She waited until he did it again. Then she went up to him.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to come…’ She let her invitation hang. He gazed at her hesitantly. She didn’t move. She waited. Waited for perhaps five minutes. Then he nodded.
They walked slowly, silently, in the grounds. Sylvie took an apple from her pocket. Bit into it. Offered it to him. He looked at it and then, after a moment, bit into it ravenously. They didn’t speak, but the next day and the day after that, the walk was repeated. On that day, Sylvie asked him his name. He didn’t answer for a while and then, as they made their way round the little lake, he answered, ‘Ivanov.’ Then, changing the intonation, ‘Ivan’.
‘Ivanov,’ Sylvie repeated. ‘Ivan,’ she said again, sniffing the sound. Something in her leapt and then faded. ‘A nice name,’ she said.
The next day Ivan started to speak to her, haltingly at first, in an English which wasn’t quite English, and in disconnected bursts of speech. He had only been in the States for a few months. A stray little Hungarian boy, sent away from his strife-torn country by his mother, to a new life in America with adoptive parents who didn’t understand him. Who were doing their best, but couldn’t understand him, not only because of the gap of language. And who, at their wits’ end, had sent him here. Sylvie understood. Understood the dreams and images that tormented him, the listless refusal of his shrouded days. He reminded her of little Gabriel, of so many others during the war. She hugged him to her, stayed by his side, let him speak when he wanted to speak, held him when he cried.
One day while they walked, he asked, ‘Do you already have a little boy like me?’ he pressed her hand, all but beseeched her.
His words set up a buzz in Sylvie’s mind. They whizzed and flew and darted into murky corners. She gazed at little Ivan, bent down to kiss him. ‘No, not a little one,’ she shook her head. ‘But I wish I did.’
His words brought back another scene. Her parents’ house but not her parents’ house. After the war. Two women lying in beds, their mouths round with cries. She floated above them then leapt into one of the bodies. Her own. Sylvie in labour. The nurses barking like hyenas, braying like donkeys. Noise. Too much noise. In the bed next to her, a frail girl. What was her name? Hanka. Hanka pale screaming. And a man. Ivan, of course, Ivan Makarov.
After that, the memory faded but lay there, in the back of her mind, refusing to leave her alone.
For three more weeks at the clinic, Sylvie kept Ivan company. She stopped taking the pills. And while she walked or sat with him, she thought, pondered her life, dredged up scenes, remembered. When Ivan went home clutching Sylvie’s address in his hand, Sylvie left too. She was suddenly burning with the fire of a new task.
She had forgotten about the obstacle of her immediate family. When she returned to New York, she bumped against them with a vengeance. She would have told Jacob about her new purpose, but she knew he would see it as another sign of her raving, a sign of some new imbalance, and would try to search for causes, try to talk her out of it. In any case, she hated him, hated him for never making love to her anymore.
And she hated Katherine. Loathed the look of innocent reproach lodged in those cool grey eyes. Loathed her fearfulness. Hated that slim body with its perfect skin which always nestled into Jacob’s embrace. Sometimes her loathing was so great that she even forgot her new determination.
At first she thought she might take Leo into her confidence. The detective agency she had approached had given her no results. All she had to go on was a name, a place of birth, the suggestion of an address. They thought she was mad. Leo, she finally decided, might think the same. In any case, he was just a boy, engrossed in his new university life. He might even take against her and she cared for him.
So Sylvie decided she would enlist the Princesse. Princesse Mat always knew how to go about things. She had friends in high places everywhere, contacts in embassies. Sylvie flew to Switzerland. She didn’t tell Princesse Mat the whole story. In any event, she had begun to like the idea of a secret. A secret always buoyed her up, gave her a sense of adventure. She told Princesse Mathilde that she wanted to find the son of her old friend Andrzej Potacki, yes, yes, the Andrzej who had died with the partisans after the war. The child, she told the Princesse, had been left in the care of a friend of Andrzej’s, a Russian. Yes, it was strange, that he was Russian, but history too was strange. Ivan Makarov was his name. A certain Ivan Makarov. Perhaps he was an officer. Sylvie wanted to find him. Things were so awful in Poland, in the Soviet Union. But now it was all opening up a little. Maybe the child could be located. Sylvie wanted to see him, to give him things, to help.
The Princesse had looked at her curiously. But Sylvie had convinced her, vowed her to secrecy. She knew that the Princesse suspected her of having taken Andrzej as a lover, but that only made it all the more plausible. What did she care what the Princesse thought, as long as she helped her.
And the Princesse had helped. She knew of agencies. She knew the Polish ambassador, the Soviet ambassador.
It took a long time, so long that Sylvie had almost given up, had gone back to the clinic several times.
And then last summer, there had been word. They had traced a son of Ivan Makarov to Milan of all places. He had apparently been adopted by a wealthy industrialist. In a fever of excitement, Sylvie had flown to Milan. She had no idea what she would do, but she needed to see the boy.
She had found the Palazzo easily. But its size, its ostensible wealth had daunted her. Sylvie bided her time. She haunted the gateway of the house, waited for the boy to emerge. And then, one morning, she saw him. A slender youth with dark tousled hair and eyes of a stormy blue. The eyes, she thought, were unmistakable. She wanted to rush up to him. But something held her back. For three days running she returned to the house at the same time. Behind her dark glasses, she constructed for herself the illusion of security.
One day, she called out, and he turned. She fled. She had no idea what to say to him.
She returned to New York. Here everything was worse. Katherine’s very presence seemed to provoke her at every turn. She was the incarnation of everything that had gone amiss in Sylvie’s own life. And the girl now flirted outrageously with Jacob, with Leo. Sylvie’s rancour against her became the measure of her universe. She started to drink again. She took another lover. Nothing helped.
And then Katherine was gone. The relief of it. Sylvie began to think more clearly. What did she want? Things twisted this way and that in her mind. And then she hit upon a scheme.
Again she enlisted the Princesse’s help.
She wanted to write a series of articles, perhaps a book. It would give her something to do. A book about the children of the war, displaced children, children who had not been brought up by their natural parents or in their home countries. Hitler’s orphans. Stalin’s orphans. The Princesse had to help her. Give her introductions. She knew all about those refugees. From the war. Last summer when she had gone in search of Andrzej’s son, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to him. The articles would provide a way. Please.
Sylvie had come the closest she had ever been to begging.
The Princesse’s eyes were sad. She had looked at Sylvie for a long time before speaking. Then she had nodded slowly, and said, ‘Sylvie, you know that you’ve found yourself an elaborate means of coming to terms with your own childhood. Just remember that, my dear. All this is about you. And there may not be any magical answers out there.’
But the Princesse had written letters, smoothed the way, given her a literary pseudonym.
And here Sylvie was, waiting in the cool hush of the Palazzo. She sipped her drink. Sat up straighter. Remembered herself. She was a journalist. She had coached herself in the role, prepared her questions. She pulled out a notepad from her briefcase, opened the tape-recorder she had bought. She prided herself on the last. It was the sign of her new trade. She wound spools, set up her microphone.
She w
as only sorry that the brief formal note which had arrived from the Palazzo granting her an interview of no more than 90 minutes duration had stipulated that photographs would not be permitted.
Sylvie, the actress, rearranged her broadbrimmed hat, crossed one tapering leg over another and smoothed a stocking. She wanted him to think her attractive, to like her. And there he was at last, a tall youth in a light summer shirt which showed her how his shoulders were already visibly broadening. Her breath caught. She stood.
He came towards her with outstretched hand. ‘How do you do, I am Alexei Gismondi.’
‘Laura Stirling,’ Sylvie remembered herself.
There was another man with him, a minder, Sylvie thought, perhaps an English tutor. They made small talk, about Italy, the weather, New York. Alexei’s English was stilted, but adequate. Sylvie, warming to her role, conjured up fantastical pictures of New York days and dangerous nights, brought a laugh to his lips. Then she explained her purpose. She wanted a profile of Alexei, his present life, something of his past.
The boy smiled at her, a smile half whimsical, half serious. Her heart bumped. He was so like his father.
Alexei Gismondi gazed calmly at this woman. So this was a New Yorker, he thought. She must have been very pretty once, so blonde. He had met very few Americans in his life and his image of New York was a product of films and giali, the thrillers, he loved to read. It was a world which howled with car chases and teetered between excitement and extinction. He imagined this woman draped on Humphrey Bogart’s arm and walking into a seedy bar. The picture worked. He panned towards a piano, saw her saunter over to it.
Sylvie called him back, smiled with wide curling lips, asked him to describe his days.
‘They are exceedingly boring,’ Alexei answered honestly. Everything was boring compared to his books and the films he swallowed voraciously. ‘I go to school, come home, do my work, have English lessons. I would be far more interested in hearing you talk some more about New York,’ he looked at her earnestly.
At the age of fourteen, Alexei Gismondi was hardly adept at self-revelation. Since his move to Italy, he had led a cloistered life in the luxurious Palazzo. Up until two years ago, he had been tutored at home. It was his English tutor who had convinced his uncle that films were an excellent way to learn the language. And so his education in Hitchcock and Huston and Wilder had run parallel to his study of English.
Then his uncle had decided that it was time to send him to school. He needed the company of other children. But he had not yet formed any firm friendships. His uncle’s wealth, the chauffeur-driven limousine which brought him to and from school, cut him off as securely as did his own past. Despite the fact that he had drawn a cord between his previous life and the present one. He was not exactly lonely. He lived a great deal in his fantasies and he enjoyed these. He had something of the solitary about him, something of the dreamer, although he had none of the dreamer’s physical clumsiness.
All this Sylvie began to learn as she watched his graceful gestures and questioned him. She provoked him first to talk about his interests, the books he read, the films he watched. Then gradually, imperceptibly, she led him into the trickier terrain of the past.
‘So the Gismondi’s are not your parents?’ she asked casually.
‘Oh no, I thought you knew that. They are my uncle and aunt, on my mother’s side.’
Sylvie flinched despite herself.
‘They have adopted me now, of course, so I bear their name, though Lara, my aunt sadly died two years ago.’
‘And your own mother?’ Sylvie prodded.
Alexei’s eyes grew cloudy. ‘She died when I was born,’ he said softly. ‘She was Polish.’
‘I was born in Poland, too,’ Sylvie offered.
‘Oh yes?’ Alexei didn’t pursue it. ‘I don’t speak Polish. My father took me to the Soviet Union when I was very small. We lived in Leningrad, then in Moscow,’ he said proudly. ‘Then…’ his voice trailed off.
Sylvie recognized the look that came momentarily over Alexei’s face. Fear. The traces of fear. It was gone as soon as it had come and he re-established his public gaze. ‘But that is all over. My uncle and aunt had no children. They adopted me. They have been very good to me.’
What Alexei didn’t tell Sylvie about, what he spoke of to no one, was that last year he had spent with his father.
His memory had grown into a series of fading snapshots. He could flick the pages of the album at will. But around the frames of the pictures everything was dark. Except for that last year, when the blurred skelter of images wouldn’t stay in their frames and played about with a kaleidoscopic frenzy. The emotions of that period still lived within him.
Each section of the album began with a key image. There was Leningrad, his father in his uniform kneeling by his side and explaining to him how quickly the waters of the Neva flowed, flowed into the Gulf of Finland. There was Moscow, the great military parade, the pride of the Soviet Union trooping in front of them and his father pointing to a man, not so far from them, a man with a big moustache and dark eyes. Stalin, his father whispered in pride.
Then came Budapest, the Embassy where people talked in hushed voices. His father was different then. Something was worrying him. He could smell it on him. He would rarely stoop down to explain things to Alexei.
And then, in that last year, came the great journey north. An endless journey in a train towards a landscape which was all snowy vastness. This was where the pictures refused to stay still. The blizzards stirred them, made them leap and flurry, like his father’s anger.
He only saw his father rarely. Basha looked after him in the small village. But each time his father appeared, he looked grimmer. One day he took Alexei along with him. It was cold, so cold in the jeep that it was with difficulty that Alexei kept his eyes open. When he did, he saw rows upon rows of dismal huts; and then a little further, gangs of men walking, walking and falling and still walking. He saw one man hitting another. It frightened him. He wanted to cry, but the tears froze on his face.
His father drove on. There was the forest. And there were men chopping at the trees. Alexei could see their faces. They were terrible. Empty. Like skulls. He closed his eyes. His father shouted at him over the noise of the engine. ‘I want you to see Alexei. I want you to see.’
When they got back to Basha and the small house, his father embraced him. ‘I want you to remember today, Alexei. You may not understand now, but I want you to remember. It is why I am sending you away.’
It was then that Alexei began to cry. They stood huddled beside the small stove and his father waited for his tears to subside. ‘This is a great country, Alexei. Never forget that.’ His father lowered his voice. ‘But the revolution has strayed. Soon, perhaps, it will come right. Justice is on its side. But for the moment, it is better that you are further away. Your permit has come. You shall visit your aunt and uncle. It is what your mother would have wished.’
Alexei knew that when his mother’s name was invoked, there was no arguing. He nuzzled against his father. ‘And when shall I see you, Papa?’ His father held him closer, but didn’t reply.
Two days later, a Comrade Tulayev came to fetch him. From above her vast chest, she looked at him disapprovingly. He knew instinctively that tears would not be in order, might even prove treacherous.
He never saw his father again.
At the Finnish border, a sturdy man with a dark face and a broad smile waited for him. He had a thick coat with a fur collar, bright white teeth. ‘I am your uncle Giangiacomo,’ he said to him. They were the only words Alexei understood until he reached Milan.
‘How old were you when you arrived in Italy?’ The American journalist broke into his thoughts.
‘I had just turned seven,’ Alexei responded calmly. ‘You can see why I remember so little,’ he smiled, glanced at his watch.
What he remembered clearly was his arrival in this house, his sense of confusion, his awe at its size and grandeur. Why was he
being taken to a government building? Then, his aunt, her long cool fingers tracing his features, stroking his hair. She smelled strange, like no one he had ever met. But she could speak a little Russian. She told him this was home. She was kind.
Later he recognized that smell. It was the odour of churches, the sharp lingering sweetness of incense. Lara took him to the cathedral. He had never been to a church before. It was cold, cavernous, darkly littered with pillars. She knelt before a statue of a woman with a pure face, not unlike her own. She crossed herself, looked upwards with pleading eyes, then shut them fast. He had no idea what she was doing.
He learnt soon enough. Lara went to church everyday. She introduced him to priests, told him stories of saints which frightened him. Had him confirmed. She also told him that it was prayer that had brought him to her. After she died the renegade thought came into his mind that perhaps it was a surfeit of prayer in those chill damp churches that had killed her. With her gone, he never went back to church.
He didn’t know why these thoughts had come back into his mind now. Perhaps it was the contrast between this leggy blonde journalist who claimed she was Polish and his aunt, so pale, so retiring.
Alexei rose.
‘Oh, is my time up already?’ Sylvie looked at him in dismay. ‘Why we hardly seem to have begun. Perhaps, perhaps you could take a few moments to show me the house, your room, where you work?’ She looked at Alexei with a plea.
The youth nodded graciously, ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said despite his minder’s disapproving glance.
The man took her aside for a moment. ‘You understand, Miss Stirling, anything you see in this house, anything Alexei may wish to show you, cannot find its way into your article,’ he said in a low voice which carried a note of threat.
Sylvie looked at him in some perplexity. ‘I know, I know you come on the highest recommendation. Otherwise Signor Gismondi would not have granted you this rare opportunity. But we do not allow journalists into this house normally. Signor Gismondi insists on the strictest privacy.’
Memory and Desire Page 39