In the kitchen, Aunty Olga asked me to help her boil the kettle. The tea she brewed was strong and black, and I was told to take out a bottle of fresh blackcurrant conserve from the cupboard. She also opened a packet of gingerbread.
As we were about to sit down to eat and drink, I opened my bag and took out the chocolates and the cassettes.
‘These are for you, Olga Mikhailovna.’
‘Call me Aunty Olga, as you used to. No need to be formal.’ She looked at the cassettes. ‘You know about Leynya, don’t you?’
‘Yes, the husband of the woman with the dog told me.’
‘Cancer, may God bless his soul. He just wouldn’t stop smoking those awful cigarettes of his. Died before finishing the proofs of his jazz book. I had to do it for him. I didn’t mind. Anna helped as well. She came for the funeral. She brought Maya with her. Leynya didn’t see her before he went. He died here, at home, in his room. Didn’t want to go into hospital.’
She took a sip of tea. ‘Anna must have been at the airport when Leynya died. We took the ashes to Tatyur, found the wooden cabin and the birch tree and scattered the ashes around it. I have a photo of the tree.’
‘Who is Maya?’ I wanted to ask, but Aunty Olga ordered me to go to her room and fetch a photo album from a drawer in the bedside table. As I walked in I saw that, amazingly, it hadn’t changed at all. The bookshelf looked a little fuller but the icon of Bogomateri was still squashed in between the books.
I stood for a few moments waiting for the door to open and Anna to walk in, take off her nightshirt and—
‘Have you found the album?’ I heard Aunty Olga call. ‘It’s in the top drawer.’ Then after a pause: ‘You men are all the same. Can’t ever find anything.’
I found the album and made myself leave the room. Aunty Olga opened it and showed me some photos. In them I could see no one but Maya. The rest of the world seemed to melt away.
Who is Maya? The question appeared out of place. I knew who Maya was. I knew it as soon as I had heard the name, from the very sound of it.
Aunty Olga watched me looking at the photo. ‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’ she said, and then after a pause added, ‘She’s yours, you know.’
I know, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t utter a word.
I felt completely lost. As I tried to recover, I suddenly found myself stranded in an unknown street of my childhood. I was returning from school and my right hip and thigh hurt as the heavy canvas schoolbag rubbed against them. I had scraped skin off my thigh and there was blood, enough to stain my shorts. I was weeping loudly, taking no notice of the people around me. Huge tears rolled down my cheeks and my nose was running so that snot was everywhere, down the front of my shirt and the sleeve. I would run for a few metres, then walk, then run again.
I rushed into the house, threw my bag on the floor and burst into Jijee-ma’s room. She had been sitting on the bed talking to a seamstress. I didn’t care. I ran to her, buried my head in her lap and cried and cried. After a few minutes in Jijee-ma’s lap I calmed down. ‘Govind pushed me and hit me,’ I told her. My cuts were swabbed and I was given a glass of sweetened lemon cordial. ‘He wanted to see my new pencil-box and I didn’t want to show him, because he’s a thief. He snatched it from my hand and it fell on the ground, and as I went to pick it up he pushed me hard and kicked me. Govind is bigger than me but no one came to help me. They just stood and watched. Some even giggled.’
What I didn’t tell Jijee-ma that day was that the big new hand-lens which Uncle Triple K had given me had been broken in the scuffle. It had been this that had made me cry and run. The cuts, blood and pain were not important. The lens had been more important than anything else in the world.
But that had happened many years ago, in that other world called childhood.
‘Yes, Maya is gorgeous,’ I said, still in shock and confused. ‘Please tell me more about her.’
‘So you don’t know anything?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t try to find out?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t suspect?’
‘I did, but—’
‘Didn’t know what to do? You just let Anna go. And that was it.’
‘Yes, I suppose I did.’
‘Why, for God’s sake, why?’
I was finding it hard to answer. ‘Perhaps I was selfish; perhaps I was too proud. I felt betrayed. I felt abandoned and hurt. I felt like a victim. Yes that’s the right word: victim.’
Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. Then she got up and walked out of the kitchen. I heard the toilet flush. She called me to help her back. We sat down and she picked up a photo. Then she returned it to the album and started talking.
She told me that Maya would be eleven in September; that she was a bright child, naturally gifted; that she was kind and sincere; that she spoke three languages, Russian, French and English; that she played the guitar and composed her own songs; that she wanted to be a journalist or a writer; that she came to Moscow every other year; that she hated boys and would never marry or have her own children, but would adopt a couple from Vietnam or Angola; that she didn’t like the beaches and surf for which Australia is so famous; that on her sixteenth birthday she would go with one of her friends, a dancer, to the very centre of the country to spend a year with a community of what she called ‘real Australians’; that she hated her mother for being so selfish and self-centred and for deciding not to do anything worthwhile with her life; that she despised her mother’s awful choice of lovers, who always turned out to be mean and arrogant; that she wanted her babulya-aunt to keep her grandpa’s books and papers safe, because when she was twenty she would write a book about him and his agitprop wife; that she would read every single book of Marx, Engels and Lenin to understand what was wrong with the system that gave birth to a monster like Stalin; that she despised the multinational corporations which ruthlessly exploit the poor in Third World countries; that when she was eighteen she would release her first record of revolutionary love songs—
‘I like her,’ said Aunty Olga, ‘Doesn’t she sound like you?’
‘Just a little,’ I wanted to say. ‘At eleven I didn’t know much about the world.’
I left Moscow in early September and spent some time in Leningrad, Kiev and Odessa. I even risked visiting Yakutsk, and was surprised that no one harassed me for travelling without a proper visa. A student at the Institute who remembered Leonid Mikhailovich took me to Tatyur. I managed to locate the birch tree with the bench beside it and sat there for a few minutes.
The student told me that Maria had been killed in a boating accident, and that the cabin now belonged to a local club of nature-lovers who used it as a meeting room.
I wanted to catch a boat up the River Lena, but the student warned me that the water was beginning to freeze and I would be marooned.
I returned to Berlin in the last week of December. One bright sunny day I went to the River Spree and scattered Vladimir’s ashes which I had carried with me in an urn.
The following day, as children were opening their Christmas presents, Mikhail Gorbachev signed some papers in the Kremlin and the Soviet Union vanished forever from the face of the world.
For some a dream was over. For others, a nightmare had reached its end.
I left Moscow promising never to return. But I did return, not once but many times, each time taking away with me a fragment of the city attached to something given to me by a friend or acquired in a shop, theatre or forest.
After Vladimir’s funeral Katya had asked me if I wanted to keep something of his and I chose the book from which he always used to read. It was signed by his mother and had been given to him on his fourteenth birthday.
From Shurik I received two small photos, one showing Lena standing on a tank. But the thing which would determine the future course of my life was a small photo of Maya with her guitar.
Maya meets her Papa
Anna
I hadn’t expected
a call so early in the morning, since Aunty Olga knew the time difference. I picked up the phone and the question came straight at me. No hello, no sorry, just: ‘Has Vasu phoned?’
Of course he hadn’t. But her question confirmed what I had seen on the telly. The man standing with Shurik and Yasya in front of the White House was definitely Vasu.
‘He’s in Moscow,’ Aunty Olga said.
‘I know. I saw him on the news. So he came to see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you told him about Papa?’
‘No. The nosy neighbour told him.’
‘Was he upset? Vasu was very fond of Papa.’
‘Of course. But he was more upset about something else. He even cried. I’m sure you know why.’
‘Yes, I suppose I know.’
‘So why didn’t you tell him about Maya? That’s so terrible Anna, so horrible.’
‘I know. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was selfish. Perhaps too proud. Perhaps I felt betrayed and hurt. I just don’t know.’
‘He said the same thing when I asked him why he didn’t go looking for you. Even his words were the same,’ said Aunty Olga. ‘Stupid.’
‘I know him. He’s so correct, so self-righteous, so bloody decent.’
I was furious at myself for the anger I was showing.
She said: ‘You’re still angry at him, aren’t you? But you were the one who left him. And you never even told him why.’
I didn’t reply and for a while Aunty Olga was silent too.
Then she said: ‘He asked for Maya’s photo and I couldn’t refuse him. I’ve given him your address and phone number too. He’s sure to call you soon – or write.’
‘Let him call.’
‘But you should let Maya know. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?’
‘She’ll be upset, but that’s normal. I was upset too, don’t you remember? Sooner or later she would have found out. I’m sure she already suspects something.’
There was silence between us for a few moments and then I asked something which surprised us both. ‘How did he look? Was he all right?’
Aunty Olga told me that he had seemed more depressed than usual, probably because he had come to say goodbye to Vladimir. He had also been shocked by the coup and the rapid collapse of the Union.
‘He looked old and tired and burnt out,’ she said. She described how he had spent a night in the apartment sleeping on the floor in the library; said that he had given her two packets of Belgian chocolates and hadn’t known what to do with the jazz cassettes he had brought for Leynya; that in the morning as he was leaving she had gone to the window to see him walking away and that he had seemed desolate. She felt really sorry for him.
‘Meeting Maya would make him happy,’ she said. ‘Do your best to make it happen.’
Maya
A couple of nights ago I heard Mama talk to someone on the phone. Must be Babushka Olga, I thought, because it was quite late at night and she was speaking Russian. I was already in bed and could only hear a few words.
Usually Mama tells me everything about her conversations with Babushka, but next morning she said nothing. I’m ready to wait. Let’s see how long she can keep her secret from me.
My full name is Maya V. Eisner. Like all Russian names, the letter ‘V’ stands for my father’s name.
I did ask Mama once about my father’s name.
‘Do you really want to know?’ Mama had said. There was something strange about her tone, and not only her tone, but her whole face, particularly around the eyes. She looked hurt. It made me ask myself why I was putting her through this. But I needed to find out more. However this time, so as not to disturb her, I just said ‘Not really’ and pretended to forget our exchange.
But I didn’t forget and I am sure she remembered it too. One thing I know for certain: she wouldn’t have told me the truth then. She’s very clever, you know, good at spinning stories and all that bullshit. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.
I know I could always phone Babushka Olga and she wouldn’t hide anything from me, if I asked. So why haven’t I? Am I crazy or what? No, it’s because I’m in no hurry to meet my father. I’m fine here without him.
They say that he is alive and well and that one day he’ll certainly come looking for me. I don’t feel any strong urge to meet him. I don’t need him at all. I’m quite happy without him.
Anna
We live in a small cottage attached to Milos’ big house up in the Blue Mountains outside Sydney. Maya likes the cottage but for me it’s nothing more than a place to stay, although I’m pleased that we don’t have to move for a while. I’m happy living with Milos and he seems satisfied, at least for now. It’s a simple arrangement that suits us well.
During the summer the cottage is rented to the tourists and Maya and I move into the main house and look after them. Maya knows the area well and often takes them on guided walks. I cook for them and in the evening if they are in the mood to be entertained we play for them.
Milos bought Laura, the house, from an architect who designed it for his wife. But she was killed in a car accident before she ever lived in it. The house has two storeys, the second up among the leafy canopy of grand old trees. Milos’ studio is up there, surrounded on three sides by a deck. We can walk along the deck and touch the leaves.
The studio has a huge east-facing window that is much bigger than the ones on the other three sides. A fireplace sits in the centre. The dark parquet floor is covered with cheap rugs and carpets. The studio contains two chairs and a wooden divan stacked with cushions. It is unusually tidy and empty for a sculptor’s studio. Milos has a workshop on the ground floor where he does the dirty work. In the studio he just waits for the muse that often arrives in the form of women of all shapes and sizes. Their faces, I’ve noticed, aren’t pretty but their bodies exude pleasure.
Does their presence annoy me? Occasionally.
‘Why don’t you say something to him?’ Maya scolds. But we both know we don’t have a choice, at least for now.
‘He gets his usual quota from them,’ I could have told her. ‘That means I’m spared.’
I consider myself the housekeeper. My job is to look after Milos as well as his house. Luckily there isn’t much to take care of, which leaves lots of time for Maya and me to do what we want. I give music lessons and sometimes work in an antiques shop in Katoomba. Once a fortnight we visit an old Russian woman, Larissa Andreevna, who lives in a small dilapidated house down in Bondi. We help her with the chores around her house, fill the cupboard with groceries and ensure that her fridge has enough food for a fortnight. We read out her mail to her, deposit cheques and pay bills. Most importantly we talk to her in Russian.
‘I miss being called Larissa Andreevna,’ she tells us each time we visit her. Then she begins to mumble the same old story, which we all know is believable but not quite true.
In her story she is the ‘real’ Lara in Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. Unlike the Lara of the book she accepted the offer of a rich merchant, a spy, and escaped to Shanghai. There he tried to pimp her in clubs and bars and for a short time she complied. ‘To make a bit of money and buy some time,’ she says now. She doesn’t blame him for anything. ‘Those were bad times.’
Larissa Andreevna came to Sydney just before World War II and opened a salon in Bondi where she became known for her ‘secret’ séances. Her knowledge of the tarot was phenomenal and so was her knack for reading bumps on heads, hairy or bald. She even tried her hand at acupuncture and enjoyed considerable success in the use of Chinese herbs, potions and other similar concoctions to ‘cure’ people.
‘It was such fun,’ she often laughs, ‘and made me good money too. People are so stupid and gullible, I tell you.’
Maya
‘I have something important to tell you,’ Mama said. We were washing our hands after putting away some gardening tools in the shed. Saturday afternoons were for gardening and we both enjoyed pottering around togethe
r, gossiping and listening to music on the radio.
On this particular Saturday, she went quiet.
‘Is it about Babushka’s call?’
‘So you listened in, did you?’
‘Just a few words. I was sleeping you know. And then in the morning you didn’t say anything so I knew you were hiding something. You’re such a bad liar, Mama.’
‘I was going to—’
‘I know it’s about my Papa. I did hear his name. It’s Vasu, isn’t it? I wrote it down as soon as I got up that morning.’
‘What else did you hear?’
‘Nothing much. Then I went to the library to look it up. An Indian woman at the reference desk told me that it was an Indian name and that all ancient Hindu architects were called Vasu. So is he an architect?’
‘Not exactly. An urban designer.’
‘And you met him in a library?’
She was amazed. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Where else would you two be? Not at dances, that’s for sure.’
She pushed a large packet towards me. ‘This is for you,’ she said.
The Canadian stamps on it were really beautiful. Inside were two envelopes. One was open and addressed to Mama. I read that letter first, then opened the other that was addressed to me. After reading a few lines, I got up and moved to the other end of the garden and sat on a rock near the little pond to finish it.
I read the letter twice. My first reading was quick, just to check if it contained anything tragic or terrible. The second was slow and careful.
Then I folded the two A4-sized sheets and put them in my pocket. There were also three photos in the packet. One showed a small house and the other two a large lake, which Mama said was Lake Ontario. There was no photo of my father. Later I found his picture on the dining table where Mama had left it. It was a little black-and-white picture of a man sitting by himself on the steps of our family’s dacha in Prudkino. On the back there was no name, just a date in Mama’s writing.
After Love Page 20