‘The BBC is a fine broadcaster,’ says the press officer, resting an arm on the back of the neighbouring chair. ‘Reputable. We are glad to have you here.’
Now Lucas sits up a little, leans forward, drops his cigarette on the floor. He’s heard this sort of thing before, reported by colleagues on recces to Belarus or stints in Moscow or Berlin. It’s usually the preamble to some sort of threat. Empty, these days, but old habits die hard. It might make a good opening for a FOOC – From Our Own Correspondent. He needs an angle that’ll interest Radio Four, not just the World Service.
‘I see you like popular culture.’
‘What?’ Lucas frowns.
‘Jurassic Park.’ The man is pointing to the inside of Lucas’s jacket. ‘I know this book. Steven Spielberg is making a film.’
‘Oh!’ laughs Lucas, sheepish, loud enough for Vee to look over. ‘It’s not mine. I don’t read that stuff. It’s my wife’s, actually.’
The man nods, as if expecting Lucas to say as much.
‘Well, my country has faced many difficult times. There is more bad news today. I, however, like to swim against this tide. Ukraina has a brighter future.’ The man isn’t looking at Lucas; he’s looking at the back of his hand, his fingers flexed, as if admiring a new ring. ‘We can work together. On a strong story. A story we are proud to show the world. There is someone I would like you to meet.’ At these words the man leans in and though Vee is still watching, and might even be strolling over, Lucas doesn’t move, doesn’t catch her eye because already he is thinking he’ll save this one for himself.
Chapter 3
Zoya is driving down the broad, straight carriageway of Lesi Ukrainky towards the city centre. Lucas lounges in the front passenger seat, one long arm slung around the base of Zoya’s headrest. Rachel sits behind Zoya with Ivan on her knee. Her arms are clamped tightly about him.
Rachel looks out of the window at the spindly plane trees and the grey buildings and the shop signs that all use the same blocky orange Cyrillic letters. The words are in Russian, not Ukrainian. She spells out the sounds she recognises: kee-no-tay-ah-ter – cinema; khleb – bread; kee-nee-gee – books; sok-ee – she doesn’t know that one. The beat of each word helps to distract her from the fact that Lucas has taken her book. She needs it back but must wait until they are alone.
‘Ffsh,’ whistles Zoya as they approach a large pothole. A broken-down trolleybus parked on the right means they cannot avoid it. As Zoya slows and eases the car across the ruptured tarmac, Rachel peers up and sees ten or twelve white faces all staring down at her from the stranded bus.
Zoya is sitting on a cushion to give herself some height. Today she wears a white pompom hat with a fake fur trim, even though it is only the middle of October and the heating is on full blast. The hat flattens her permed and peroxided hair and the pompom bounces against the headrest as the car bumps and sways. She drives carefully, with a frown of concentration, but Rachel cannot tell if this is because Zoya is concerned about the baby or because she fears for the beige Zhiguli’s suspension. The car smells quite new, yet it has the character of something already past its prime, with its sagging ceiling, its friable plastic fittings and creaking underbelly.
Rachel doesn’t care about the car. She can’t stop thinking about her missing book.
‘Re-stor-an,’ she whispers into Ivan’s soft ear. ‘Too-flee.’
‘Zoya,’ says Lucas, shifting in his seat. ‘I want you to do some research for a feature I’m working on. What do you know about Pavlo Polubotok? I need info on that legend about the Cossack leader’s gold.’
Zoya checks the rear-view mirror, as she does every fifteen seconds or so, actually moving her head in the way that Rachel’s driving instructor showed her before she took her test. Then she indicates and turns right. Only when the car is settled into its new course does she respond.
‘Hetman,’ she says. ‘The hetman’s gold. It is a fool’s dream. In this country there are many fools.’
Lucas nods, undeterred. ‘Well, okay, like I said, it’s a legend, but it stands for something, doesn’t it? I mean, it stems from some kind of historical fact. Polubotok was a real Ukrainian hetman, right? In 1723? And no one has managed to disprove the claim that he smuggled two barrels of gold across to London for safe keeping when he thought he was in trouble with the Tsar.’ He pauses, as if to let his words sink in. ‘So, what I’m interested in is the contemporary response. Polubotok promised that the gold would be returned to Kiev when Ukraine was finally free. I heard some nationalist poet took up the story and, after making a few calculations about compound interest on the back of an envelope, declared that it was now worth sixteen trillion pounds sterling and that this money belongs to all true Ukrainians.’
Rachel sees Zoya’s eyes narrow momentarily in the rear-view mirror. Zoya catches her looking and, embarrassed, Rachel lowers her head.
‘That madman has been discredited,’ Zoya says, braking for a red light.
‘Yes,’ says Lucas. ‘Obviously. But it’s the effect. It’s a metaphor for the state of the place, the way people are thinking. The dream of rightful ownership, denied for so long, a pot of gold, meddling from Moscow, reclaiming past glory, a nationalist resurgence . . .’
‘There is nothing new to report. Just some hot-heads when your Mrs Thatcher visited.’
‘All right.’ Now Lucas is getting annoyed. He puts an unlit cigarette in his mouth, then takes it out and tries again. ‘The point is there’s going to be a film – some young director at the Dovzhenko studios. I’ve been given exclusive access.’ He twists round and smiles deliberately at Rachel, looking for an ally, someone who will be as delighted as he is with the prospect of a scoop. ‘It could be big, this story, Rach – the revival of Kiev’s film industry, a national obsession, politics, propaganda – plenty of colour. I might even get one of the Sunday supplements interested, or syndicate it and start earning some proper money. Definitely a half hour feature for Radio Four.’ He hesitates. ‘We’ve got to be discreet, though, Zoya, okay? I don’t want to share.’
Zoya, however, is rolling her eyes. ‘Why do English people use this word story?’ she grumbles, turning the wheel and pulling into a space amongst some haphazardly parked trucks. ‘Stories are for children.’
‘Unbelievable,’ says Lucas. ‘I thought you wanted to be a journalist.’
‘Kee-nee-gee,’ Rachel mouths, still clutching their son.
* * *
The covered market hunches beside a noisy interchange at the southern end of Khreschatyk, downwind of Independence Square. When Rachel climbs out of the Zhiguli the cacophony of cars and trucks and trolleybuses takes her by surprise; this is her first proper trip downtown and she needs a moment to remember how she has pitched up here. Then she sees a dirty white building with a domed glass roof like a railway station and MINOLTA in large Latin letters above the entrance. There are people everywhere, hustling for business through the exhaust fumes: boys washing cars with filthy pieces of rag; aproned women in a line selling jars full of every shade of honey along with bunches of wilting herbs; two khaki-coated men sitting down to beg – except she sees that they’re not sitting, exactly. They don’t have any legs.
Lucas slings his rucksack over his shoulder and starts unfolding the buggy. ‘This is the Bessarabsky. It’s unregulated, pricey, but they bring in fresh produce from Kazakhstan and the Caucasus – so no contamination problems. Fruit, meat, eggs, cheese . . .’
‘Ree-nok,’ murmurs Rachel, not moving. Before she goes inside, she needs to find out about her book. Then, just as she begins to frame the question, her husband starts waving at someone.
‘Hey Lucas!’ calls a female voice, assured, Canadian. Vee is emerging from an archway with Teddy in tow. ‘And Rachel! How are you? Did the drugs help? Look at this little fella! Hello beautiful boy . . . It’s so nice to see you out and about! Now, Rachel, I’ve got to tell you, there
’s an English woman living in the block next to you. Actually, I think she’s Scottish. Or should that be a Scot? You can be friends! I’ve got her number somewhere. Someone at the Finance Ministry passed it to me.’
‘What are you two doing here?’ asks Lucas.
‘Ah,’ says Teddy, smiling at Rachel and holding up a jar of lumpy soured cream. ‘Vee always hunts down the best smetana.’
* * *
Rachel stands inside the entrance waiting for Lucas. She is watching a man arranging apples. First he takes one from a crate and spits on it. Then he rubs it with a rag until it gleams. The glossiest fruit is placed at the front of a pyramid he is building, alternating green with deep red. She doesn’t want to watch him; she wants to knock his pyramid down because the red and green apples shouldn’t touch each other, but Ivan’s big grey eyes are staring from beneath his knitted balaclava. The fruit is keeping him quiet. Or maybe he’s listening to the croaky tirade from an old man by the entrance, or the flapping of wings in the domed roof overhead. Rachel looks up and sees white dust drifting down from the skylight. It isn’t feathers, though, or snow. It is tiny flakes of paint.
‘Hey,’ says Lucas, stepping up beside her. ‘Shall we get some fruit?’ He’s still fiddling with his bulky audio recorder. The microphone is sticking out of his pocket.
Rachel looks over his shoulder. The tall woman in brown overalls he was talking to is now loading jars of yellowish soured cream into a box. She bangs the box down on the back of a hand-cart and wipes her hands across her chest.
‘I’m all done,’ says Lucas. ‘The women weren’t very talkative. Vee got in first, it seems. I should have known she wasn’t just shopping. Nice of her to remember about that Scottish woman though – great for you to start to make your own friends here.’ He taps out a cigarette from the pack in his hand. ‘At least I’ve got some audio ambience for my sound library. Background chatter. The domed roof makes for some interesting accoustics.’
The apple man is leaning across his display, offering Lucas a slice of green apple on the end of his knife. Lucas takes it.
‘Spaseebo. You never know when you’ll need stuff like that. When you’re up against a deadline.’
Something swoops suddenly, almost skimming Lucas’s shoulder. Rachel ducks her head, but it is only a bird.
‘Where’s my book?’ she asks, her voice harsher than she intends.
‘What book?’
‘The book I was reading. The book in the kitchen this morning. You took it. Jurassic Park.’
Now Lucas remembers. His face is a picture of dissembling.
‘Oh – you weren’t still reading it, were you?’
‘Where is it?’
The apple man extends a piece of fruit to Rachel. His arm is perilously close to one of his pyramids.
‘Lady, Lady? You like? Poprobye yablochko, moya khoroshaya . . .’
Lucas waves the man away. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got it. One of the press officers asked if he could read it. The one who gave me the idea for my film feature, actually. Sorin, or Sarin . . . He’s a fan of Spielberg. I could hardly say no.’
Rachel can taste something sour at the back of her throat; her palms prickle with sweat. She needs to stay calm, conceal the danger, yet all she can think about are the pages she hasn’t read, the ten pages she must read before night comes.
She pushes her thumbnail into the tip of her ring finger. Hard. Harder.
‘You – you gave it to him?’
‘Well, yes. I thought you’d finished it. Come on, Rach, it’s just some crappy airport novel!’
Lucas has no inkling. He doesn’t know what he’s done. Rachel needs to make good the ritual, a ritual that has been nudging, soundlessly, at the edge of her consciousness but which now snaps into focus.
The balcony is waiting. Ivan is not safe. She is going to have to compensate.
* * *
When Rachel was fourteen she answered an ad in the local paper. Babysitter wanted, it said. For a girl and a boy aged six and three. One pound an hour.
The house was an old rectory and Rachel thought it beautiful, despite the spiders. The garden was rambling, the wallpaper on the stairs was sprigged with yellow roses, the bathroom had actual beams in it. When the parents went out for the evening, for drinks or ‘supper with friends’, she moved through the rooms touching the comfortable furnishings and stroking the family’s chocolate Labrador and all the while thinking how, one day, she would have a home like this one. The children had dark hair and blue eyes and she was bewitched by their fierce stares and quick fingers and high, mercurial voices.
‘You’re not the leader,’ said Alice, the six-year-old, on Rachel’s first visit. ‘I am.’
Then one afternoon she was asked if she’d mind staying overnight. The parents were driving up to London and wouldn’t return until two or three in the morning, too late really to run her back home. They’d pay her for her time, they said. They’d leave a telephone number. She jumped at the chance to sleep in the cosy little guest room. Her own mother didn’t object.
That evening Rachel chased the children round the garden to tire them out. She fed them fish fingers, though they didn’t put salad cream on theirs. She bathed them in the sloping bathroom, dried and dressed them in their brushed cotton pyjamas and gave the little boy, William, a piggyback to the bedroom their parents called ‘the nursery’.
Then something bewildering happened. Rachel had left her watch in the bathroom and as she went back to fetch it, she heard the nursery door close behind her. When she returned, the door had been locked from within.
‘Alice,’ she called, her hand on the door knob. Now she could hear whispering and the sound of bed springs from the other side. ‘Let me in.’
Alice didn’t answer. Rachel knelt down and put her eye to the keyhole. She couldn’t see anything – the key was still in the lock.
‘Alice, please come to the door and turn the key. You’ve locked me out! You told me you wanted a story!’
‘You’re not my mummy or my daddy,’ said Alice, as if from far away. That was all Rachel could get out of her.
For the first hour or so she tried to reason with the siblings, bribing them with biscuits they weren’t supposed to eat, but Alice wouldn’t let William approach the door. Then, when William started crying and his wails of distress increased, Rachel banged on the old pine panels and pushed against them with her shoulder.
‘Please, Alice. William is frightened. You’re being mean. Please, Alice. You can both sleep in my bed. Please . . .’
Eventually William’s cries faded to dry shudders. By about eleven, the sounds had stopped altogether and Rachel tried to block out images of him lying on the floor, slowly strangled by a sheet or stabbed through the eye with one of Alice’s carefully sharpened colouring pencils. She was too scared to phone the children’s parents because they were sixty miles away and a call would have repercussions that she didn’t want to contemplate. She would have to manage on her own.
She sat down on the floor, leaned her head against the door and made a loud sobbing sound. It wasn’t difficult; she was close to tears anyway. After some minutes, Alice turned the key. She opened the door and stared down at Rachel.
‘Why are you crying?’ she asked.
Rachel took the key and placed it on top of the fridge in the kitchen. When morning came, the father drove her home in silence. She was never asked to babysit at the old rectory again.
* * *
Zoya drops Lucas at the office and returns Rachel and Ivan to Staronavodnitska Street. All the way up Lesi Ukrainky, Rachel leans against the window and mutters syllables under her breath. Kee-nee-gee, ree-nok, kee-no-tay-ah-ter, sok-ee . . .
Back at the flats, the sky has darkened like a child’s charcoal smudge. Rachel walks quickly up the steps with Ivan in her arms, willing herself not to look up towards the bl
ank windows and the balconies. Inside, the foyer is gloomy; she can’t see if the caretaker is sitting in her cubicle, though she feels the old woman’s judgement upon her: her contempt for Rachel’s presence and her baby’s foul detritus.
As Rachel passes the pock-marked metal mail boxes she smells burning paper.
‘Adeen, dva, tree, chityrie, pyat,’ she counts as she waits for the lift.
Later, when Ivan is asleep, Rachel pulls the empty After Eights box out of the bin in the kitchen, sits down at the table and opens the lid. She removes the corrugated lining and stares at the dark waxy sleeves, lined up like gills, still smelling faintly of peppermint.
She plucks out one of the sleeves, rubs it between her fingers, then, gently, squeezes its sides. The opening gapes a little. She wants to put something inside.
Slowly, frowning, she picks up a biro and writes some words on a scrap of squared paper.
The tropical rain fell in great drenching sheets.
She knows these words. She read them in the book that Lucas lost. She puts down the biro and folds the piece of paper three times, scoring the edges with her thumbnail. Then she slots it into the little sleeve and tucks it between the others. There.
The note is well hidden, but all the same it bothers her. After a few minutes she picks up the box and carries it into the hallway. Out on the shared landing, she shivers. Her reflection looms in the window by the rubbish chute. The iron handle is cold to touch and even before she pulls it towards her she can smell the sweet stench of rotting vegetables and the soiled nappies she threw away earlier. As the dark interior gapes, a rush of cold air blows up from below. The chute door clangs and she frowns as her deposit tumbles all the way down to the bin at ground level, to the caretaker who will no doubt finger it in the morning, sniff its strangeness, then toss it on the little fire she tends beside the cracked concrete path.
Snegurochka Page 4