by Carol Birch
“I want Yatzi,” she said. “Will you go and get Yatzi for me?”
Oh God, this’ll kill me. “Yatzi!” he said indulgently. “Oh Julia, you are so funny. You and your old stick of wood.” He leapt up, glad to get out of this awful sick room and back out in the cold. “Of course I’ll get him.”
He’d walk. It would be good for him. As he walked, he sang under his breath to stop himself from thinking. No point in thinking while the wheel was still spinning. They were good doctors, they’d pull her through. A letter on the rug. He ripped it open. Nothing good for sure. The name. Sokolov. He read: “…hope you will give it careful consideration…a very fair remuneration for your valued co-operation.” Oh, hell, it never lived. Just dead matter. “…when she feels well enough…many would dearly love to see her…so much concern…a privilege…to see her…for which many will pay…”
He ventured into the bedroom, avoiding looking at the cradle. There it was under her pillow. This old Yatzi thing. She hadn’t given it a thought since the baby started, and now look—back in favor.
“There, my dear,” he said to it, “you’re wanted again.”
He was back at the hospital within the hour and gave her that old lump of wood. She fell asleep immediately, holding on to it.
Some time in the very early morning, she woke and lay for a while remembering where she was and why she was alone. She didn’t feel sick anymore. She wasn’t shivering. It was warm in bed and a curious sensation crept over her, as if she were back in the mountains. She’d never been away. Mamá was there, and Yatzi. They were happy. Mamá made Yatzi out of wood. She put something in him, something invisible that came from the mountains with us when we came down. “That thing’s filthy,” Solana said. “At least let me give that bit of old cloth a good wash.” Todos me dicen el negro…“Little girl,” said John Montanee, “you still a little girl.” How old? Dancing. The snake dancing. She was in her bed in the Sanchez house. Sunlight on the wall. Don Pedro came in. “Look,” she said. “My baby.”
“She’s better,” Theo said to Trettenbacher.
“No,” the doctor said quietly but firmly, “I’m afraid that’s not true.”
“She seems a lot better.”
“It’s the nature of the illness. This is puerperal fever. It follows a pattern.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Nothing’s ever sure,” said Trettenbacher.
“Would now be a good time?”
“There’s never a good time.”
“Perhaps it would cheer her up to see people.”
“She may well relapse before night. If she is to have visitors, best it were soon,” Trettenbacher said shortly and walked away.
Theo sat down at the bedside and leaned over. “Julia,” he said softly, “Julia,” whispering, “my dear, there are some people who would very much like to see you.”
She lay on her side. Her eyes were open but vague and gummy. Her breathing was steady but slow, and a hot, sickly smell rose from the sheets. She said something in Spanish.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
More Spanish. Her voice had deepened.
“So many are praying for you, love,” he said. “Some friends who want to wish you well and a speedy recovery.”
All waiting on benches.
“As they always did, my love,” he said, “like old times.”
She smiled. “Has Cato come?”
“He’s on his way.”
What harm?
“Would you like to sit up a little?”
He settled her against the pillows, spread her hair out across her shoulders.
“There,” he said. “I’ll just bring them in.”
And oh God, but they’ll pay.
Sokolov had come from the museum. He sat first by the door. A line of faces looked expectantly, solemnly, toward Theo. Sokolov stood up. Theo leaned close and spoke rapidly into his ear. “I don’t see a problem with your plans for the child,” he said. “As long as his mother doesn’t find out.”
Sokolov smiled, almost boyish in his unconcealed delight. “I think that’s the wise decision,” he said. “I’m very grateful. We shall talk soon.”
Theo glanced along the row. A couple of learned doctors. Some dandy young buck. His girl. Couple of ladies. Old man in black fur. All rich.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
She saw faces looking at her.
“Theo.” He could scarcely hear her.
“Yes, Julia.”
Her mouth was dry. “Give me a drink.”
He held the glass to her lips, and she wet them and spoke.
“Do they want me to sing?”
“No, no, you don’t have to do anything.”
“Don’t cry,” she said.
“I’m not. Don’t worry about anything, Julia, it’s all going to be fine. It’s just some friends come to say hello.”
“Has Cato come?”
“Soon.”
The faces blurred in front of her eyes. She didn’t recognize any. Voices murmured. Someone wanted to shake her hand. A face, close up. Faces. It was hot. Too hot in here, she wanted to say, but couldn’t remember how to say it. Her hands were touched. The faces melted into one another and the mess made her feel sick. It swirled about then re-formed into a mass of spiteful child faces.
“Take them away,” she said.
She turned to look at Theo but all she saw was the fig tree dropping its fruits onto the stones on the patio and Federico the iguana stretched along the lower branch. His eye swiveled and fixed on her. The stones burned. Fiery, they rose up around her. Solana would come soon and take her back to bed, because she was sick. So sick.
The hollow-faced nurse came in softly, walked over to Theo and said, “There’s another young man for Miss Julia. He says his name is Tolya.”
Theo looked up, surprised. Julia’s eyes had closed, but she opened them now and it made him jump, as if she were dead already and her corpse had opened its eyes.
“Tolya,” she said.
He looked about at all the serious faces, feeling as if he’d just woken up. The old man in black fur was staring at him intently. “Lent,” he said, “can I ask her a question?”
“I don’t think so,” Theo said.
“Tolya,” said Julia, lifting her head a fraction from the pillow.
“In a minute, dear,” said Theo, “we mustn’t overcrowd the room.”
She sank back, tossed her head and started speaking in Spanish again, a note of panic entering her voice.
“Mamá,” she said, “my belly’s sore.”
“Julia,” said Theo.
“Time to leave,” the hollow-faced nurse told the assembly ’round the bed, smiling as she began to usher them toward the door.
“There,” he said, “they’ve gone. Here’s Tolya.”
But she was burning up again.
“Only for a minute,” said the nurse, leaving the room and closing the door quietly.
Poor clod sat there gawking. Theo felt himself dislocate. We are getting there, he thought with almost a sense of wonder. That far-off place ’round every corner. This is it. Tolya reached out and took her hand, sat holding it silently, stroking the back of it with his thick fingers. She probably didn’t know he was there. “The fur is very soft,” he said.
“Not fur,” said Theo. “Hair. She doesn’t like you to call it fur.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think she’ll mind if it’s you,” said Theo.
When her head began to toss upon the pillow, Tolya left in tears. I won’t cry, Theo told himself. I’m not here. The nurse came by and gave her something that put her into a restless sleep, and he went out into the corridor, down to the front door and stood gratefully gulping cold air.
“Here, Lent,” said a slightly aggrieved voice, “was that entirely fair?”
The old man in black fur stood on the steps smoking a pipe.
“What are you talking about?”
; “In there,” the old fool said. “That was nowhere near ten minutes.”
“What!”
“I know it’s special circumstances,” he went on, “but that wasn’t cheap. And then you go and let that other fellow in for nothing.”
Theo stared at him for a moment, turned and walked back inside. Sokolov was coming out of Trettenbacher’s office. “My dear Lent,” he said, busying himself with his gloves, “I am so sorry.”
A year ago, we’d never have imagined. A year ago—a theater opening, pink flowers in her headdress. “Yes, yes,” said Theo impatiently. He returned to her bedside. How long had he been gone? He’d only been gone a minute but it was all changed again, sleep gone, two nurses, Julia doubled over on her side, Trettenbacher striding importantly in. Her nightie was up, her stomach swollen up hard like a coconut. Her eyes squeezed tight. Trettenbacher laid his hand on her stomach and she screamed.
“Wait outside, please, Mr. Lent,” said the hollow-faced nurse.
He could hear her screams in the corridor. He couldn’t bear it. He ran outside, stood on the steps, covered his face. She wouldn’t want it. Him remembering her like that. No good. He walked backward and forward on the steps for several minutes, punching the side of his head from time to time. He could not carry it, this death, this end, it should not have happened. “It’s all over,” he said aloud. No more on the road. No shows. No rush of it all. Her in the spotlight, taking a bow, the applause, the smell of perfume. He went back inside, found a nurse and said he was going home, it seemed there was no use in his presence here and could someone please let him know as soon as there was any news. Then he almost ran home through the dark empty streets.
She didn’t even know I was there, he told himself. What’s the difference, here or there? There was another letter from Sokolov on the rug. He skimmed it. Money. Let us talk. The remains of your son. I would not raise such a delicate issue were it not for the pressures of time.
He poured a long drink.
The museum, he read, I’m sure you realize, would pay very handsomely indeed for two such specimens.
Around midnight they called him, but she was dead by the time he arrived, her hands crossed on the coverlet, hair combed, eyes closed. All gone, that sickness, pain, everything. He should do something, say something. The nurses were there. “So, was it…?” he said, “Did she…?”
“We helped her all we could,” said the hollow-faced nurse.
“I’m very grateful to you.”
“Mr. Lent,” said the big nurse, touching his arm, “here are her things.”
He didn’t remember getting home, but there he was, sitting on the bed looking at the baby clothes he’d taken from the chiffonier. All in sizes, as she’d said. The poor could have them. Her guitar. The harmonica. A pair of small white dancing shoes standing neatly together at the side of the bed. And this ridiculous thing in his hands. Ye Gods. Yatzi. What do I do with you? He walked into the other room where the fire still burned in the big fireplace. I looked after her, got her a living, kept her company, he thought. And she certainly looked after me. Wouldn’t hear a word against me. Always on my side. He stood looking down into the flames. Tears came into his eyes. What now? Can’t have this around. Reminding me, reminding me.
He dropped Yatzi into the fire. The old bit of dress was so faded and rotten that it just curled up and died. The wood beneath caught quickly and burned with a dark green flame. Just a piece of burning wood.
“You know she’s fucked-up, don’t you?”
Laurie was halfway up a ladder on the landing, a paintbrush in his hand. His black hair, grown longer and wilder, tumbled in dusty waves halfway down his back and there were flecks of green paint in it here and there. He was wearing a pink T-shirt so old and limp and torn it formed a kind of mesh on his torso.
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Adam.
“Those things,” said Laurie. “That room. That horrible thing there.” He indicated Tattoo, dangling head down from Adam’s hand. Adam looked down at it, bashed it lightly against his knee.
“What you doing with that anyway?”
“Said I’d fix this hole for her,” said Adam.
Laurie looked down from the ladder as one wiser, an old soldier dispensing hard-won knowledge. He rested the paintbrush on the rim of the tin and it sat there looking precarious. “Chuck it away!” he said passionately.
Adam was watching the paintbrush, wondering if it would fall. If it did, it would make a right old mess. “I might just,” he said.
Serve her right.
“I mean, what does it all really mean to her?” Laurie, upright on the ladder, somehow gave the impression he was sitting back on his heels. He dragged bits from his jeans pocket and started rolling a cigarette. “It’s infantile. Arrested development. Like a kid with a dummy. Those things are a security blanket.”
“Yeah.” The brush wasn’t going to fall. Boring. Too stuck there in its wallow of sticky gunk.
“Stuck up there with all that shit because she can’t face reality. Reality. Know what I think? She’s trying to stave off death. That’s all it is, attachment to the physical world.” Laurie put the roll-up between his lips, clicked his lighter. “I say go with the Buddhists. You know, no attachment, face death every day, every minute, and all that. Every second. Look it in the face. She can’t do that.”
“No, she can’t.”
True. Like a child.
“It’s all crap.” Laurie rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sucked. She did it with him, thought Adam. A year or more. Longer than me. I know. They were at it all the time. God, that ugly fucker, I used to say. How can you, Rose? I think he’s beautiful, she’d say. Laurie up there on the ladder, aging crags, rough, tough-eyed.
“So anyway,” said Laurie, “has she chucked you out?”
“Pretty much.”
Laurie, the roll-up stuck to his lower lip, picked up the paintbrush and wiped it on the rim of the tin. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what she does. She chucks people away but she can’t chuck out a pile of old crap.” He slapped paint on the wall. A fine spray jumped back in his face but he didn’t take any notice.
Adam went back to his room.
Poor old room had been neglected all that time he was up there making believe. Got cold and unloved, the air unused. Hello, Room, back again. That first night, two months ago, first night in six months he’d slept alone. Like sleeping in a hotel. Waking up wondering where you were. Give me a couple of days, she’d said. Couple of days indeed. The second night he’d gone up and tried the door, but she’d locked it. Well, of course. Third, he knocked and she got up eventually, and he walked in as if everything was normal and he was just late coming home, and started getting into bed. It was warm, full of her shape. Oh, Ad, she’d said sadly, and got in beside him but only wanted to go straight to sleep again. Well, OK. He could cope with that. A week or so of just that, sleeping like buddies, no sex. Then: really, Adam, you’ve got to start getting used to your own room, as if he were an infant she was weaning from her bed. I don’t know what people make such a fuss about, she’d said one day when they were having a terrible row—sex, what’s the big deal? We can still be the same, you in your place, me in mine, it’s not as if we have to break up or stop seeing each other anymore, Jesus, Ad, we’ve lived alongside each other long enough. Nothing’s changed. OK, we had sex for a while.
So that’s the big deal, he’d said, and she’d said: not for me.
He’d been sitting there for half an hour doing nothing, gawping into space. There in his hands was Tattoo. He looked where the eyes had been. “Hello, old thing,” he said.
Chuck it away.
Go back, say: ha ha, I couldn’t be bothered fussing with tape and stuff. He’s only going to fall to pieces somewhere else next week. Chucked him in the bin. It was bin day, they took him away. In a landfill by now.
She’d go mad.
You did what? Oh, how could you be so cruel!
And he’d say, yeah, s
ee, that’s exactly what you did to me. You took away my Tattoo.
Now two months had gone by. Next week was Christmas. He lived in his room, she lived in hers, and she acted as if everything was fine and they were just old friends, and it was killing him. It wasn’t as if he could stop it. Her face swimming up in his mind all the time, these snapshots. These feelings, illusion or not, that when he looked at her there was something there of himself, a thing he recognized as if from old, old days, days so far back they didn’t even exist in any known reality. Made no sense. Didn’t matter what you called it. And last night she’d come swanning in and said, “I don’t like turkey. Shall I get us a big chicken for Christmas?” What the fuck? Like they’d be together. Like he didn’t even get consulted, it was taken for granted. What was he supposed to do?
Laurie was right. She was fucked-up, missing some normality gene that makes people do what they do, sleep with the same person for years, all that, live together, kids.
“Can you fix that hole in Tattoo for me?” she’d said. “You said you had some duct tape.”
“Not now. Tomorrow.”
“OK.” And she’d swanned out again.
She’d been sleeping on the red sofa when he knocked on her door at four o’clock. The room was stifling and perfumed. She’d made it Christmassy, with holly and paper chains. All her crap was clean and tidy, a dozen or so Christmas cards lined the mantelpiece. In the center she’d put a very small tree she’d made out of twisted wood and pipe cleaners covered in gold foil. Tiny silver baubles hung from its branches and on top was a star. Through the branches peered the cracked, crazed and sightless faces of the dolls of Dolls’ Island.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, handing him Tattoo. “Thank you, thank you, you good, good boy.”
My best friend.
Right, he thought, shaking himself back here, now. Get started on this thing. Where’s the duct tape?
The two bodies were embalmed (I have used the word “embalmed” because it is one which is usually employed in such cases; but it does not convey a correct impression of the nature of the substances which I used in order to arrest the progress of decomposition, and to preserve the body in its entirety) by me with a view to their being permanently preserved in the Anatomical Museum of the University of Moscow. Both of the bodies were embalmed in the space of six months. During that time—from the beginning of April to the end of September—they were exposed to different atmospheric influences and different temperatures—to 15 degrees, 18 degrees, 20 degrees, 25 degrees, and even 30 degrees (centigrade) of heat. The body of the mother is now quite free from smell. The parts which had already begun to decompose exhibit a gray colour, deepening into a bronze hue. The lower part of the forearm, the hands, and the feet, have become mummified and of a whitish color. The breasts have diminished, and are wrinkled in some parts; they have also assumed a bronzed appearance. The shoulders, the back, and the sides preserve their dusky-yellow hue. It is wonderful to see how little change the face has undergone, having remained all but unaltered; the only difference is, that the eyes have sunk in, the lips are slightly thinner than they were, and there is a trifling diminution in the morbid process of the gum, which has grown hard and white. The body of the child exhibited very slight traces of decay at the period of embalming, and has undergone little perceptible change up to the present time; it has shrunk very little. The colour of the skin remains what it was during its lifetime, and the pliancy of its limbs is still preserved. The fingers and toes, however, have become mummified.