she let her imagination soar, elaborating on the club’s myriad attractions. Five minutes more and Mikhail had agreed to try the club. But not, he said, the cake shop.
‘This Napoleon? Gavno.’
The following Thursday, early in the afternoon, Galina and her uncle took a taxi to the club. He had dressed with care for the occasion in his woollen suit and a white shirt. His tie was embroidered with an insignia that was unknown to her, but she expected it might be meaningful to the people they
were about to meet.
They received a warm and friendly welcome from a man who introduced himself as the manager of the centre. He looked to be around fifty, and spoke a Russian that was inflected with something else — maybe Australian English, it occurred to Galina afterwards. She had worried that their Jewish name might have posed a problem, but Mikhail, having spent most of his life not being Jewish, had gained considerable practice explaining the name away.
The man pointed out two sitting rooms at the end of the hall, a library and events room about halfway down on one side, and a kitchen on the other; he invited them to look around, he’d be in the office if they had any questions. There was a special pinboard for church news (the Russian Orthodox church was just a short distance away), and a large ‘what’s on’ noticeboard in the passageway. Her uncle glanced at these and moved on to the library. From the doorway, he saw two women in their middle years chatting together. Galina could feel him bristling: he wasn’t about to spend his time with women, no matter how Russian they were. And when the first of the sitting rooms contained more women, younger and with toddlers, he turned on her, accusing her of wasting his time. Fuelled by desperation, Galina drew on her last reserves of courage, and persuaded him to stay a little longer. And it was fortunate they did, for in the second sitting room was a group of men playing cards, as well as an elderly man seated in an armchair reading a newspaper.
Her uncle headed straight for an array of periodicals spread over a low table; they were a few weeks old, but it didn’t seem to matter to Mikhail, who shuffled through them and then pounced on one.
‘This,’ he said, ‘this newspaper I used to read every week.’
The old man in the armchair raised his head. His face was red and round, his body filled the chair; he was one of those jolly plump men who would make an excellent Grandfather Frost. He nodded at the newspaper in Mikhail’s hands. ‘It’s a favourite of mine, too.’
Invented Lives Page 29