If Only You Knew

by Alice Jolly

  Ten, eleven, midnight. He doesn’t stop. Rob and I go up the stairs to him. We offer the only painkillers we’ve got, but he won’t take them. We try to get him to eat, or to lie down, but he doesn’t even know we’re talking to him. Finally we come back downstairs. Rob sits in the swivel chair in the sitting room pretending to watch television. I lie on the bed in the ochre light, my eyes following one arm of the five-armed lamp and then another. To me there’s something strangely comforting in the undiluted and abandoned quality of those sounds from above. I want to add my voice to his and scream until I’m emptied out.

  At one o’clock, Rob comes to bed. He needs to be up at six to get his flight to Kiev. The wailing is less but enough to keep us awake. The night is heavy and still. We cover ourselves with the duvet, take it off, pull it back over us. The wailing changes in tone but it doesn’t ever stop for more than a minute. Footsteps scuffle on the landing, doors open and close. Conversations scurry along the pipes like mice. Rob and I pull pillows over our heads and try not to hear.

  In my head I’m talking to Maya, asking her why she lied to me. Even that first night, at her party, she was so insistent that she didn’t know why my father left. She wasn’t there at the time, she said, she’d already gone away to Rome. But that wasn’t true. It was as Rob said. She had organized that last exhibition, against my mother’s wishes. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told me that. What did she have to hide?

  From below, someone bangs on the wall and curses. ‘I’ll have to go up there,’ Rob says, and goes to get some more vodka from our fridge. When I get upstairs, Mr Balashov is sitting in a chair and his fingers dig into Rob’s arm. He’s looking into his eyes, repeating the same words again and again. I intend to leave them together, but something about Mr Balashov’s words holds me. I look over to his wife’s armchair, which still has her shape pressed into it. Mr Balashov’s voice is rhythmic and insistent. The sound of it unnerves me and I head back down the stairs and go to bed.

  Finally the noise from above stops, and Rob comes down. We he side by side without touching. My throat feels as though it’s stuffed full of dust. I shiver and pull the duvet around me. I know that we’re never going to sleep. Perversely I begin to yearn for the sound of falling furniture, the crack of a breaking glass, even a scream of pain. Anything would be better than this silence weighing down. ‘What was he saying?’ I ask.

  Rob turns to look at me but his eyes are obscured by the shadows of the room. ‘He said that he loves her as the dry earth loves water. That no pleasure can be left for him now. That he is dead as well.’ Rob’s voice is flat as he repeats these words. I want to know what he’s thinking, but the shadows tell me nothing.

  ‘But she was vile to him,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So he couldn’t have cared that much. He couldn’t have done. People don’t love people who make them unhappy.’

  ‘No,’ Rob says. ‘No, of course they don’t.’

  ‘It’s like someone being in love with pain, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know. Relationships are probably never as random as they might look,’ Rob says. ‘Perhaps she liked to wound and he liked to be wounded.’

  ‘And that’s OK while no one upsets the balance?’

  ‘Yes, but once the balance is disturbed then it’s gone for ever.’

  And that’s how we go on, insisting that what Mr Balashov said was only really theatre and shock. That was all. He may have thought that he loved her, but he didn’t really. But even as we lie there, arguing, Mr Balashov’s words are still with us and that image of his hand gripping Rob’s arm. As I slide into sleep they whisper in my ears. He loves her as the dry earth loves water.

  The beep-beep-beep of the alarm sounds at six and wakes us from shallow sleep. Rob switches it off and doesn’t move. Lights are on across the courtyard, but their shape is furred by a low mist which hangs at the window. Rob sits up, yawns and rubs at his eyes. ‘You know, I’m not sure I’ll go to Kiev. I’d rather stay and get some sleep. I was only going to say goodbye. I can telephone instead.’

  ‘Oh, but you really should go.’ If he doesn’t go then how will I get to Jack?

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, because you’ve come to know the people there quite well, haven’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rob’s eyes are staring into mine. He knows that I need him to go. We’re sitting up, with the duvet wrapped half around us. I take hold of one of his hands and rub it between mine. A breath of air moves at the open window and we both shiver.

  ‘If you don’t go, won’t it always feel like something unfinished?’ I hate myself and I hate Rob as well, because he’s allowed this to go on and on, although he knows it’s no good. Some bitter thread ties us together and won’t let us part. Rob stares into my eyes, then suddenly reaches out and holds me. His head pushes against my neck, butting me, while his hands knot around me. I hold him, feeling the warmth of his skin and breathing in his smell of morning sheets and Moscow soap. My hand strokes his hair.

  ‘Yes,’ he says into my neck. ‘Yes, you’re right – of course I should go. It’s only … you will be OK, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Just as you say. Silly not to go.’ He’s up off the bed and heading for the bathroom. For a moment I lie quite still with every muscle tensed, my jaw locked tight shut. Then I get up and make tea for Rob. I butter bread and wrap it in tinfoil. His coat is in the hall and I put it ready on the sofa next to his bag. We stand together while he sips his tea. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to argue. It was just the heat and the journey.’

  ‘Of course. It’s quite all right.’

  I can’t bear him apologizing for something that was my fault. He was right about Maya – he’d been right all along. Why didn’t I see? Why do I never see?

  He picks up his bag and I follow him into the hall. I want to thank him but the words would be too specific. We kiss before he goes, clinging to each other in the hall, the stiff material of his jacket pressed against my nightdress. My cold feet come off the floor because he squeezes me so tight. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say. ‘Of course I’ll be all right. You know I will.’ It’s not surprising that he doesn’t believe that because I don’t believe it myself.

  As soon as the door closes, I go into the bedroom and pull on my clothes. In the fresh silence of early morning, I can hear my own heart thumping in my ears. I find Jack’s piece of paper and a guidebook with a map of the area around Moscow. I work out that I need to get to the Kiev Station, which is near where Maya lives.

  Maya, Maya, I don’t want to think about her. Perhaps nothing she told me about my father was true? I was always so sure that she was the one who understood him, and that my mother knew nothing. Maya told me that she didn’t take that photograph of my father wearing his blue frock–coat. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. But I’m certain that she was there that night and, for some reason, she’s never wanted to admit that. But why? Why?

  I push my travellers’ cheques into my bag. The morning air at the windows is sharp so I reach for a coat. The one Maya gave me is hooked on the back of the door, but my other one seems to have disappeared. I look for it in the wardrobe, on the back of the kitchen chairs, under a pile of Rob’s shirts. But it isn’t anywhere. I must go, I must go. I reach for Maya’s grey velvet coat and slide my hand into its silk-lined sleeve.

  The child is lying in bed, a prickly blanket pulled up to her chin. The speckled glow of the toadstool night-light rises in an arc up the wall. The door opens and a black shoe with a gold buckle appears. The child starts to pull the covers up over her head, then she hears her father’s voice. He comes to stand beside her but she can’t see him clearly. The silk of his jacket rustles as he kneels down and reaches for her hand. Come, he says.

  She feels her father’s hand wrap around her own. As she climbs out of bed she shivers and looks down at
herself. She’s wearing a short red tunic and red tights – her costume for the party. Red shoes are lying near her bed and she puts them on. They’re too large but she pulls the straps tight. Although the radiator is on, the room still feels damp and icy.

  Come on, her father says. Come, quickly. The gold buttons on his jacket catch the light. The child knows that the sky must have cleared and that her father can see the stars he has been looking for through his telescope. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for. She imagines the picture in the atlas, the fat, pink country with the long tail and the stars which come down to earth. Her father can see that star through his telescope. He will see it tonight. You must find a coat, her father says. She follows him to the door, then turns back to look again at the familiar shapes of her room.

  As she steps out into the hall, freezing air rises from below. The house smells of grown-ups and parties – spilt wine, cigarettes, wax. Music thumps from the sitting room, its beat making the floor-boards vibrate. But she can’t see her father. She heads towards the back stairs, stumbling in the darkness. Voices from outside on the drive are muffled – a car engine coughs, splutters, dies. Down below, the back corridor is lit by night-lights in jam jars. Streaks of yellow leap up from the bottom of the walls. A lady in a Victorian gown sweeps past, her skirts catching against the jam jars so that they appear to be licked by flame. The child takes two steps down the stairs, then hears her mother’s voice. Now she will be sent back to bed.

  She turns and runs across the landing to the front stairs. Below her, a woman dressed in a tinsel skirt tumbles out through the sitting-room door. The table in the hall is crowded with empty glasses, and a candle drips wax on to the floor. The White Rabbit and March Hare stand by the front door. Then Maya appears, dressed as a witch. She wears a long black evening dress, black pointed shoes, and spikes of black paper stuck onto her fingernails. The child knows that Maya won’t make her go back to bed. Maya will help her to find her father. She helped her to put her costume on earlier and brought her a packet of crayons from London. As she moves down the stairs, Maya holds a camera in her spiky-nailed hands. The child looks into the lens and hears the shutter click.

  As her feet touch the tiled floor, she explains to Maya that she must go with her father, she must hurry. But first she must find her coat. In the back corridor, coats are piled on to hooks, they hang over the stair-rail and are heaped on the wooden chest. The child trips in her too-big shoes and stretches her hand up to the hooks, trying to find her duffel coat. Her head is buried in wool and she can’t see anything. She throws her weight against the coats on the wooden chest and they slide on to the floor. But hers is not among them. Her father will go without her. She’ll never get to the place where stars come down to earth.

  What’s the matter? Maya’s voice slurs behind her.

  My coat – I must find my coat.

  Maya shakes her head. You’ll never find it here, she says. It’ll be under all the others. But take this – it’ll be all right. Look. The child stands while Maya drapes the short cloak around her and ties the bow under her chin. The cloak – light and warm – folds down over her shoulders. The child hides her arms under it. She runs back into the hall.

  Her mother stands near the front door. She wears a long dress of floral cotton which is laced tight at the waist. Her shoulders are covered by a chiffon scarf which falls almost to the floor. Tiny shoes, embroidered with flowers, poke out from under her gown. Her mother’s face is taut and pale. Eva, what are you doing? she says. You should be in bed.

  She’s all right, Maya says. She’s quite all right.

  The child dodges into the sitting room and hides behind the door. She watches her mother and Maya through the crack which runs between the hinges. They stand on either side of the hall table. The child thinks of dogs – the way they circle and growl before they pounce. Wax drips down in a spreading pool.

  She’s all right, stop worrying, Maya says.

  No, no. She must go back to bed. You don’t understand, you don’t understand. He can’t be trusted, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I don’t want her anywhere near him.

  Just calm down, Maya says. Stop trying to control everything.

  No, no, no. Please just stop interfering. This is my house and my family.

  The child turns her head away from the crack in the door and waits. When she looks again, a man in a top hat and tails is speaking to her mother. Jump leads? Anti-freeze? Her mother shakes her head and follows the top-hat man.

  The child goes back into the hall. Two musketeers and a man in pyjamas block the front door. She asks Maya. Where is he? Where is he?

  Don’t worry, dear, we’ll find him. The child is sure that he’ll have gone down towards the lake, to the boathouse. That’s where he goes sometimes at night to watch the stars. The child tells Maya that she needs to go out into the garden and Maya guides her through the sitting room and out through the French windows. The cold is raw as a wound. A bonfire smell rises over the frosted lawn. The garden is alight with torches and candles. The child looks up and sees a perfect round moon, large and low in the sky. Shadows dance in the light of the fire. She steps down from the terrace and on to the lawn. A face painted in gold flashes in front of her and then is gone.

  She turns back towards the lights of the house and sees the familiar shapes of the sitting room – the sofa, the wall-lights, the mirror above the fireplace. Maya is standing near the front windows, watching her, and she waves. The child moves through the shifting shadows. The blue frockcoat appears in the distance, near the path to the lake and the spider’s-web gate. Under her feet, the grass is stiff with frost. Her nose runs, her lips are numb. Trees are patches of dark against the darkness. Wait for me, wait for me. Behind her, someone shouts about fireworks. The child reaches the spider’s-web gate. Her father is ahead of her in the trees. Behind her, the sounds of music and laughter fade.

  She hurries down the path, through stripes of moonlight. A brick and flint wall and an open door appear ahead of her. She stops still, looks down at her red shoes, feels the cloak around her. She must never go through that door. She must never go through that door. Her shoes will not move. Her father has gone, his shadow sliding down the frame of the door.

  Then his voice calls out to her, breaking the night air, spiralling upwards into a sky heavy with stars. Its sound grows and spreads, drawing her to him. They will go to that place and a star will come down to earth. Her foot hovers by the gate. The voice comes again. Then she’s running down the path, through the tall marsh grass, towards the edge of the lake and the jetty. A light shines out from the boathouse. That’s where he’s going. He’ll have turned left onto the path which runs around the lake.

  But that’s not where he’s gone. Instead he’s ahead of her, far out on the lake, walking on water. He turns in the moonlight, glittering. She hears his call. Eva, come, come. His head is tipped back and he’s staring upwards, pointing. He’s floating above the water, riding over the top of it. Eva, come, come.

  Then from somewhere far behind her, a woman’s voice screams. Fear comes down on the child like cold water. Her father is standing on ice, and ice can break. She knows that the lake is shallow at the edges but at the centre it’s deep as the ocean. No, no, no. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know. She must tell him, she must stop him. His hand is on the hot-plate, but he cannot feel it burn.

  Ulitsa Spasskaia, Malakhovka

  August 1991

  I take the elektrichka from the Kiev Station. The train is wide and brown. It rocks and sighs on its rails as it passes pylons and factories, smudged by the morning mist. At a chipped and peeling wooden station it stops to pick up families laden with boxes of tools, wire, bags of sand and planks of wood. The landscape changes – a stretch of green, a tunnel of silver birch. A dank river is clogged with fallen branches, plastic bags and petrol tins.

  I turn over that fragment of memory in my mind – red shoes, a bonfire smell, the light from the sitting room, sh
adows moving across a dark lawn. I thought that what I saw that night was a magician who could walk on water, who could bring down stars from the sky. But what I really saw was a sick man running out onto a frozen lake. And the two women – Maya and my mother – who should have stopped him, were too busy arguing to see what was happening. Which is why neither of them will talk about that night.

  The station at Malakhovka is deserted except for one babushka sitting on a bench in front of a bucket of potatoes. I walk over a level crossing, past a shop and a line of houses. In my head I describe to myself everything I’m seeing. I need to keep my mind occupied by external details to stop it being pulled back again to the frozen lake, and the sudden screams. A redbrick church is topped by a dome spiralling up into the sky like whipped ice cream. I turn into a half-made road which dissolves into mud at the edges. Around me, the land is forested and has a gentle roll to it, like the sea on a calm day. In a yard full of rusted cars a man works with a welding torch, which flashes sparks into the still air.

  Behind falling-down fences, I see wooden houses painted blue and green. They have steep tin roofs, lace curtains and strips of wood carved in intricate patterns along the windows and eaves. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of a woman working with a hoe or a rake, a man hammering or laying concrete.

  Although the directions Jack wrote were brief, I find the dacha without any trouble. It’s the same as the others but larger, with an acre of garden, a garage and a glassed-in veranda at the front. I walk to it through yellow flowers scattered across an overgrown lawn. The doors to the veranda are open and Jack is there, propped in a chair, asleep. His glasses are pushed half off his nose, and his book has fallen to the floor. His face is all bone, the skin of his neck loose and wrinkled. I know now that I’ve found him I’ll be safe.