by Alice Jolly
Something has changed, but I don’t know what. The façade of ordinariness is cracking away from everything. The world is revealed in all its original strangeness. Fruit and vegetables are displayed under a striped awning outside a night shop. Strands of tinsel weave around the vegetable boxes, and inside, electronic carols play.
On a shelf in the window, robins bob across a chocolate log and miniature reindeers pull a sleigh over an icing field of snow. A bucket on the floor contains one bunch of yellow dahlias. Wrapped in crumpled orange paper, they manage to look both spiky and withered. But still I want to buy them because of Jack. Their smell is bitter but I stand in the street breathing it in. I remember that question, And can you have the same pleasure from other things? Can you enjoy sunlight on a puddle as much as the kiss of a lover? Just at this moment it seems that perhaps I can.
What has happened? This is just an ordinary December night in ordinary Geneva, and yet the sound of traffic rever-berates deep inside me. And in the rain, the pavements sparkle like spilt jewels, sharp air rushes into my lungs. The smells of the roads and the cars’ exhausts go right through my body. Joy blows up inside me like a balloon. I turn to my father, as we stand under the shop awning, and we smile at each other over the vulgar flowers.
When we get back to my building he says goodbye but then both of us hesitate. He turns to go and I want to call him back, but I don’t know what name to use. ‘Dad.’ He turns around and we both listen to that unfamiliar sound. Still we hesitate, watching each other under the harsh electric light.
‘Perhaps when you get to England you’ll say to Mum … Well, I don’t know. Perhaps just send her my love.’
‘Yes, I’ll certainly do that. And I’ll see you at the wedding,’ he says.
I open my mouth to explain that there won’t be any wedding. I’m going to La Paz. But then a switch clicks in my head and I know, with a resounding certainty, that I’m not going anywhere. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes. It won’t be straight after Christmas. But yes – see you at the wedding.’ The words have the solemnity of phrases pronounced in front of an altar.
12/20 rue de Lausanne, Geneva
December 1991
The next morning I wake early and get everything ready for Rob. I plug the phone back in and work out how to turn the central heating up. I go out and buy food, candles, champagne and more flowers to add to that bunch of yellow dahlias in their vase on the kitchen table. The flat should be decorated with holly, streamers and strands of tinsel, but I don’t have time for that. Instead I assemble the ingredients for a beef casserole with black olives, and a ginger cake. This is the kind of thing that married women do.
I used to make ginger cake with my mother when I was a child but I’m struggling to remember. Soften the butter first and make sure to sift the flour. Jack said that I’d stay with Rob. As usual it seems that he was – oddly, annoyingly, unexpectedly – right. Decisions don’t have to be grand and dramatic. You can choose what you already have.
I chop onions for the casserole and then garlic. This is where my life is now. In this flat, doing these things. The cardboard cut-out girl would have gone away, but I will not. No more rented rooms in cities where I don’t have to explain. Isn’t a tree in London much the same as a tree in Moscow? The need to be free can be its own prison. And it’s surprising, really, how interesting chopping garlic can be. Unwrapping those tiny layers, hearing that chop, as the knife goes down. The smell is sharp, good, clean. And really you could fall in love with a piece of garlic. And you could spend all day near the window, with the knife coming down, and the air outside so heavy and white that snow must surely fall by the end of the day.
I cream butter and sugar together, beat eggs, sift flour. If I stay with Rob then I can’t allow him to finish up like Harvey – a man endlessly clattering in the hall of my life. I have to make it different. One person can save another just by living in reality. That’s all it takes. That’s what Jack did for me. It would be too easy to move on to some new man. What I need is a different relationship with the man I’ve got.
I add a splash of milk to the cake mixture and two table-spoons of ground almonds. Is that how you do it? I remember the look on Rob’s face as he left for Kiev that morning. Perhaps he knew then that I would go to Jack but still he went. Jack wasn’t the only person who wanted to set me free. I chop preserved ginger and fresh ginger, then I add a teaspoon of ground ginger as well. You have to have all three. Perhaps love isn’t so much a feeling as a decision you make.
The doorbell rings and I find the concierge outside, obscured by the bulk of a large package. It has come by courier from America. I take it into the flat and put it down on the sofa. With a knife, I cut through the plastic tape. Inside are four cushions made of sea-green silk, decorated with dark blue beads and gold tassels. Maya and her compensations and comforts. They could have come straight off that spacious Moscow sofa. I take one of the cushions out of its plastic packaging, put it down on a kitchen chair, then sit down on it and read Maya’s letter. Her handwriting contains the cadences of her voice.
She’s so ve-e-ry sorry that she hasn’t been in touch for so long. The move back to America ne-e-arly killed her. Everything has been in boxes for months. Two armchairs are missing and half of her shoes. The glass dome of the chiming clock which used to stand on the hall table is cracked right down the front. She didn’t know what we’d want for a wedding present but she hopes we like the cushions. Massachusetts isn’t what it was, the letter says. She knows no one there now. A block of flats has been built at the back of her house and the view is s-o-o ugly she has to keep the blinds down. I picture her sitting there, surrounded by bottles, complaining. Oh Maya, you will kill yourself with comfort. But, she continues, she’s reading a fascinating book about the early history of America. So ve-e-ry interesting.
Then – almost in mid-sentence – the letter changes. She hopes that I received Jack’s boxes. She gave some of his things to the old lady in his flat, and she tried to find out if there was anyone in America she should contact, but it seemed he had no living relatives. She sent the rest to me. After I left, she says, an officious young man from the American Embassy came round asking about that velvet coat. Someone had recognized it as belonging to me. The young man asked what it was doing in Jack’s flat. Maya says she told him that the coat certainly did belong to me, but I’d lost it months before – March or April perhaps. Lost, definitely, lost.
Then she says – and the letter blurs in front of my eyes – that she organized for Jack to be buried in the cemetery near the Church of the Resurrection because, as a child, he used to live near there. She’s not sure – did I ever visit that church? It was complicated to organize that, and perhaps it wasn’t the right thing to do. She went to see him buried. I imagine her standing there in that Moscow churchyard crowded out by the textile factory. The August heat is dusty, and Maya wears one of her neatly pressed linen safari suits, and leans on her stick. The white walls of the church are grubby in the sun. The bell chimes, just as it did when Jack and I were there. A few other people hover – perhaps Anna, or Svetlana or whatever her name was. One day I’ll be able to go there and visit his grave.
I think of Maya at her dressing-table doing her make-up while in the street below, the tanks rolled by. As she left the flat that day, there was that moment when she and I understood each other entirely. How strange to discover that anger can be more intimate than kindness.
I ask myself now why she ever kept the photographs she took that night? It seems that people as deluded as Maya are arrogant in their lies, and yet at the same time they continually flirt with the truth. Even after all those years she still couldn’t accept the truth about my father, and she still couldn’t face up to the fact that her delusions nearly led to my death. How can a clever woman be so blind? But I can hardly accuse her because, in other ways, I was just as bad. She is simply the person I’d have become if I hadn’t met Jack.
I put on a brightly coloured woollen skirt and
a jumper that I never wear because usually I feel it looks too tight. Now I decide that perhaps it rather suits me. I apply some mascara and eye-liner. After that I add lipstick but it looks too much, so I wipe it off. I pace around the flat waiting for Rob to call. I’m hoping I’ll be able to meet him at the airport, but he rings to say that his flight is delayed and I shouldn’t come. Later I find him at the lifts being harassed by a rucksack, a roll bag and three bulging suitcases. Stupidly, I start trying to deal with the suitcases when I haven’t even kissed him. Then I stumble on a bag as I reach out to him. He feels thin and smells pleasantly unwashed. His hair needs cutting and he hasn’t shaved.
‘Great flat,’ he says, as we drag his bags through the door. I suppose it is a good flat. I’d never thought about it much. He walks through every room. ‘Fitted wardrobes – and bedside lights.’
‘Yes, but don’t you miss the carpet on the walls?’
In the sitting room he glances at the telephone.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’ve had so many problems with it.’
‘That’s OK.’ He goes into the kitchen. ‘And a dishwasher?’ He opens it and looks inside, pulling out the top rack.
‘More interested in dishwashers than democracy?’ I say.
Rob laughs and I remember how much I like that sound. ‘Yes,’ he says, with a theatrical shrug. ‘Perhaps I am.’ With exaggerated attention he runs his finger along the front of the dishwasher rack. ‘Actually, dishwashers can be fascinating.’
I want Rob to kiss me and I know he wants to, but it doesn’t happen. Of course, it takes time to get back into the habit of someone when you haven’t seen them for nearly four months. We open the champagne and stand in the kitchen while he talks about Zagreb. From outside, a car backfires and Rob jumps back from the window. Suddenly I wonder what exactly he’s been doing since I last saw him. I’d like to ask, but Rob just shrugs and smiles as though his sudden movement was a joke. I think of all those conversations I planned this morning. I was going to sort everything out, start us off on a new course. It was all so easy in my mind. But now we’re back in the same old silence. I need to tell him about my father’s visit, but I can’t find a way to begin.
Rob starts fiddling with the television. I’ve switched it on a couple of times before and seen nothing more than a grey-and-black fizzing screen. Rob adjusts various sockets and a clear picture appears. He flicks around the channels and then decides to have a bath. ‘Listen,’ I say, as he turns to go. ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry I didn’t keep in better touch. And sorry I was so strange in Moscow. I’m much better now.’
‘Oh good. Good.’ He nods and wanders away to open one of his cases. Probably he’s tired from the journey. It seems odd to have him in this flat. After he’s had a bath we sit down to eat, facing each other across the table, looking out over the lights on the lake. I want to sit close, but we finish up at opposite ends of the table. Low voices mumble from the television. Rob has put it on because he doesn’t want to miss the news. I see him looking at Maya’s cushions, which he propped on the sofa.
‘Maya sent them,’ I say.
He’s still staring at the cushions, puzzled.
‘You know, as a present …’
Rob pulls at the collar of his shirt and clears his throat. ‘Eva, listen, I’ve got something to say.’ The spoon in my hand tips and gravy splashes back into the casserole. ‘It’s great to see you again. But you know we talked about getting married? It’s just that now – I don’t think it’s the right thing.’
My stomach drops down a lift-shaft. But of course. I should have known it couldn’t really be so easy. If he doesn’t want to marry me, it’s hardly surprising. I’ll never know now what he knew about Jack and I’ll never be able to ask. Probably he knew much more than I ever understood. He’d have felt it, even if he didn’t know. When I speak, I’m surprised by how calm my voice is. ‘It’s all right, I understand. You don’t have to explain.’
‘No, Eva, it’s not that. It’s just … I know it’s not right for you, that’s all.’
I put the spoon back into the casserole and stare around me at the candles and flowers. How could I have thought that a few props on a stage-set could make a marriage? Rob comes to my end of the table and serves the casserole for both of us. I watch the neat way in which he does it, with not a drop spilt. Why are we being so well-behaved? He should be shouting accusations at me, calling me a whore. I should be on my knees, pleading with him. Instead I pour a glass of water for him.
‘Did you meet someone else in Zagreb?’
‘No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’
I’ve made the mistake which indecisive people often make. I thought that because I’d finally made up my mind, then everything else would automatically fall into place. I should have known that this fatherless world would prove a little more varied and vicious than that. I pick up my glass of champagne and see Rob watching me. I put the glass down slowly, wanting to say, Look, I’m not making a tragedy out of this. Our forks scrape on our plates and Rob says how good the casserole is. It occurs to me that he probably went to Zagreb in order to finish this. I wasn’t meant to be here when he got back.
‘So now you’ll go back to Zagreb?’ I ask, keeping my voice even.
‘No, I’ll stay here. I’ve decided that.’
Rob opens a bottle of wine and pours me a glass. Some ridiculous part of me wants to propose a toast and click my glass against his. A toast to not getting married, to behaving far too well, to a future refusing to happen. I keep my hand steady and drink the wine too fast. The casserole tastes like glue, the table has become as long as a football pitch.
‘And you?’ Rob says. ‘What will you do?’
‘I think I’ll go back to South America. La Paz, perhaps. I shouldn’t have any difficulty getting a job there.’ But I’m finished with all that. I was always the one who was going to put an end to this relationship. Rob can’t finish with me – that’s not the way it’s meant to be. I put the lid back on the casserole and tell Rob about the ginger cake. I put it on the table and it stands there, with its lemon icing, mocking me. He says, ‘Let’s save it for tomorrow.’ Tomorrow? There isn’t any tomorrow. The music from the ten o’clock news sounds from the television.
I start to clear the table, moving the pots carefully. ‘Eva, come and look at this.’ Moscow appears on the screen. The ridiculous ice-cream cones of St Basil’s, the sinister red walls of the Kremlin, the black Moskva river sidling behind them. This is the Moscow of tourists and journalists. It doesn’t look anything like the place we knew. Martin Sixsmith stands in Krasnaia Ploshchad’ and explains that, as from midnight on New Year’s Eve, the Soviet Union will formally cease to exist. I turn away, unable to watch. I should be thinking, What good news. But it feels as though Moscow itself is coming to an end. I want Rob and me to go back to our flat there, and sit with our knees close under the kitchen table. I look over at Mr Balashov’s tiny dolls propped on the windowsill. I want him, Sasha, Maya, Jack. I even want garlic sausage, pickles, pilchards. I loved Moscow. Even in the worst of hardship and scarcity, it remained an unfailingly generous city.
‘Rob, sorry. I need a bit of fresh air.’ I pull my coat off the hook on the back of the door. Rob turns to look at me. He’s glad that I’m hurt and I’m glad as well. This can’t be allowed to go too easily. Outside, the sky is low, the air hushed, the first flakes of snow are just starting to fall. Everything feels unsteady, even my feet, my legs. There’s always been Rob. He’s the default option, a possible end to the story. I suddenly desperately want to stay in Geneva. And the worst of it is that I know I can’t allow myself a shred of pity. Don’t come crying to me, Eva Curren, you’ve only yourself to blame. You’ve finally got what you deserve.
The snow falls in wet flakes, evaporating on the shoulders of my coat. In my head, a roulette-wheel spins. The white ball dances over the slots. La Paz, Sucre, Lima. A world in which the buttons of your coat maliciously refuse to fit int
o the right holes, where you melt like wax, or bang a drum like a clockwork rabbit, going on and on, when you should be lying on the floor with your mouth babbling and your tongue blocking the back of your throat. I stand under the branches of a cedar tree and wail silently.
‘Eva, are you all right?’
Rob’s hair is wet from the snow and he’s out of breath. He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eva. You always wanted out of this – why don’t you take your chance?’
‘Because –’
‘Listen. You know how it is. We can’t build a relationship out of the past.’
‘But …’ All the arguments I rehearsed have gone from my head. We stand in silence under the spreading branches of the tree and wait for words to arrive, but they don’t come. Rob walks away from me, down towards the lake, through the slanting snow. It seems to me now that he and I have lived in a world of borrowed identities. I loved my father when my mother couldn’t love him. And she loved me when he was gone. And I loved Jack because of him. And perhaps Rob loved me because he’d lost his mother. A diabolical game of musical chairs.
Rob stands at the place where a jetty, closed off with a chain, runs out into the lake. Through the darkness and snow I see his head bent, his foot kicking idly at a loose paving stone. I move towards him and, when he looks at me, tears have gathered in his eyes. ‘I let you down,’ he says. For a moment I want to tell him not to cry, but then I realize that for too long his world has been full of people who rely on him not to cry.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. You can make a mistake. In fact, I’d like you to make a few. I’m fed up with making them all myself.’
‘It wasn’t a small mistake.’
‘Maybe. But things can be different.’
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘And for you as well. I can help you.’
This idea is quite new to Rob. ‘Do you really believe that it can be different?’