all the beloved ghosts

by Alison Macleod

  Guy also couldn’t believe it. He was first to realise. ‘Anna, sit down.’

  ‘There was a squeaky toy,’ she explained. ‘A fat toy mouse. They’ve even taken that!’

  ‘Anna . . .’

  ‘I’ll ring Reception,’ she said, her eyes tearing up.

  ‘No . . .’ How to say it? ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Of course there is! They might have CCTV—’

  ‘No. Listen to me. There’s no need’ – he took a deep breath – ‘because there is no dog.’

  ‘What do you mean, there’s no dog? Of course there’s a—’ She lowered herself stiffly to the edge of the bed.

  ‘Come on now. You know it too . . . You know you do. The dog was only ever a . . . a device. A contrivance.’

  ‘Don’t say that! He was here just a few—’

  ‘Think about it. You were so remote. What else would have allowed me to approach? We needed the eponymous dog.’

  She blinked several times. Then she pressed her hands to her face. ‘Dear God. I can’t even tell you his name.’

  ‘Because there never was a name.’

  ‘But he’s all I had.’

  ‘That’s not true. You’re upset. You only need—’

  ‘Lord. He is gone, isn’t he?’

  ‘For now at least.’

  ‘And we’re next, aren’t we? You and me.’

  ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’

  She caught hold of his hand. ‘Stories are dreadful things. You know that, don’t you?’ She looked about the room, then kicked open her suitcase. ‘Let’s run. Please. Let’s get out of here while we can. Let’s get a cab, a train, a steamer—’ She looked up at him, horrified. ‘Did you hear what I just said? A steamer . . . That’s Yalta. I hardly even know where Yalta is, but some . . . some bit of me does . . . dimly.’ Her face went pale. ‘There’s no time, is there?’

  ‘Listen.’ He rubbed her back. ‘We’ll go everywhere. The prom, the Pier. We’ll walk along the undercliff. We’ll have a perfect time.’ He unbuttoned her blouse and kissed her shoulder. ‘You’ll ride the carousel. We’ll lounge on the beach and have ice cream in the Gardens. On Ship Street, we’ll stand and listen to the piano player in the eyepatch and waistcoat. We’ll climb high on the Downs and look over an impossibly blue sea, a village church, on wheat blazing gold in the last of the day’s light. You’ll say—’

  ‘“There’s dew on the grass.”’

  ‘And I’ll say, “Time to go home.”’

  ‘As if we have a home . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Yes . . .’ He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall. ‘As if . . .’ Christ, when had he turned so grey?

  ‘And when there is no one in sight—’ she began.

  ‘—I will draw you to me and kiss you passionately.’

  ‘But I’m no one,’ she said. ‘A Home Counties wife. A faithless one at that. Before the end of our week, I’ll loathe myself and I’ll bore you. You’ll be relieved when it comes to an end.’

  ‘Only because I always am.’

  ‘Which makes me even more ridiculous. Yet I’ll cry when you see me off at the station.’ A reluctant smile got hold of her lips. ‘Without my lapdog in my lap.’

  He laughed. ‘Without your nameless lapdog in your lap.’

  ‘We’ll smell autumn in the air, won’t we?’

  ‘Don’t think of that now.’

  ‘You’ll go home to your family.’

  ‘And you to your husband. It’s fate, I suppose, or something like.’

  ‘I don’t love him but I can’t leave him. He has a condition. His eyes. In a few years, he’ll be mostly blind. In any case, you’ll be at it online in no time. Ashley Bloody Madison, or the next adultery site du jour.’

  ‘But I won’t be able to shake you from my thoughts. I’ll catch a train to Redhill. Often. I’ll watch your house. I’ll go half-mad with the ache of you.’

  She buried her face in his chest. ‘I just want to live!’

  ‘One night, I’ll follow you and your husband to a restaurant on the high street. A sushi bar.’

  ‘The Geisha Girl,’ she said. ‘Yes . . . I know it.’

  ‘I’ll motion you outside.’

  ‘Already I feel sick.’

  ‘And that will be the start—’

  ‘I will have tried so hard to forget you.’

  ‘—the start of our real life. Of a life so real we’ll steal it like thieves if we have to.’

  ‘We’re ruined,’ she whispered.

  ‘Better secrecy and ruin than despair.’

  At the window, the thin curtains lifted – although there was no breeze at all. Guy drew Anna close, and they stared into the night. The sea was black. The sky was black. All the lights on the Pier had gone out. Even the full moon had been extinguished from the fictive sky.

  ‘There’s hardly any time,’ she murmured.

  Beneath his hands, her shoulders started to quiver.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said, his voice hoarse with tenderness.

  Chekhov’s Telescope

  On the deck of the Alexander II, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov looked up as the siren sounded. Overhead, the funnels puffed uselessly. In the bay, at swimming distance from shore, the steamer had run aground in just three feet of water.

  Most of the holidaymakers retreated to the refreshment bar for complimentary smoked sausage and beer. The steamer’s captain shouted at the band, which struck up a brassy tune. Only Anton Chekhov, Olga Knipper and assorted children remained at the rails, staring into the green, transparent sea of Yalta. At the captain’s order, two sailors stripped naked and dived overboard to investigate the hull. A woman with bulging eyes and a stubborn pout emerged from the bar to tut at the sight of buttocks flying in First Class. Anton leaned into Olga: ‘That one has gills beneath her stays,’ he whispered, and Olga buried her grin in his chest.

  From a pocket Chekhov produced a small naval telescope, extended it and passed it to her. ‘Tell me what you see, dear actress.’

  She pressed it to her eye. ‘Mountains that hug the bay!’

  He turned her body twenty degrees to the right. ‘There. What do you see now?’

  ‘A wasteland, with three half-dead fruit trees.’

  He sighed, took the telescope and rubbed the eyepiece with his cuff. ‘Come, come. This thing was dear. It sees through time as well as space. Now look again. There is a clearing. In the clearing is a dacha, a white dacha. Three storeys high with many windows and at least two balconies. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Ah! The sun was in my eyes.’

  ‘Can you see the garden? So many different kinds of roses! Tulips of every colour. Hyacinths. A mulberry tree. Cedars. A willow. Plus an orchard of cherry trees, and long, winding paths.’

  ‘Excellent for your pacing.’

  ‘What else can you spot?’

  ‘Indoors . . . a piano. A generous table. Many guests.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘And so many women at the windows! Devoted readers, assorted actresses, alluring acolytes, converted sapphists, young virgins and miscellaneous prostitutes – all with their faces pressed to the glass!’

  He grabbed the telescope. ‘On the contrary, I see a private room. The bed is exceedingly narrow. Practically monastic. It’s a blessing I can’t seem to put on weight or I would roll out of it each night.’

  ‘How then do you accommodate the women? Do you have a stacking system?’

  ‘Forget the bedroom – though, naturally, dear Olya, I hope you won’t. Look instead into the window of the study. The large picture window.’

  ‘Yes . . . I see your desk with your pen and . . . a new manuscript. A love story. An unexpected love story, I think. The story of a philanderer’s redemption. The woman, however, is, I believe, quite ordinary.’

  He frowned. ‘They sound like unpromising characters. Besides, I haven’t written anything in a year.’

  ‘I see its pages as we speak. Next to it on the desk is your stethoscope, your lit
tle doctor’s hammer and a bowl of calling cards.’

  ‘And do you see a man there at the window?’

  ‘Indeed. He is tall and cuts a handsome figure.’

  ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘Watching us through a telescope of course – and wondering who those two happy characters are on the toppled steamer.’

  ‘Poor miserable wretch. He’s stuck on that hillside, alone and heartsick.’

  ‘Has he foundered in the manner of our steamer?’

  ‘He has, I believe. But we must hope that he is not beyond salvation.’ And in spite of the sailors and the children on deck, Anton Chekhov pressed Olga’s palm to his lips even as two stout tugs drew alongside the Alexander II, ready to haul all souls back into the current.

  The Crimean Courier was the first paper to announce the return of Russia’s celebrated writer to Yalta. The reporter, a raw-faced youth called Sergei, studied Anton Chekhov as he descended the gangway, noting that the Great Man was thinner than when he had departed the town, and oddly pale at the height of summer. The woman was some ten years younger – thirty perhaps – with brown hair, an eager smile, small eyes and incipient jowls. Later, his editor, would strike out this detail, informing Sergei that the news – the story – was the arrival of Yalta’s most famous bachelor with a woman on his arm, a leading actress of the Moscow Art Theatre.

  ‘And what of the facts?’ asked Sergei, his face reddening.

  ‘The facts must fit the story,’ said the editor, cuffing him. ‘Only stories are true in the end. Especially in Russia.’

  Sergei rubbed his cheek. What nonsense old people spoke.

  From the landing stage, he watched the writer pause at the top of the gangway and breathe deeply.

  ‘This air! So good for your lungs!’ Olga declaimed.

  ‘If only my lungs could live in Yalta,’ grumbled Chekhov, ‘and let me return to Moscow. I wouldn’t even mind if they ran up expenses. They could stroll the promenade, go to the theatre and play cards.’ He stared down the gangway. ‘Lo! I believe this is what is known as the Long Slow Decline.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were approaching seventy, not forty.’

  ‘My haemorrhoids, dear Olya, would agree.’

  ‘Now I know why women swoon.’

  He smiled shyly, threw back his shoulders and offered her his arm.

  Sergei Rogov had a ruthless eye, long legs and his quarry in view.

  He followed the Great Writer, first to the genteel home of Dr Sredin, where Chekhov had arranged lodgings for Olga, so that she, an actress, might appear respectable during her stay in Yalta. Such hypocrisy, thought Sergei. Nearby, Chekhov booked himself into a balcony room on the third floor of the Hotel Marino.

  The youth had waited on a bench opposite the hotel for five hours, sustaining himself on cured sturgeon and day-old bread, when his efforts were at last rewarded. A carriage drew up and Olga stepped out, her head bowed. Oh, the elaborate ruses of the middle-aged, thought Sergei, spitting out his crusts.

  Late the next morning, at his lookout once more, he intercepted a note Chekhov had entrusted to an illiterate porter. The man was to deliver it to Dr Sredin’s home, but Sergei gave the man a rouble and quickly copied it into his notebook.

  Dear ravishing actress, good day! How is life with you? How are you feeling? I am writing in a corner of my bedroom. Our mouse is still here and happy. It likes my shoes. I will meet you at noon. Big, big kisses. 400 of them.

  A libertine, thought Sergei.

  He followed the lovers along the broad promenade, through the town park and up the hillside to Autka, where Chekhov was overseeing the construction of an oversized house for himself. Later, the young reporter hired a horse and followed their carriage at a stealthy distance up the pine-forested hillside to Oreanda, where he and said horse took cover behind the church as the pair reclined, overlooking the Bay. On the descent, however, Sergei was brought up short and nearly exposed when Chekhov’s hand rapped suddenly on the carriage roof. In the woods, writer and actress disappeared behind a derelict hunting lodge and laughed so hard that the Great Writer had to halt in his exertions to let a coughing fit pass.

  Sergei checked his fob watch. He recorded the duration of the lovemaking in his notebook.

  Twelve minutes.

  Olga’s skin was very white.

  The following morning, the lazy porter crossed the street, demanded two roubles and hand-delivered the note to Sergei. Once more Sergei copied it out, folded it and returned it to the man.

  My glorious actress, I could run across a field in pure idiot delight, through the wood, across a stream and over several sheep. Try not to be bored at the table of the good doctor. I will work this morning on the story – the peculiar love story you foresaw, and set in Yalta no less. I will come to you after lunch. Thin though you say I am, do not underestimate me. At your earliest convenience I will love you wildly. Your Antoine.

  From the veranda of the doctor’s home, Chekhov hailed a landau to take them to the Imperial Palace. Sergei followed behind in a tourists’ omnibus and closed in on his prey in an Italianate courtyard. He noted that the Great Writer wore grey trousers and that his jacket was blue and too short. Fact.

  Olga sang a tune.

  Fact.

  They ate a picnic of pastries.

  Fact.

  That evening, Chekhov joined Olga, Dr Sredin, his wife, her sister and brother-in-law for dinner. Afterwards, croquet was played in the garden. Sergei watched through a gap in the box hedge. Dr Sredin and Chekhov joked disrespectfully about the incompetence of the local authorities. Sergei recorded each affront. They criticised the government’s treatment of the local Tatar population, and Sergei scribbled every unwise word. The others retired indoors but the doctor and doctor–writer whacked the wooden balls until long after sunset, striking matches to see by until – Sergei consulted his watch – ten minutes past ten.

  The idle rich.

  But the following day, Sergei’s cover was nearly blown. He looked up from his notebook outside the Hotel Marino only to see Chekhov, on his balcony with his notebook and pen in hand, observing him. The young spy departed his bench, almost running from the scene. But as he slowed to a walk, he couldn’t help but wonder what Chekhov the Great Writer might have written about him, and his heart fluttered.

  His assignment, however, was not complete. He tracked Chekhov and Olga to the road that climbed out of Yalta towards Ai-Petri, 4,000 feet above sea level. They travelled on foot, past sheep, goats and ancient wells, en route to the famous waterfall below the peak. Chekhov carried their rucksack of provisions. The road was sun-baked and he stopped often, bending to breathe. Olga remonstrated. She wanted to carry the rucksack. Chekhov shouted back. He was a doctor, wasn’t he, and perfectly qualified to judge whether he was or was not able to walk to a local beauty spot. Sergei could almost taste the headline. ‘Public Altercation Between Great Writer and Paramour’. He watched the actress return alone down the dusty road without a backward glance.

  Sergei was already celebrating his forthcoming byline with vodka and tchibureks when he spotted the illiterate porter from the Hotel Marino. The man was walking in the direction of Dr Sredin’s house. Sergei lowered his face. In truth, he did not want another instalment. He had story enough. But the porter had spotted him.

  ‘Three roubles,’ he demanded gloomily.

  What could Sergei do? The man was lazy but looked very strong. He sighed and handed the money over.

  My dearest Olya, forgive me. You see, I have this flu I can’t quite shake. I am frustrated with myself, not you. You know I am forbidden another Moscow winter, and I fear that, 800 miles from here, you’ll forget who I am. So my mood at times is parched and black, like the Crimean soil. Don’t be angry with me, my darling. Our mouse is well and tolerates my temper. It asks to be remembered to you. Please reconsider and let me take you to G— this evening. The water will be bliss for your bathing, if too cold for this wretch. I will sit on the rocks and beh
old you. I kiss you and hug you. Your Antonio.

  Sergei discovered the pair in the cove at Gurzov that evening, and as he hid behind a conveniently positioned outcrop of rock, his headline receded over the horizon. He despaired at the sight of Olga paddling happily in her underclothes and Chekhov fishing from the rocks. Ahead, in a rocky corner, dolphins herded mackerel, the arcs of their backs flashing silver. Olga pointed and clapped.

  Sergei wanted to object. Did they not realise? There was no story in happiness!

  How he despised those who had all the good fortune in this world. How he loathed their holiday fun. When had he ever been granted a day’s holiday by his brute of an editor? When would he not have to buy day-old bread? When might he impress a woman enough to love him?

  ‘I’ll be lucky,’ Chekhov called to Olga, ‘if the dolphins spare me a single mackerel!’

  ‘I shall swim out and tell the big ones you’re over here.’

  ‘It does not matter, dear Olya, whether they are big or small. I am simply grateful for a fish, as I am for any fish of an idea for a story. I never think, this is a big fish or little fish, a big idea or small idea. One does not know what will surface. One learns only to receive.’

  She slipped beneath the waves and bobbed up below him, grabbing hold of his pole and shaking the end so its little bell rang.

  ‘Well, what a catch,’ he declared, laughing. ‘If I may say, you’re no mackerel or mullet.’

  ‘Say you love me – or I won’t let go of your pole.’

  ‘I live in earnest hope.’

  Behind his rock, Sergei, curiously, found himself grinning with Chekhov. He’d last grinned four years before when he saw a three-legged dog gambolling down the prom. His grin was not his own, but Chekhov’s grin. His delight was Olga’s delight. Their story was overtaking him. He experienced a buzzing lightness at his core, as if he were no longer flesh and bone; no longer an alert intelligence crashing about in a tall, angular body. Writing was fishing. Fishing was writing. The world was made of riddles, not facts. Chekhov had caught love at the end of his line. The backs of the dolphins were there and gone. Below the waterline, the mackerel schooled and scattered. From the waves, Olga told Chekhov that acting was not acting, but being. Her hair was loose behind her. In the water, she shone. She stood up and fell down again, laughing. Chekhov laid down his pole and scrambled like a boy from his perch. He crossed the pale shingle, his shoes soaked by the tide, and gathered her in his arms. Water streamed down her back. Sergei could taste the salt of her neck as Chekhov kissed her. He could feel her waist in the span of the man’s hands. She was not beautiful. She did not look like an actress. Chekhov was thin and slightly stooped. His beard was turning grey and, at the back of his head, he was balding. The pebbles on the beach glowed white. A pair of cranes landed on the beach and stood, unreadable as hieroglyphs. When Olga pressed Chekhov’s hand to her breast, Sergei felt, too, the warmth of her lover’s palm against her goose-pimpled skin. The air was scented with cypresses. Nothing was stray in the last light of day, not even Sergei, unknown behind his lonely outcrop of rock, unknown to the facts, unknown to any record of the day, year or ebbing century. And when Chekhov doubled over in Olga’s arms, racked with coughing, Sergei felt too the shock of it: of the wide world telescoping into a blot of blood on the white beach.