Mr Romanov's Garden in the Sky

by Robert Newton

  ‘Mister, please.’

  When he turned his head, the sudden movement threw him off balance. I darted forward ready to grab him but somehow he managed to right himself again.

  ‘Please come down,’ I said. ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘Go away, little girl.’

  The commission was filled with people from all over the world but the Creeper’s accent was hard to place.

  ‘I’m not going,’ I said. ‘Not until you come down.’

  He looked at me again, so I placed my hands on my hips like I meant business. For some reason he seemed to find that funny.

  ‘Is cowgirl, yes?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your hat, is cowgirl, yes?’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I am drunk . . . like mister skunk.’

  Apparently that was funny as well. After a burst of drunken laughter, he bent his knees a little and reached a hand down for the empty bottle on the ledge beside him. As his fingers tried to find it, he lost his balance again. His feet slipped on the ledge, and when he waved his arms and rocked back, I reached up, grabbed the tail of his coat then pulled him back with all my strength. Unfortunately it didn’t go like I’d planned. He fell backwards, landed on top of me with a thud and knocked the wind straight out of me. It took a while before I could breathe properly again and after pushing him off, I hauled myself up and got slowly to my feet.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  It seemed like a stupid question after what had just happened. I mean, someone who was thinking about throwing himself off a tall building was far from okay but right then talking seemed to be my only option.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked.

  The Creeper didn’t seem to be hurt. He rolled onto his back then stretched his arms out to the side and made a ‘t’ shape on the wet concrete. He looked different from yesterday. Up close, his face seemed kind of wooden. His forehead was rippled with lines, deep grooves that looked as if they’d been crafted with a sharp tool. His beard too was longer than I remembered. It was scraggy and grey with a tinge of ginger around his mouth.

  ‘You need to sit up,’ I said. ‘You need to get out of the water. I’ll help you.’

  After shifting around behind him, I got my hands under his arms and managed to prop him up against the ledge wall. He didn’t seem capable of standing, not yet, so I lowered myself down and sat beside him. With my mind on the task at hand I hadn’t noticed the quiet, but now that the urgency had gone and the Creeper was safe beside me, I became aware of an eerie hush, a strange and ghostly silence. It was as if the world below didn’t exist. Right then it was just the two of us, me and him, and we were the only ones alive.

  ‘I’m sorry about your dog, mister,’ I said.

  The Creeper seemed confused. He turned his head and looked at me as if he wasn’t sure why I was there.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Lexie, Lexie Quinn.’

  I waited for him to say something but nothing came.

  ‘Your accent,’ I continued. ‘It’s German, is it?’

  The Creeper raised a hand up and ran his fingers through his grey, mad-scientist hair.

  ‘There was a German lady at our old commission place,’ I said. ‘Mrs Krautz, her name was. Everyone called her Fraulein.’

  ‘I am not German, cowgirl.’

  The rich drawl in the Creeper’s voice sounded sticky and sweet, like honey.

  ‘So where are you from, then?’ I asked.

  ‘I am Russian,’ he said. ‘From Moscow.’

  I tried to remember the camping trips with my father when he would talk about the exotic places and far-flung destinations we could go to if Surfers Paradise ever got flattened by an earthquake.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been to Moscow before,’ I said. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Is cold.’

  ‘Colder than here?’

  ‘Here?’

  The Creeper lifted his head and gazed up at the dirty grey sky above us.

  ‘Here is like heatwave, cowgirl.’

  I looked down for a moment, at my right foot and began to pick at the rubber capping on the toe of my battered Converse.

  ‘I hate it here,’ I said. ‘I’m going to leave one day.’

  He turned his head again and I felt his eyes on the side of my face.

  ‘And where will you go, cowgirl?’

  ‘Surfers Paradise.’

  ‘Surfers Paradise? I have not heard.’

  ‘It’s a place up north that’s sunny every day. That’s why they call it paradise. You can ride a moped around in a bikini if you want. You have to wear a helmet, though.’

  The Creeper looked exhausted. Even the simple act of talking seemed to be an effort. As I sat there beside him, he rested the back of his head against the bricks and when he shut his eyes, the lines on his forehead seemed to disappear. He was someone else now. I saw stories in his face, sad and painful things I had no right to know. I fought like hell not to ask him but the words lined up in my throat and spilled from my mouth.

  ‘Were you really going to do it?’ I asked.

  The Creeper opened his eyes and slowly turned his head.

  ‘Jump,’ I said. ‘If I hadn’t found you, do you think you would have done it?’

  ‘I am old, cowgirl. Old and tired.’

  ‘So why don’t you go to bed, then? I always reckon things get better after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Just better.’

  The Creeper craned his head to the ledge behind us. He raised his index finger then brought it down slowly to a high-pitched whistling noise that ended in an explosion.

  ‘If you had not come, I would be sleeping now,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not sleeping,’ I said. ‘That’s dying.’

  ‘And who would care, cowgirl?’

  ‘Well, me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, I would. You seem . . . nice.’

  Nice sounded kind of lame but the Creeper seemed to like it.

  ‘But you do look terrible,’ I said. ‘And it’s getting cold. How about I help you get back to your apartment? Can you walk?’

  The Creeper shifted a little beside me and managed a tiny smile.

  ‘Not as good as you talk, cowgirl.’

  ‘Yeah. I kinda do talk a lot. Only with people I like, though. I just ramble sometimes without thinking. Still, it’s better than not saying anything. Don’t you reckon?’

  The Creeper didn’t answer so I got to work trying to help him up. After a lengthy struggle, I managed to get him onto his feet. He was in no fit state to walk on his own so as we started across the rooftop, he wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I took his weight.

  ‘You haven’t told me your name, yet,’ I said.

  He began to veer left so I grabbed at his coat with my right hand and straightened him up.

  ‘I think maybe you know my name,’ he said.

  ‘Not that name. Your real one, I mean.’

  ‘Is Sergei,’ he said. ‘Sergei Romanov.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr Romanov.’

  As I’d expected, the walk across the rooftop took forever. When we finally got to the door at the other end, I had to stop for a bit and lean Mr Romanov against one of the buildings while I caught my breath. As I breathed in the crisp clean air, I had a think about how best to tackle the metal steps.

  ‘Now, these stairs, Mr Romanov . . . Do you think you can manage?’

  ‘Yes. I can manage.’

  ‘You sure? I don’t want you falling down them.’

  ‘I can manage, cowgirl. I am old but my legs are strong.’

  ‘That might be true but it’s that empty bottle back on the ledge I’m worried about. Put your left arm around me and use your right hand to grab the rail. I think we might just fit.’

  We took our time going down the stairs and after a couple of close calls we managed to arrive
at the bottom without incident. My plastic bag was still where I’d left it so I picked it up and threaded my hand through the carry holes at the top. After a short ride in the elevator we arrived at the twenty-second floor. When the doors opened I froze for a moment and ran my eyes down the corridor, down the trail of dried blood dotted along the floor. I hooked an arm around Mr Romanov and the two of us shuffled out and headed for 22C.

  The twenty-second floor smelt different to the sixteenth floor. It was the same colour grey of course, but it was musty and damp and had none of the cooking smells I was used to. An electric guitar began to wail as we walked past 22D then a few metres on I looked ahead and spotted something black on the front of Mr Romanov’s apartment door. I couldn’t make it out at first but as we got closer I saw that someone had sprayed the words WOOF WOOF across its wooden face. Gordo. I imagined him here, his smug smile and his putrid breath, standing in this very place, beside the pool of dried blood at Mr Romanov’s door. I felt my teeth grind and my hands ball into fists. I couldn’t bear to stand there looking at what he’d done a moment longer than I had to, so when Mr Romanov handed me his keys I opened the door and steered him inside.

  The place was a mess. There were dirty dishes piled high in the sink, empty food tins and wrappers strewn across the kitchen bench.

  ‘This is nice,’ I said. ‘The cleaning lady on holidays is she?’

  Mr Romanov was struggling to stay awake. I could feel him heavy on my shoulders as we stepped through the maze of rubbish on the living room floor. After almost tripping on a stack of DVDs, I made a beeline for a battered old armchair. When we got there, I managed to turn him side on. I bent my legs a little and when I let him go, he fell into the chair and its dodgy frame shuddered under his weight. The impact woke him up and he looked around as if he was trying to work out where he was. He saw me standing beside him and something seemed to click.

  ‘Ah, cowgirl. You are here.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Romanov, I am here. And you need a bath.’

  ‘I need vodka.’

  ‘No more vodka, Mr Romanov. I’m serious. You have to wash. You’re on the nose. Big time.’

  ‘I will wash, cowgirl, do not fear.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ He raised a hand up and began drawing on his chest with a finger. ‘You see, I am crossing my heart and hoping to die.’

  ‘Good. And this place . . . God, it’s a pigsty.’

  ‘You don’t like my place?’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t like. How can you live like this?’

  Mr Romanov was trying his best to stay awake but he was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘I’m going to go now,’ I said. ‘But I’ll come back, maybe tonight, and I’ll help you clean it up.’

  ‘I am okay, cowgirl.’

  ‘You’re not okay. You need to have a bath. A really long bath. Have you got any soap?’

  ‘I have soap, cowgirl.’

  ‘Good. So I’ll see you later, then, all right?’

  Mr Romanov had nothing left. All he could do was bob his head and blink his eyes as a signal he understood. As I went to leave, I spotted a scrunched-up blanket on the floor beside the chair so I picked it up and lay it across his lap. I placed my hand on his forearm and after giving it a gentle squeeze, I noticed that the buttons on his shirt were all wrong. His top button pulled the collar tight around his neck but the next one down had skipped a hole and had thrown everything out of whack. I squeezed his arm again one last time then straightened up and made my way back through the piles of junk on the living room floor.

  I imagined Mr Romanov dressing, cooking, doing all the normal things people do and I wondered how many of those things he got wrong. When I got to the door I stopped for a moment and turned around. I looked back and saw him sitting alone in his chair, all crooked and sad.

  ‘Mr Romanov.’

  Like a bedside alarm, my voice jolted him awake and he opened his eyes.

  ‘I’m really glad you didn’t jump,’ I said.

  My mother was still asleep when I got home. I was too hungry to wait for her to wake up so I made my scrambled eggs, ate them on the couch and replayed everything that had happened in my head.

  I was right about Mr Romanov. He was nothing like the monster people had made him out to be, and now that I knew a little about him I wondered how the residents in the commission had got him so wrong. It’s true he didn’t actually help matters himself. I mean, creeping around the place at night wasn’t exactly normal but it seemed to me that no one had actually bothered to get to know him. Maybe I wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen him on the ledge. But one thing was clear. He needed help.

  I thought about that as I ate my eggs. I thought about the rooftop and the strange rectangle of wooden sleepers. I was beginning to run through the possibilities in my head when a drumming sound on the door interrupted my thoughts. I turned to the noise and sat there as quietly as I could. A few seconds later the drumming sound came again, only this time it was followed by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Mrs Quinn, are you there? It’s Brenda, Mrs Quinn. Brenda Dunleavy from Human Services. We have an appointment, Mrs Quinn. I know you’re in there. Please open the door.’

  I didn’t know what to do. I knew for a fact that my mother had failed to show for Brenda’s previous two appointments. I’d seen a letter on the kitchen bench saying just that. My mother would kill me if I opened the door, but if she missed another appointment we’d be in serious trouble. Brenda would have no choice but to file a report, and who knows what would happen then.

  ‘What about you, Lexie? Are you in there? It’s Brenda, Lexie. If you’re in there, you need to open the door.’

  I had no choice. I shot up off the couch and called out.

  ‘Just a minute, Brenda. Mum’s in the shower.’

  Time was against me. It wasn’t going to be easy getting my mother up so I bolted to my bedroom and opened the door.

  ‘Mum.’

  She didn’t move so I raced to the bed and began tugging at her arm.

  ‘Mum, you need to get up.’

  My mother was still dressed in her clothes from the night before. She rolled over but refused to open her eyes.

  ‘Go away, Lexie,’ she groaned.

  ‘Wake up, Mum. Humorous Services are here.’

  She shifted under the blankets and raised a hand up to shield the light from her eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘I mean, Humorous Services are here.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now. It’s Brenda. You made an appointment.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘You have to get up, Mum.’

  ‘I can’t, Lexie. Tell her to go away.’

  Clearly, the situation called for drastic measures so I grabbed my plastic water bottle from the bedside table and lifted the lid. When I tipped the contents over my mother’s face, she jolted upright and spat some water from her mouth.

  ‘Jesus, Lexie. What the . . .?’

  The water had been a mistake. While it had done its job of waking her up, it had made her make-up run and now she looked like a witch. We didn’t have time to touch her up so I grabbed a shirt from the floor and wiped it off as best I could. I pulled the blankets down and heard Brenda knock loudly on the door.

  ‘Lexie, what’s going on? I really need to . . .’

  ‘Coming Brenda. We’ll be out in a minute.’

  But we weren’t done yet. I dragged my mother off the bed and stood her up.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ I said. ‘You can’t go out like that. You can wear my dressing gown.’

  A few minutes later, after helping her undress, my mother slipped the dressing gown on and tied the belt around her waist. To make it look as if she’d been in the shower, I found a towel and wrapped it turban-style around her head.

  ‘You good?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep.’

  ‘Well you c
an’t. You’ve just stepped out of the shower and Brenda’s waiting outside. God, just try and act normal for once in your life. Normal, all right, like a . . .’

  It was as if I’d waved a magic wand. Something sparked her awake and she straightened up and looked my way.

  ‘Like a what?’ she asked.

  ‘Like a mother,’ I said.

  After making our way out into the living room, my mother went and stood behind the island bench, trying her best to look fresh. I walked over to the door and when I opened it, Brenda was standing there with a clipboard tucked under her arm. The nose ring was new.

  ‘Hello, Lexie,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Brenda.’

  She didn’t seem happy to have been kept waiting. She slipped past me, uninvited, and spotted my mother to her right.

  ‘Hello, Sal,’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Good as gold, Brenda. Sorry about the wait.’

  Brenda looked at my mother suspiciously and made her way over. I followed after her and joined them at the kitchen bench.

  ‘Mum’s made some eggs,’ I said. ‘For my . . .’

  ‘Your birthday,’ said Brenda.

  She off-loaded the clipboard onto the bench and tapped it with a finger.

  ‘Not much I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday, Lexie.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I glanced at my mother and saw her squirm.

  ‘Mum does a breakfast every year,’ I said. ‘It’s kind of like a tradition, isn’t it, Mum? Sometimes we have pancakes but this year we just felt like scrambled eggs. We’re going to a movie later.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Brenda.

  Brenda managed a smile but it was clear she was keen to move on. She opened the clipboard and ran her finger down her notes.

  ‘So how are things, Sal?’ she asked. ‘Any luck on the work front?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Brenda,’ said my mother.

  ‘What about that cleaning job I sent through? Sounded perfect. School hours, not bad money, if I remember.’

  My mother dropped her eyes and began to pick at the egg carton on the bench in front of her.

  ‘Please tell me you went to the interview at least, Sal?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘That’s eight jobs now. If you don’t go to interviews, they’ll stop your allowance.’