She looked up from her sewing. ‘Bit late, no?’ Slava was out with friends and had left an array of clothes on the fabric couch. Their tights had holes in them, and they weren’t going to fix themselves, so she’d been sitting with her stockinged legs, Indian style, carefully mending them.
‘I know I know, but better than never.’ He sat down next to her.
‘Well, thank you.’ She meant it. “That’s sweet. But I didn’t really ask for anything.’
‘Yes, but I always hear you when we walk down Fifth and you stop and stare through the windows.’ He took her sewing and placed it on a cushion and replaced it with the gifts. ‘Open them.’
She looked at him with tenderness, a bit like a child, and gently undid the smaller parcel, her fingers weary from working all day. He watched her cautiously, ever so slightly wary but connected. ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but I know you well enough that when I saw this, I thought it would suit you.’
The gold paper revealed a navy rectangular container, and in it was a bracelet: glittering strands of marcasite soldered into silver, strands as delicate as cobwebs, linked to each other and wrapped around oval pieces of flat, shining onyx. Black mirrors, six of them, surrounding her wrist as lightly as flower petals.
‘Henry, my God. I love it. Where on earth did you find something like this?’
‘Luckily there are a lot of little antique shops down by one of the buildings I manage down in Brooklyn, you know, by Prospect?' The owner showed me this, said it was made in Poland. I'm glad you like it.’ His speech was unsentimental and somehow warm at the same time.
‘I do, oh I do.’ She started to open the second box, the larger of the two. ‘And… this? Can’t think what this might be.’
Before she even saw what was within, the paper seemed soaked with the smell of gardenia, lilacs and lilies; comforting and familiar. It smelled of wet grass and wildflowers and summers spent without care. It smelled of childhood. The red paper revealed a box on the inside, pale pink, the profile of a woman’s face etched on the front.
‘What? You bought me perfume?’
‘Yes. You love flowers, always moan that there aren’t enough in the house, that you don’t have a garden to grow them, and we don’t have the money...’-- he paused, as if to say something else, but then continued. ‘-- and, well, I thought it would be a good memory for you, though I didn’t do it all myself, the woman behind the counter had to help me, and oh it was a process, let me tell you.’
She laughed at the thought of Henry’s height darkening a glass underlit counter, opposite an immaculately groomed woman with shining hair and high heels, testing fragrances. Dark and light. ‘Well, the effort was worth it.’
He remembered her this way, her hair falling forward, still long, but now with a dusting of silver strands underneath and by her forehead. ‘When I first saw you, in Lviv-- I mean, I may be wrong here-- but I think you were carrying a basket of them?’
‘What?? No, you’re an idiot. It was a basket of washing probably.’
‘Well, sorry! Either way, this is your gift.’ And he took his shoes off and walked to the kitchen to wash his hands and light the stove to make tea for them both. ‘When is Slava coming back?’ he called out over his shoulder.
‘She is out with her friends, leave her alone. She is not a child anymore.’
Henry walked back, rolling up his sleeves. ‘Still a child in my mind’s eye,’ he sighed, sitting down heavily on the chair opposite Julia.
By the time Slava was on the precipice of her twenties, Julia and Henry had carved out a steady life for themselves in New York. Using some money that he had saved from his time in Australia, and now in Manhattan, he bought his own rental building in Brooklyn. It was welfare housing and although it was going to be hard, he knew how to manage a piece of run-down real estate. Phone calls in the middle of the night to fix persistent leaks, heating that had gone off, brown outs: this was his role. A doctor to a building. He would drive hours round trip, and still get up in the morning to see Slava off to school. It was his, his own world of his own making; it all rested on his shoulders and not on the shoulders of a man in a high castle. His pride was put on a shelf whilst he kept his family safe and cared for. His life hadn’t changed so much, he realized. He had gone from working until his back broke in the blistering sun and torrential rain, to working in basements at all hours of the night and day.
And like the crumbling insides of these buildings, the couple spent this time repairing the damage that had almost been catastrophic to their marriage. The memories of Iliya had faded almost entirely, like a dream upon waking. The pain of separation from Lesia and Maksim ceased to wake her up nightly; had ceased to be the distraction and sadness it used to be and developed into more of a resigned sorrow. It lingered like a bruise, but it was manageable. They would be so different now, she thought so many times to comfort herself, children no longer, and the few letters that she had sent were returned, a red stamp declaring INCORRECT ADDRESS, so she slowly stopped writing them. Life had gotten too busy to worry about things she could not change.
Occasionally, she and Henry would drive out of the city and leave Slava at home, the two of them seeking an escape just with one another. The long drives ended on narrowing roads out east, on Long Island, the one that caught their eye was Glen Cove, close to the shore in a quiet community of houses and connected villages with gardens and parks, and a line of sand along the shore that looked out to Long Island Sound. It was an easy drive: a long, straight road, endless and quiet, the blue horizon and salty air encouraging them towards a simpler existence. They rarely spoke on the journey, but not out of any anger, now—it was only because they craved the stillness.
Tonight, Julia and Henry had drinks planned with friends at a bar in the East Village, and Julia realized that he had forgotten.
‘You’re sitting there like a lump, when we have to get ready.’ She put her sewing down on the table next to where she sat.
Henry unbuttoned his shirt and stroked his stubbled chin. ‘Oh, I forgot.’
‘Well, we have time.’ Julia stood up. ‘But this— ‘she gestured to his plaid shirt and trousers stained with bleach and confetti-like marks of paint ‘— is not acceptable at The Orchidea.’
Henry leaned his head back on the couch and sighed. ‘How do you have the energy.’
Julia held her hand out. ‘I learn from the best. Come now let’s make a drink. I can wear my birthday present.’ She smiled as he pushed himself up and walked to the bedroom, her hand prodding him as he went, laughing as she did.
Slava knocked softly at first, and then unlocked the door, her dress touching the frame softly. ‘Mama? You here?’
The house was quiet as she walked through the door, turned on the light, and threw her keys on the telephone table. She shut the door behind her and wondered if her parents had left already. ‘Mama? I need those earrings that you promised I could wear. Hello?’ She shrugged her coat off and laid it on the sofa.
The house was silent: rooms quiet, neat as a pin, the bookshelves messy with papers and stories and little boxes of trinkets that her parents had collected over the years. She walked through the kitchen in her green silk
dress, the bias cut of the hem catching on her heel. Her blonde hair was up and twisted into a bun, and a thin gold necklace sunk into the hollow at the base of her neck, glittering in the light as she moved. Two glasses of wine were on the counter and a cigarette had been stubbed out. She walked through the small dining room with the embroidered tablecloth and the cracked sideboard heaving under stacks of china that they only used at Christmas and Easter, and then down the hallway towards the bedroom, the smell of lilies hinting at her mother’s recent absence.
A few times a year Henry and Julia were invited to attend small social gatherings, through the Ukrainian diaspora in the city. There was a small, but very close-knit community in the village and occasionally couples would meet in restaurants or bars and dress in grand nods to the era
: jackets cut slim and lapels too wide and drinks inevitably too strong. And with Henry being overworked, it was a welcome escape. This particular evening, Slava was invited to join them, but had requested a pair of earrings, which Julia had left out for her, in case they would meet her at dinner instead of at the apartment.
She found what she had been looking for: the tiniest green emeralds given to her mother for Christmas from her father. They lay on the small table right next to her side of the bed, and Slava placed them gently into her ears, fastening the back.
As she turned to leave, her heel pierced something that was sticking out from under the bed. She looked down and saw the corners of two pieces of paper, thin and old, like the leaves of an ancient book. She unpicked them from her heel and placed them on the bedside table. She looked at the thin watch on her wrist, in a daze. She was late.
As she left the room, the fold undid slightly and the black lettering of QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA peeked out from the top. The room echoed with the sound of the door closing.
That evening the Orchidea glittered and swayed, the strains of music filtering through the air from the live band as people danced together and milled about in corners drinking and smoking. Laughter and conversations peppered the room, bouncing from wall to wall, with Ukrainian words and stories lacing together like an ornate tapestry.
Across a white –dressed table adorned with luxuriously thin dinnerware and wine bottles, Slava watched her mother. She watched as she leaned forward in conversations, smiling at a friend, gesturing to Henry, playing the role of wife and companion, hostess and lover. Her father had his arm around her mother, and she saw how rigid her body became sometimes, under his gaze. It fascinated her. Her mother’s earrings were delicate gold hoops, her dress was a dark green, darker still in the folds of the silk that wrapped around her and embraced her shape. The small windows of the wine glasses and candle holders and vases altered her face as she moved, different perspectives and colors, the light playing it delicately, beautifully.
‘Slava, you’re miles away, are you feeling alright?’ Andrij, an older family friend that had known her for five years, leaned forward, the lapels on his suit jacket shining in opposition to the matte material of the body, his reddish hair matching his cheeks that had flushed with alcohol.
‘Yes, fine. Just thinking.’
‘You think too much.’ Andrij winked at her. ‘About Emilian?’
Slava blushed violently. ‘Stop it!’
‘So, where is he?’
‘Working.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t want to subject him to the Ukrainian chaos and binge-drinking.’Andrij chuckled and slapped his thighs. ‘Well! Isn’t that the truth! But that’s part of our charm.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Speaking of. Need a drink?’
Slava played with the gold beading on her clutch absentmindedly. It was her mother’s that she’d borrowed. Gold glass beading on cream colored silk. ‘Actually, no. Just tonic water. With lemon.’
Andrij’s mouth fell open, mocking her. ‘What?? Since when do you not have a drink in your hand?’
‘Oh, stop it.’ Slava had nothing else she could offer. ‘Just not feeling myself, that’s all.’
‘I’ll drink your share, don’t worry. Be right back.’
When Andrij walked off, Slava saw her mother sit down, whispering confidences to an older woman, quite possibly a friend, as her father walked off.
‘Mama…’ Slava called across the table, reaching for the silver case of cigarettes at the center of the table and the lighter beside it, but then remembered herself, and left it there.
Julia turned to her. ‘Yes, what is it?’
Slava shook her head, knowing that she didn’t need to tell her yet. It wasn’t the right time. It was never the right time, with her mother; her subtle distance encouraged Slava to have built a wall over the years. ‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘Here you go.’ Andrij sat down next to her and Slava took a sip.
‘Right. Care to dance with an old friend?’
Andrij nodded, and took her by the hand, leading her to the dance floor.
Julia watched as Slava left the table and suspected that she’d had something on her mind. She thought better of pursuing it. Sometimes, it was better to let things work themselves out, in time.
Irena broke the silence. ‘Smile, Julia! Such a serious face!’ Irena pointed the camera at the table, shouting at the others to lean in. Henry was standing to the side, Julia leaned forward in her chair and laugh-smiled to the camera as she posed, her thoughts on an old ache that had stirred up inside her.
27
New York, 1978
‘Christ, that woman will always confuse me.’
Slava threw her keys down on the only piece of furniture in their rented apartment: a small bookshelf that she and her boyfriend Emilian had found on tenth street, in front of the charity shop that always smelled of cat piss. We should definitely take it, he’d told her, we got our apartment cheap because we said unfurnished. He’d seen the skepticism in her blue eyes and feared the worst; she wasn’t the best at masking her true feelings. But she gave in, and here they were, in a dank basement with one window that looked out at feet hurrying along the sidewalk, and a piece of wood that they used for keys, eating their dinner on, and storage for old university textbooks.
She kicked the door closed with her heel and peeled off her running shoes. ‘Em? Are you here?’
Silence.
She pulled off the elastic band that had carried her hair on her run, and the thick blonde mess of it all tumbled out, half dry, half matted and dark underneath from sweat. She ran her fingers through it and opened the refrigerator as footsteps approached from the small room next to the bed.
‘Hey- I thought I heard some rage and figured that was you, or maybe a highly neurotic burglar.’ She laughed and turned to the familiar lilt of his voice: Emilian was carrying a few books in one hand, and a pencil behind his ear, and he raised his eyebrows comically. ‘Emilian Morris at your service for all your emotional needs. I just came out of my cage. You need me?’
Their studio apartment had come with a strange closet-type space that you couldn’t turn around in, and Emiilan used as a makeshift office to study for his Series 7. Sounds like a group of viral infections, Slava had said when they first met, and he immediately wanted to know more about this girl with the strange name and the humorless voice. She was light, and he was dark, and yet their personalities were the opposite: she had a personality that held things close, almost cold, and he had a voice that was perpetually at the end of a joke. It was the thing that she’d immediately liked about him when they’d met in— of all places— the public library, where his loud voice and tendency to easy laughter was entirely provocative.
He patted her on the small of her back as he moved around her to place his coffee cup in the sink and his books beside it. ‘Breakfast? I can make a mean fried egg and bacon.’
Slava grimaced and closed the refrigerator. ‘Oh god no, don’t even. I don’t feel well.’ She leaned over the sink, turned on the tap, and palmed some water into her mouth.
‘What? You always rave about my poor man breakfast.’
‘I can’t.’ Her stomach lurched and she muffled a burp. ‘Besides, I’m meeting Alex in an hour.’
Emilian feigned anger. ‘Who is this Alex, and do I have to kill him?’
‘You’re such a dummy. Alexandra. She’s only been out to dinner with us about 50 times.’
‘Ahh yes. The one who has a thing for true crime documentaries and good tequila.’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘I like her style.’ Emilian put a bagel in the toaster. ‘I thought you were off today.’
Slava faltered. That’s right, she thought. She’d told him that. ‘Well…’
‘Research?’
Slava took the cue. ‘Yep. She has the latest labs for the Acute Phase Reactants...’
Emilian put up a hand. ‘Whoah. Stop. You had me at ‘labs’. No idea w
hat you’re talking about, oh smart one.’
Slava smiled. ‘Did you know, that the amount of protein— ‘
He leaned over and tried to kiss her. She moved.
‘— means that there can be acute…’
‘You’re cute.’
Slava flushed. ‘Stop it.’ her voice was coy. ‘I’m very important.’
‘Yes. I have a damn smart girlfriend scientist. The best. I’m very proud of that fact.’ He reached around her and locked his arms behind her. ‘Fact is, I can’t follow because all I know is Latin text in giant books that I probably will never understand.’
‘But you look good in a suit.’
‘Well, that’s true.’
She leaned her body towards him and placed her palms on his chest, sinking into his warmth. She saw the things she loved most as his face drew near: the green flecks in the hazel of his eyes, the freckles spattered across the bridge of his nose, and the reddish-brown mop of thick curls that were always gently unruly.
‘And if I ever get arrested, I’m almost positive I’d hire you.’
‘Nice.’ He kissed her and let go, walking back towards the small room. ‘Listen, do me a favor. Don’t try and be a burglar, because you’d be a pretty bad one, judging from your entrance earlier.’
Slava rolled her eyes and took off her hoodie, revealing a sweaty t-shirt underneath. ‘Why would we have a burglar? We live in a place that has one piece of furniture.’ She looked around and pointed to the corner of the room. ‘Oh, and a bed.’
‘Beds are very valuable,’
She took off her socks and then remembered that her mother had called earlier. ‘Argh. Totally forgot.’
‘What now?’
‘Oh, forget it.’
‘Okay okay, I’ll bite. Let it out.’ He leaned back against the counter, careful not to break off the piece of yellow formica that he’d superglued earlier. ‘What’s got you annoyed?’
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