by Gaby Koppel
“Come on, Mutti, if you really want to get home, I could drop you off at Paddington tomorrow morning on my way to work. How about it?” She’s smiles a bit too broadly. “Do you want me to help with the packing?” She fiddles with a bit of the foil from her cigarette packet, flattening it out on the table.
“I can’t go.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you feeling up to it?”
“Nowhere to go to.”
“Don’t worry about the house, it’ll be fine when you get there. Might be a bit dusty, but you can spend tomorrow straightening it out.”
“I’ve let it out.”
“You’ve done what?”
“How do you think I got the money for Budapest? I’ve let out the house for six months.”
“So where are you going to live?”
She looks at me.
“Here? This is the only place you’ve got to live? For the next six months?” She nods. Of course. The outsized suitcase, with its ample array of sartorial options. Not even my mother takes such a comprehensive wardrobe for a weekend.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wasn’t the right moment.”
It turns out Mutti’s let out her house to a friend of a friend. The rent will allow her to live comfortably for the next six months. In practical terms, I have to congratulate her. In emotional terms, it’s a complete disaster. My adolescent nightmare has returned.
I haven’t got the heart to tell her off. In her place I’d do the same. I leave her getting ready for bed and head for Dave’s place. There’s no reply so I let myself in.
I look around the empty loft. Camera bags are stowed to one side. The sleeping space is neat, candy-striped duvet cover fluffed up and spread across the bed, the four pillows leaning, in symmetrical piles next to the headboard. But where is he? And why hasn’t he been answering the phone?
The answering machine is flashing red. I hesitate for the merest fraction of a second before pressing play.
“Hi Darling.” It’s me calling from the airport. “Are you there?” I delete it, not wanting to hear my voice prattling on in the echoing studio. Beep.
“Hi Dave,” a woman’s voice. “It’s Naomi here.” I don’t know a Naomi. Neither does Dave. As far as I know. “Is six o’clock any good for you?” For what? I play the message again. On his desk there’s also a note on a filing card. “Naomi” and a phone number. Probably the picture editor of that women’s magazine who was going to give him some work. Hold on a sec, wasn’t she called Zizi? The phone rings but I don’t answer. The answering machine clicks into action,. I stand there, feeling like an eavesdropper. But whoever it is doesn’t leave a message.
Any moment, I tell myself, he’ll be back. I wait and wait, wandering round the dark, echoing warehouse, staring into the gloom. A police siren wails in the distance, getting louder as it passes the window. As it recedes away, there are footsteps on the stairs, but like the siren they go past and disappear into the night. By the time I decide to quit my vigil, the late summer sun is dropping behind the scruffy Dalston skyline. I get back in the car and go back home, creeping up the stairs and trying to open and lock the door without too much noise.
It’s ten-thirty and Mutti’s snoring is loud enough to be heard from the door of the flat. I can’t imagine where her head’s at after the encounter with Kovács. Oddly enough, I’m not tired, so I start pottering around in an aimless way. The horrible nausea that has stayed with me since Hungary is welling up in my throat. Throwing myself down on the sofa, I find my face is wet, though I didn’t realise I’d been crying. My face is burning, my eyes swollen. I bury my head into the cushions and blub as quietly as I can. I don’t know how long I’m there on the sofa, but it’s pitch dark outside when I get up. Tea tastes metallic and foul, and I end up eating three stale digestive biscuits. While they are in my mouth, the nausea abates, but soon after I’ve swallowed, it comes back, worse. The musty taste lingers. I look out at the grey traffic backed up on Camden Road, under a lugubrious sheet of cloud that skims the rooftops.
The pregnancy. My pregnancy. I think the words and they sound strange. I haven’t even stopped to think about it until now. The fact is that I don’t know who the fucking father is. How could I be so stupid, so feckless, like some silly teenager? I’ve got myself into a god awful mess like a character from a soap opera. Meanwhile, my mother is asleep in the spare room, an unwelcome semi-permanent guest. It feels as though I’m stuck. Still umbilically tied to her. Story of my life.
My child is now just a microscopic bunch of multiplying cells. What will she think of me in eighteen years’ time? I run my hand over my abdomen. It’s usually tight and toned. If I ever find a suggestion of bulge I do another hundred sit-ups. But now it feels tender, and there’s a hint of a curve. She’s under there, my child. And if she judges me as harshly as I judge my own mother, then she’ll leave home as soon as she’s old enough and never want to speak to me again. At least Mutti has an excuse. What have I got? Raised by middle class (though dotty) parents in apparent financial security, with no greater threat to my existence or theirs than an attack of the measles. Yet I’ve still managed to mess things up.
I’ve spent years seething about Mutti’s madness. Decades. How self-indulgent that now seems. OK, maybe it’s true she hasn’t been the perfect mother. She cooks and cleans as though it’ll be her salvation, but the drink made her impossible. Well, maybe it’s not just the drink.
Isn’t it about time I forgave her for being a crap mother, now that I’m about to become a crap mother myself? I barely even know who the father is, and you can’t have a worse start than that. I was arrogant enough to stand in judgement in her, just because I was the one picking up the pieces and carrying her handbag. Maybe it’s she who should be forgiving me. For disloyalty. For being patronising and superior when I had no right. It’s hot and sticky in here.
And then, as I unlock the French windows, I notice a lithe figure in jeans, walking downhill towards the flat. I go out and meet Dave on the stairs.
“Your eyes are red,” he says.
“Jet lag.”
“It’s only a two-hour time difference. You can’t get jet lag.”
“I mean I’m just tired. You would be too, if you’d spent forty-eight hours being dragged round Budapest by my mad mother. Listening to her ranting on about the servant problem.”
He empties a bag of food out in the kitchen and puts on some whispering jazz track which won’t wake Mutti. I’m not allowed to get up or help, while Dave tidies up and makes a late supper. He warms up the soup Mutti has left on the stove while we talk in undertones about Michael and the fascist demo, and about Kovács. We creep around like parents with a sleeping child in the next room.
While he’s taking out the rubbish, I take a sly look at his phone and see he’s made three calls to Naomi in the past two days. I manage to chuck it back onto the coffee table just in time when I hear his footsteps coming back through the hallway.
“They sound like a couple of cool guys,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans as he comes back into the flat.
“Who?”
“Those guys Schmulli and Aaron.”
“Oh yeah, they are,” I say.
“I’d like to meet them.”
“Really?” After we’ve eaten the soup with the cheeses, fresh crusty bread and creamy French butter, my exhaustion returns.
“I’m going to turn in,” I say to Dave, who is clearing up. “I’ll be fast asleep by the time you come to bed.”
“Well, I may go home, actually.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to upset your mother by putting in a surprise appearance at breakfast. Anyway, you’ll sleep better without me. ”
“No I won’t. I missed you. I want to know you’re there even when I’m dreaming. And we can have breakfast together tomorrow.”
“I know,” he kisses me on the back of the neck. “Breakfast for three. Very romantic. But I’ve got stuff to do to
morrow, and I imagine you’ll be heading for the office at the crack of dawn.”
“What stuff have you got to do?”
“Just stuff.”
I wake up early with my mother’s voice jangling in my ears. I can see her again, face to face with the fascist thugs on the Budapest street, and there she is, sitting in the ridiculous horse-drawn carriage looking radiant and smug. There’s something in this whole thing that’s not right. It’s like a crossword clue I should know the answer to but clangs around in my head. Where’s that red velvet photograph album? I find the ballet girl shots, and study her face, watching her grow as I turn the heavy pages. Silk dresses, and sleek plaits.
“Liar, liar, liar.” What did she mean ?
I’m looking for a shot of Kovács in his chauffeur’s uniform. I can’t be imagining it. I’m sure I have seen that before but there’s nothing here. Instead, I find myself looking at an image of a young Mutti playing with a dog inside the apartment. It’s all carefree innocence. She’s so painfully beautiful, with shiny auburn hair tumbling down her back. And that’s when I spot it.
I go into the spare room, where she’s still asleep, and shake her by the shoulder.
“Mutti, wake up. I’ve just noticed something a bit odd.”
“What is it?” She turns over and rubs her eyes. “What’s the time?”
“Never mind the time. In the photograph album there’s a shot inside your family apartment in Budapest.”
“Ja. Mmm, lots.”
“Yes, but on this one you can see some paintings on the walls.”
“Ach darling, we had so many.” She’s sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Have you made some coffee?”
Chapter 27
I’m on the way to work when Dave calls.
“Will you come round to dinner at my place tomorrow?”
“Are you sure you want me to? You didn’t exactly hang around last night. I started wondering whether I had BO.”
“I had stuff to do.”
“So you said.”
“Don’t come over all spiky with me.”
“Well, I’ve been away, even if it was just a couple of nights. You come over, cook dinner then disappear. What’s going on?”
“I was preoccupied. Tomorrow, I want to cook you a lovely meal, and talk.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I can open a can of beans and watch TV with Mutti if it’s too much trouble. She seems to have taken up permanent residence, so no worries about me getting lonely.”
“Don’t be stupid. Be there at seven-thirty.”
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
“No, nothing. But you could wear a dress if you like.”
“A dress? Is anybody else going to be there?”
“No, just you and me.”
“Is it something sexual?”
“No.”
“Any kind of dress? I mean, should it be a ballgown? Or will my usual cocktail dress do?”
“Just be there.”
After work, instead of going straight home to change, I detour via Stoke Newington nick. DI Jenkins meets me at reception and takes me up to the station canteen for a cup of tea.
He understands that this is personal, and that not a word must get back to my office. He’s friendly but guarded. I explain the business about the factory in Budapest and the family history as briefly as I can, and how the trail has now moved to West Hampstead. I then explain my new suspicions about Kovács. He says it might be possible to get an opinion from the specialist art squad. It all sounds like a bit of a long shot.
As I’m getting up to leave, he says, “By the way it appears that Mr Nachmann Cohen has left the country.”
“Oh sh— dear. Where to?”
“Flight to Tel Aviv, in the first instance. After that, who knows?”
“Does that mean you can’t get him back?”
“Not if we don’t know where he is. But all that’s pretty immaterial unless we get some more solid evidence against him.”
Later that evening I go round to Dave’s, as promised, leaving Mutti happily watching some kind of cop show on TV. The air in the road outside his place feels like a ripe fig, ready to burst. The heat of the pavement percolates through my thin sandals. As I enter the stairwell, I’m hit by a wall of cool air. Then, further up it melds with notes of roasting meat twisted together on the breeze with saxophone riffs. The sounds and smells intensify across the canvasses and mannequins, and past the space heaters that fill the loft. On the dining table is a fresh, white cloth, and in the middle a lovely old painted jug overflowing with the bulbous heads of pink and red ranunculus. A pair of silver candlesticks complete the tableaux. It’s an oasis of order amid the arty assemblage of junkyard trophies. Dave’s wearing a blue and white-striped chef’s apron, as he labours over the antique gas stove.
“This looks romantic,” I say. “What’s changed?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Don’t be so mysterious. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Be patient. Good dress.”
“I try my best.”
“Sit down and relax. There’s a packet of posh crisps in the basket.”
“Are you sure you don’t want any help?”
“Sit down and do what you’re told.”
“Shall I light the candles?”
“Don’t you dare.”
I flop into an armchair, and check my phone. There’s a voicemail from DI Jenkins. He’s been in touch with the art squad. They’ll call us next week. I switch it off, and wander over to the studio space. On the desk are a pile of fine photographic prints. The portraits of Hasids from Stamford Hill. I leaf through them. They are formal, seated or standing – fur hats, black dressing-gown style coats, lapels gleaming. Full length ones showing guys wearing tall black leather cavalry boots, and others with white stockings and knickerbockers. The full range of perplexing and mesmerising variations of Hasidic dress. They all look into the lens, direct and frank, individuals and pairs, men, women and children. One family spreads up the stairs, children of ascending ages grouped around the parents. Enough pictures here to make a good show, almost enough for a book.
“I get the long lens stuff, fair enough, you don’t have to ask for permission,” I say. “But how did you persuade people like Stern to let you – to let you take photos and all that? Isn’t it against everything they stand for? It’s taken a massive diplomatic broadside for me to get into the community. How come you just walk in and they are ready to pose for you?”
“Who says I just walked in? I spent a lot of time talking to people about what I wanted. And it’s all about context, Elizabeth. I think you can overdo the secrecy thing about this community. I’m not asking them to go on network television to talk about some kind of horrible and highly sensitive murder. No fingers are going to be pointed. I asked respectfully about portraits, talked to them about showing the pictures mentioned a gallery, maybe – don’t get your hopes up – a book one day. All quite low key. And of course not everybody wants to be photographed, but that would be the same anywhere. As it happens, there seem to be enough who actually wanted me to show their community at its best. They love it.”
A sweet, yeasty smell infuses the warm air, as daylight begins to fade. I put the photos back, and return to the dining table. Dave brings over a heavy breadboard with two large loaves on it. The baking smell is intense. The music has stopped.
“Two whole loaves for the two of us seems a lot. Gosh they’re plaited. Like chollah. Nice touch, where did you get them?”
“Grodzinski’s in Stamford Hill.”
“The real McCoy then? Can I have a bit, I’m starving.” I pick up the bread knife.
“Not so fast, there. Hang on.”
“What’s the problem? We’re not going to run out, are we?” Dave puts down an ornate salt cellar. “Is there some butter?”
“No butter. Behave yourself.”
“C’mon Dave, be a mensch.”
“That’s exactly what I am t
rying to be.” He brings over a bottle of wine.
“Have you got some glasses?” I twist round the bottle to see what it is. The label is familiar. Palwin No. Ten. Hold on a second.
“Kosher kiddush wine? Are you mad? You know this stuff tastes like cough mixture? It’s not designed for pleasure. It’s not the Jewish equivalent to Rioja, you know.” If he’s trying to latch on to some tasteful ethnic buzz, he’s got it wrong here. But Dave’s gone through the gap in the furniture, to the kitchen. Opening a dresser door, he takes out a goblet. Just the one. He brings it back to the dining table, and sets it down. It looks newly-polished, its solid silver and engraved Hebrew letters gleam in the fading light.
“Why have you got this stuff?”
“It’s Friday night,” he says.
“You aren’t answering the question. What’s the kiddush wine for?
“Now let me think,” he says. “What’s kiddush wine usually used for?”
“Who’s making kiddush?”
“I am.”
“But you can’t. You’re not even Jewish.” He takes a kippah out of his pocket, and puts it on his head, with a defiant flourish. “Not yet Jewish.”