When I left home six weeks ago, Mama was rehearsing Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs with the Symphony Orchestra. It’s great that she is going back to music, and this time it looks long-term. She always took the lessons she gave very seriously, going out of her way to help her students. I used to sit through the lessons and listen because I love the way she talks about music.
‘Why did you drop archaeology?’ I asked her once.
‘Because I don’t feel at home anywhere,’ she said, ‘and not because I don’t want to. When I left Russia I left my past tucked in those suitcases I abandoned – and I’m glad I did,’ she said.
‘What about doing archaeology in Australia?’
‘Here it’s even more difficult,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any feeling for the land or the people or their histories. The land is beautiful, no doubt, and the people too are honest, fair-minded and proud. Yet I still feel uneasy. It’s as if there is something immoral, inherently wrong, for Europeans like me to be living here. Even my cello seems out of place. Once I asked Milos to find me a didgeridoo player with whom I could improvise some Bach. He completely dismissed the idea. He called it not only stupid but ridiculous.’
She looked at me. ‘Tell me, is it really so ridiculous?’
I didn’t know what to say. I was confused myself. But for her to ask Milos was even more ridiculous. How would he know, the pompous old bastard? I don’t like him at all. I know that without him our lives would be much harder. But he really is a dishonest prick.
‘I don’t feel at home anywhere.’ Mama often says that. But what does it really mean? I don’t understand her angst. Perhaps I’m too young. Perhaps I don’t want to belong to a particular place or people. Just travel like a global citizen? But what about my Australian passport with my stamped photo? ‘Tattooed forever,’ as Mandy says.
Why is the world so complicated?
Before we left, Mandy came from Perth to stay with us. We went with Mama to the dentist to get a tooth that was giving her trouble treated. Mama riffled through an old National Geographic and I heard her ask the receptionist if she could borrow the magazine for a few days to photocopy an article.
At home she pulled out a typed manuscript which looked really old. It was an English translation of her thesis on the Scythian town of Gelon. The article she had found in National Geographic was about the gold dug from the Siberian kurgans; it also had an interview with one of the professors she had worked with.
Later that evening I saw her reading another manuscript, the book she had never finished. I found the manuscript in the garbage bin the next morning.
I took it out. The cover and the page listing the contents were ripped. I found sticky-tape to repair the damage and put the manuscript carefully away in a box.
In India I once went to Papa’s lecture on the architecture of nomadic camps and settlements. The theatre was packed. His assistant told me later that his lectures were very popular and that students from all over the campus came to hear him.
‘He’s a bit of a celebrity you know, your father,’ she said and smiled.
‘Why didn’t Mama finish her book?’ I asked him afterwards. He looked at me in surprise. It was the first time I had called her ‘Mama’ to him. And until then, discussing her had remained out of bounds.
‘I don’t know. She should have. It’s such a good book, you know. Have you read it?’
‘Only the first few pages. Did you help her with the translation?’
‘Yes of course. And she was kind enough to mention that I did. She shouldn’t have. I didn’t deserve it, not at all—’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. She helped me too, with my work, far more than she realises.’
‘How?’
He laughed. ‘By keeping in check my infatuation with Marxism.’
‘Is that over now? I mean, the infatuation?’
‘The infatuation is, but not my faith in it or my hope that it could still succeed. Equality and freedom for all. Who can resist a dream like that?’
He paused and smiled. ‘I still sound like a true believer, don’t I?’
‘Yes. But is there anything wrong in believing in something so splendid?’
‘Splendid, where did that come from?’ I thought.
Again he looked surprised. ‘I remember saying something similar to your Mama once when she was helping me edit my thesis. I wanted to use a famous quotation from Marx. She read it and said: “Do your really believe in all this?”’
‘Did you? And do you still believe it?’ I asked.
‘Yes to both. But I’ve also become more sceptical these days. I’m a rational believer and I’ve selected the ideas which fit in with what I want to do now. The romanticism has sadly gone. Like a vulture I’ve picked the juicy bits and left the rest to rot.’
‘So you were a romantic revolutionary once?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you? All those songs about the little girl with polio, the sweat-shop kids and the famines in Africa. I got the bug from Uncle Triple K. Like every true Marxist he wanted to change the world. And of course I was trained as a scientist and Marxism seemed so neat and ordered. Its beauty lies in the very simplicity of its conceptual architecture: base, superstructure, dialectics, alienation. It seems engrained in the very nature of things to move towards a final resolution, a sort of nirvana.’
I wanted to change the subject before he got too carried away. ‘Why do you call her “your Mama” and not “Anna”?’ I challenged.
‘Perhaps that’s the only way I can think of her now. You’re the bridge between whatever remains of us two.’ He looked sad. ‘But bridge isn’t the right word. You’re a semicolon perhaps, a sort of stop-start.’ He smiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind being called a semicolon. It’s just a metaphor—’
‘A semicolon? I think that’s funny. Do you still love her?’
‘No.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Yes,’ he said immediately. No pause, no hesitation.
‘How do you miss her?’ I was scared that I was going too far. He had every right to tell me to shut up. But he didn’t.
‘I miss her cello, the way she used to play, embracing it. I miss the songs she used to sing and the stories she told about the land and the cities buried underneath. I miss her passion. I miss the way she walked with her arm in my arm when we were in Venice, her laugh, her smell that always made me snuggle up to her—’
He paused for a moment and then said something terribly sweet: ‘And I miss the way she would let me cuddle up to her, with my arm around her belly and my finger in her belly—’
‘—button.’ Oh my God! How embarrassing! I too was fond of that comfy spot. I told him that Mama would try to remove my hand after I had fallen asleep but that it would always return to the lovely little knot.’
‘Isn’t it silly of us to talk like this?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. She’s my Mama. I love her a lot and you loved her too, once upon a time. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, once upon a time.’
‘But you never found anyone else. This house hasn’t even the faintest smell of a woman. You’ve stayed lonely, unattached, unwanted—’
And that’s where he stopped me. ‘No more,’ he said, and walked out of the room.
I sat quietly for a while until Malati came in to see if I wanted tea or coffee and to tell me that dinner would be ready soon.
I heard Papa working in his study. Then he put on some music: a Bach cello suite.
I got up and went into the kitchen to watch Malati roll chapatis. She asked if I wanted to help her. She showed me how to use the little towel to press them from one side so that they rise and grow fluffy, soft on one side and crunchy on the other.
That evening Papa showed me Irina’s photo. Then on his computer we looked together at the aerial shots she had taken of Venice, Paris, Rome and Budapest.
‘Are you lovers?’ I wanted to ask. He looked happy when he talked about her, whic
h I liked, but which also made me sad. Because of Mama? Perhaps.
She will certainly enjoy hearing me called a semicolon. Just imagine: I open the door, walk in, and she calls, ‘Who’s there?’
‘A metaphor,’ I reply.
I bet she’ll complain that I’m becoming more and more like him. Am I?
Yesterday I met Papa’s Uncle Triple K and Mala Didi. Uncle looks so old and frail and doesn’t talk much at all, just sits quietly and smiles, like Papa. Mala Didi (I think she’s his wife) looks after him. She seems kind.
‘What a lovely girl!’ she said as soon as she saw me. She made me sit beside her and didn’t let me move away, even for a minute. We spent most of the day with them and Mala Didi began to tell stories about Papa when he was a child. Only then did Uncle Triple K join the conversation. But I could see it wasn’t easy for him.
Later that evening Papa told me about the attack in which Uncle Triple K had lost his left eye. His stutter didn’t start immediately afterwards although there was some awkwardness in his speech. He and his doctors thought it would pass but it didn’t. Mala Didi blamed herself. She had wanted him to go to London for treatment but was overruled each time she raised the subject. When his real stuttering began it was already too late. Gradually, Uncle Triple K had been forced to stop making speeches. As usual he tried to hide his despair by joking about it. But he didn’t succeed.
‘I don’t need to speak any more,’ he would say. ‘The dream is over.’
His problem, Papa explained, was complicated. The attack on his head must either have damaged that part of the brain which controls the movement of the mouth or the part connected with understanding and expressing language. The excessive use of tranquilisers and painkillers could have accelerated his deterioration, Papa said.
Mala Didi said she didn’t want me to leave ‘empty-handed’. ‘You’re my grand-niece, you know,’ she kept reminding me. I didn’t know how to respond and of course Papa didn’t say anything.
I love Mala Didi’s present, a cotton sari printed with Madhubani designs. It’s not too loud. I’ll ask Malati to teach me to how to put it on. Now Mandy will want one too.
As well as the sari, she gave me a hundred rupee note. ‘To buy yourself sweets,’ she said. ‘Jug Jug Jiyo (live long) my darling,’ she said, kissed both my eyes and asked me to visit her again.
Viola da Gamba
Anna
Something happened to me in the shower. At first I didn’t take any notice, but once I stepped out and began to dry myself, I felt a piercing stab in my left breast. I looked at myself in the mirror and touched my breast. I examined it carefully as the medical brochures tell you and felt a lump the size of a small pea. I could feel it even more after my fingers explored the similar spot in my right breast.
‘No need to panic,’ I told myself. ‘Wait until I show it to the doctor.’
My GP agreed that I should check out the lump with a mammogram. The news wasn’t good, but even then I wasn’t unduly alarmed. My panic started only after they said I would need a biopsy. I was told that I would have to undergo a small operation to find out exactly what the lump was doing in my breast. My GP suggested that it would be a good idea to ask someone to accompany me when I had it done.
Maya was away, backpacking through India. Milos was travelling in Europe. I didn’t want to call him because I was unsure if he would interrupt his tour and return. This wasn’t included in our agreement. We were lovers, not friends, ready to share joy but not grief or pain, which were to be managed on our own. Sounds selfish, but that’s how it is.
I needed someone close to be with me. In fact I needed Maya. I decided to phone Vasu to see if she was still with him. But she had left Delhi two days before I called.
‘I can find her and ask her to contact you,’ he said.
‘Can you? That would be very kind of you,’ I said, astounded by my formality. He noticed this at once.
‘Thanks for looking after her so well,’ I went on. ‘She’s really enjoying her trip.’
‘I don’t know. She looked happy when she left and seemed quite keen to get home.’
‘Why? I thought she loved travelling. She told me she wants to spend a whole year with a group of Mongolian nomads and write a book based on her diary. She can be quite independent and adventurous, you know.’
‘Of course.’ And then Vasu told me about the rickshaws in which Maya refused to ride. He said that she had made quite a large donation to a local primary school to help it buy a water-cooler for the pupils. He said that she had bought herself a second-hand guitar and was writing songs. ‘She’s a good singer, your Maya.’
‘I know she is. And I miss her.’
‘She misses you too,’ said Vasu. ‘She’s written a song just for you.’
We chatted like this for a while, jumping from topic to topic but keeping the conversation focused on Maya. It must have surprised both of us to find that we were talking in Russian, but even then we didn’t dare stray from the immediate present. Our shared past remained out of bounds.
I mentioned the mammogram and told him a biopsy was scheduled in two weeks. Maybe he could explain the situation to Maya? It would be lovely if she could come home to be with me.
‘But it’s not an emergency,’ I stressed. ‘Don’t alarm her.’
‘I understand,’ he replied, and I think he did. He asked how bad the doctors thought the cancer was.
‘We all have to wait for the biopsy.’
‘Please take care of yourself,’ he said.
‘I’ll try,’ I managed.
Vasu
After Anna’s call I couldn’t sit still. I cursed myself for being so formal.
‘Please take care of yourself.’ How useless. So stiff and uncaring. Why didn’t I press her to tell me more? Why didn’t I let her know how much her news worried me? Why hadn’t I told her I would be thinking of her?
An hour later I phoned her again. The phone rang and rang. I tried again and then a fourth time. But I couldn’t reach her.
A day and a half later Maya left India. I went to see her off at the airport. She didn’t appear too anxious, but nor did she have much to say. I gave her a hug and said: ‘Please look after yourself and your Mama,’ and after a moment of silence between us: ‘See you soon.’
Before walking through the departure gate she turned and waved. I waved back as she repeated my words: ‘See you soon.’
It took me a week to arrange the visa. Three days before the biopsy I was knocking on the door of the cottage in the Blue Mountains. Maya opened it.
‘I didn’t mean so soon,’ she said. ‘But it’s great that you’ve come.’
She turned and called: ‘Papa is here.’ Without waiting for Anna to answer, she continued: ‘Come in. She’s in the shower.’
Anna
I’ve been helping with the rehearsals of Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. I’m enjoying the work, although after chemo and radiation for my cancer, I often feel exhausted.
‘Take it,’ Maya insisted when I asked her if I should accept the offer. She’s right. The work has kept me busy, leaving me little time to think about pain and death.
Maya has now taken off again, this time to Mongolia, as she planned. That’s good. I don’t want her to worry about me. She’s young and strong and more than capable of looking after herself. I don’t want her to postpone or change her plans for my sake. She calls once a week and sends letters and postcards every other day.
Vasu came to stay with her while I was in hospital. He was in Australia for more than a month. When I came home, he went back to India. Before he left we filed for divorce. The documents from the Family Court came through last week and I posted them on to him straight away.
Now our separation is official. He is free of me and I am free of him, even if we both know that this isn’t the freedom we were hoping for. He will be dismayed to actually receive the documents. Strangely I was too. But it had to happen, and Slava Bogu, it has happened now, whi
le I am still alive. The doctors have given me five more years, and if I’m lucky and look after myself, another five after that. I’ll be fifty-seven then. A bit young to die. Maya will be twenty-seven and I might get a chance to sing songs to my grandson. Who knows?
The other day I noticed that I am beginning to forget Papa’s face. The effort it took to imagine it frightened and exhausted me. All those photos don’t help much and their silence saddens me. In desperation I go back and play the tapes. He loved the piano but his singing wasn’t good. However, as I hear his voice, his face in the photos comes alive and I begin to feel how intensely I miss him, especially now.
I have a few precious tapes where I accompany him on the cello. I used to enjoy improvising with him, especially after I returned from my self-imposed exile in Prudkino. Playing together healed the wound. I’m not sure if I forgave him his lies, but somehow music softened my anger.
‘He was wronged,’ I told myself, ‘and he doesn’t deserve that all over again.’ I believed that he loved me more than he had ever loved Tonya, my unreliable mother.
The world often talks to us in whispers, Aunty Olga used to say, particularly when it wants to disclose its mysteries. She taught me the music that kept my ears and heart open. I can’t say that I have learnt the trick fully, but I do remember moments of intense revelation. On such brief, rare occasions, I feel as if I am a little girl again, walking naked in a sunlit shower. The grass tickles my feet, the wind warms my skin and my ears are full of silence, fluid and sonorous.
It is music which has kept me sane. I hope it will help me now to face this ordeal with grace and humility.
It has taken me a while to bring myself to look in the mirror again. Each time I went to the shower I used to cover the mirror with a towel. I also moved all the other mirrors in the house out of sight and persuaded my hands against touching the ugly scar from my operation.
I knew I couldn’t go on like that. Redemption finally arrived through Maya, who like a gentle, merciful angel stroked my wound and then took my hand and guided my fingers over its rough surface.
After Love Page 22