She cooked for herself regularly, went for a walk three times a week in nearby Malešický Park, listened to her radio, bought herself an English dictionary to help her understand the programmes on Voice of America, and practised the guitar. Although she was not in the right frame of mind for composition, she tried to perfect her technique. She didn’t think of home any more, of the people she was close to; above all, she banished all thoughts of the blonde woman with the red lips, of Mariam’s blazing eyes, of her friend’s death.
Each time Tuesday came around and she hurried to the post office, she felt quite euphoric. The thought of hearing his voice filled her with a childlike glee.
Sometimes she looked at her passport and imaged what Luxembourg was like, what she had done there, whom she might have loved there. Imagined a different life for herself, a different biography. In the beginning, she would jump out of her skin if someone knocked on her door or spoke to her on the street, if someone asked her for the time, but she grew accustomed to it and would give the required information in her still halting Czech. She met a Polish student in the park who wanted to take her for a beer, but she rebuffed him, saying that she was married and her husband wouldn’t approve.
She stuck to his rules. She avoided places where there were a lot of people, avoided trams and buses. She lived as inconspicuously as possible. Sometimes there were days when her life even started to seem normal to her. As if she had never led any other; as if it had always been like this, and even the fact that she was otherwise silent for months on end, scarcely speaking to another human being, no longer seemed so terrible to her.
The envelopes still arrived regularly. Her only friend must have plenty of helpers in the city, and apparently he was taking steps to ensure that none of the property managers and no one from the foreign nationals’ office knocked on her door.
It was a time of social, emotional, and artistic abstinence; a sort of righteous punishment for what lay behind her. But when she said this to her anonymous friend in one of their phone calls, he got quite worked up. This period was tragically unavoidable, he told her; it was not a punishment.
Exile grew to be part of her very skin. And the perpetual fight against memory became the defining trait of Kitty’s character; the fear of dreams in which Mariam might haunt her became her constant companion.
At least Kitty was spared the paranoia of the Generalissimus’ final years, which afflicted the whole empire with undreamed-of ferocity. She didn’t have to see Party men disowning their wives because their smiles had aroused the Generalissimus’ mistrust. She didn’t have to see memories of the bloody thirties revived in the collective consciousness, the number of state security ministers increased from four to seven, the orchestration of hate campaigns. Didn’t see the Generalissimus reduce his entourage to clowns, pillory them, force them into public displays of remorse, like mangy dogs. She didn’t know that the man from the weather bureau who was responsible for reading the weather forecast on the radio had been summoned to the Kremlin and cautioned, because the Generalissimus had complained about a particular weather forecast and his entourage were afraid that they would have to pay for it with their lives. She didn’t hear that the Leader now ruled the empire entirely from his dacha, where he made his men dance and drink themselves into a stupor. Didn’t know what Khrushchev had said of these binges: ‘When the Leader says dance, a wise man dances.’
One morning, when she opened the usual white envelope containing the banknotes, she found a typed letter inside, again unsigned:
Read the following very carefully. Memorise it well, then destroy the message you are reading!
You will travel to London. In London you will be safe. Go to the telephone box next Tuesday at precisely the usual time. You will find an envelope with the necessary visas and papers. Take good care of your passport. The next day, Wednesday, take the 14:20 train to Dresden from the main station. A man will meet you directly on the platform; he will give you a bunch of roses and kiss you, and you must return the kiss. Officially he is your fiancé; his name is Jan and he works as an engineer in the Dresden printing press factory. He will talk to you in sign language; nod agreement or shake your head from time to time. If you want to improvise — which is something you are surely capable of — you too should improvise a conversation in sign language. As soon as you are in a safe place he will explain to you in detail what will happen next. He will accompany you over the border. You will be driven to Hamburg in a British military car, and from there you will take a flight to London. Until you arrive in London you are Adrienne Hinrichs, a deaf-mute from Luxembourg …
So many times Kitty had dreamed up a love life, a life story, for her other self, for Adrienne; but it had never occurred to her that she might be a deaf-mute, although the idea was such an obvious one. She read the letter again and again, and heard her faceless friend’s soft, confident voice in her head as she did so.
*
London. Kitty’s arrival. We’ll skip the obligatory rain, shall we, Brilka?
Trafalgar Square, and Kitty’s peach-coloured arms outstretched to greet the British air: air that was different here, that smelled different, tasted different.
Piccadilly, and the sudden thought of the knife, the blood flowing from the severed artery. Hyde Park, and the classroom. Tower Bridge, and the dim light of the room on the Holy Mountain. Whitehall, and Andro’s head on her breast. The green-painted benches of the little town that once held a promise of the future. Downing Street, and a hand exploring the scars on her abdomen. Past County Hall, and the images from the Botanical Garden; and Andro, always Andro.
The Thames. Kitty stopped, and gazed down at the stately river. Was this what freedom tasted like? Was this how it smelled? Ought she to be happy now? Had she survived? And what about all the days, weeks, years that lay before her? Back then, she had wanted to go to Vienna, to accompany her Andro with the introspective eyes, so that he wouldn’t get lost, so he would go on carving wooden angels, so he could excitedly explain the world to her, a world she had seen through long ago. But when her Vienna was beheaded, along with Andro’s dreams, she had decided she would seek no new worlds, no new continents, no cities of dreams, because castles in the air cannot withstand the storm.
On arrival, she had put a match to her passport and burned it to ashes. Adrienne Hinrichs was gone, incinerated, turned to dust; the way was now clear for Kitty Jashi. But as she walked around central London, Kitty Jashi couldn’t find herself anywhere; and now she felt as if, with Adrienne, she had turned the remnants of her self into ashes, too. Somewhere near Buckingham Palace, her tears began to fall. Silently: the weeping of the women in the tearless palace on Tbilisi’s Vera Hill. As if they wept not to shake off the sadness that oppressed them, but to grieve the loss of grief. Grief: the normal condition for the chocolate-maker’s heirs.
At St James’s Palace, she felt, for the first time, something like relief. Like the thought of something terrible coming to an end. She looked down at her patched autumn coat, her dirty, worn-out shoes, the shapeless, pleated skirt. Ran her hands through her dishevelled hair, which should have been cut long ago. Felt her own ugliness all the more painfully, surrounded by so much beauty. She wanted to hide: for a moment she wished herself back in Prague, back in her little room. Then she quickly dismissed her doubts and walked on, went on exploring the city. She was free.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of vodka and onion.
YEVGENY YEVTUSHENKO
She took the Underground to the East End and went to the address her Dresden fiancé had given her. It was a Red Cross shelter. Once she had filled out the forms and registered as a stateless person, she was assigned a room with a plank bed, a washbasin, a clothes rail, and a radio. She took a long shower in the communal bathroom, threw herself onto the bed, and fell into a comatose sleep that lasted more t
han twelve hours.
Hunger woke her. She went outside, bought herself fish and chips at the first shop she came across, and ate them as if it were a meal fit for a king, sitting on the pavement and watching the passers-by, trying to work out what she was feeling. He had not deceived her. He had kept his promise, and Kitty knew that whoever he was she would keep him in her life, that she wasn’t willing to let him go, that she wanted him always, always to speak to her and call her by her name. And one day, perhaps, she would find him — would set eyes on him, put a face to the voice, and thank him.
She was given temporary papers. She was sent to the Red Cross offices, given warm clothes, and enrolled in an English-language course. She wasn’t asked any questions she couldn’t answer. The friendly lady from Social Services sent her to a soup kitchen, where she was given regular meals. Two weeks after she registered, a Jamaican woman who worked at the shelter stopped Kitty on the stairs and told her that a cousin of hers ran a pub in the East End and was looking for someone to do occasional shifts. He wasn’t bothered about a work permit, she said; Kitty should get in touch, that way she could earn a bit of pocket money until everything else was settled. Overwhelmed by such kindness, yet suspicious, wondering whether she could really trust the woman with the brightly coloured headscarf and benevolent eyes, Kitty had stood uncertainly on the stairs, chewing her thumb. But the woman was accustomed to such reticence; she put her arm around her and offered to go with her.
The following day, Kitty had a job at the pub.
*
She was frightened of words. And of the friendly smile she had to conjure onto her face. Over the past two years, she had grown accustomed to being alone. Crowds of people made her panic. During her first few days at work, she had to keep disappearing into the toilet in order to catch her breath, wipe the sweat off her forehead, look in the mirror, and remind herself to stay calm. But most of the customers who came to the pub paid her no attention; they didn’t want words, they wanted alcohol. The people who strayed in here hardly ever smiled themselves. Construction workers, taxi drivers, drug dealers, cooks, prostitutes; all just looking for diversion, a moment’s distraction, glad to escape their daily routine for a few hours. Many of them were immigrants, too. They came from India, from Pakistan, from Nigeria, Ghana, Jamaica, Guyana.
Kitty quickly felt at home among them. She liked their rough voices, their jokes, their different languages and accents, even their vulgarity. They didn’t look at her with pity: they were just as inconsiderate, crude, and indifferent towards her as they were with their friends, their companions, and themselves. Nonetheless, the hours Kitty liked best were always when she stayed on in the pub on her own after everyone else had gone, putting stools on tables and scrubbing the floor, washing glasses and sorting crates. When the customers had gone, when the pub had closed and the owner had gone back to his family — that was when she felt good, felt safe. She would put a coin in the jukebox and listen to the loud music, and her body would move to the different rhythms of its own accord.
The hard work exhausted her, but she was grateful for it, because afterwards the night would be dreamless and her mind too tired to think. When she wasn’t working she would stay in her room and play her guitar — listlessly, aimlessly, and without much passion, but at least she played. Apart from her physical work, the guitar was the best way for her to take her mind off things.
I’ve come this far / searching for ghosts / you promised they’d wait for us. / But they’re gone, just like you / gone so far away. / So I’m walking through the city of ghosts / just walking ahead, asking myself / Should I go on, should I begin? / Should I wish or should I die? / ’Cause you’ve not come as far as I…
If I’m not mistaken, this was the first song Kitty wrote in London. Initially, she wrote it in her mother tongue; the song was translated only later, and she would sing it in English with her strong but unidentifiable foreign accent. I remember, Brilka, how we listened to this song together in the car, how you explained to me then that it marked a new direction in Kitty’s music. I love this song, but I love it mainly because of you, Brilka; because you sang it to me, and you sang it so passionately, with such abandon. And I love it because it doesn’t make me feel sad, like most of Kitty’s songs, because at that moment I was driving along the endless, dusty coastal roads with you by my side, and I was happy, even if I didn’t know at the time that it was happiness I was feeling.
*
The city had been wearing its Christmas costume for weeks now. On Christmas Eve, the customers left the pub early. Even the poorest among them seemed to be preparing for the holiday, readying themselves to enjoy the time with their families. The owner left the pub earlier than usual, too, as there were hardly any customers; he told her to treat herself to a couple of drinks on him, and put a few extra coins on the counter for her. She’d earned it, he said. Then he wished her a happy Christmas and left her on her own. Kitty was in no hurry. Christmas was something they used to celebrate in her country before she was born. After that, those festivals stopped; after that, God was replaced by the Generalissimus, and people celebrated the anniversary of the Revolution, or the Leader’s birthday. It was only her deeply religious Aunt Lida who used to light candles on this day, in silent devotion, and retire to pray.
One after the other, all the customers left. She had soon finished tidying up, but she didn’t want to head back to the shelter just yet. She wasn’t tired enough, and the city was so alarmingly quiet: her memories would return and take her hostage. She sat at the bar and, after some initial hesitation, poured herself her first whisky. She had never drunk whisky before; the strong drink warmed and burned her throat pleasantly. She allowed herself another. The alcohol, which she had forbidden herself in her former exile, soon took effect. In Prague, she could not have afforded to be sentimental. It might have had unpleasant consequences. Here, that no longer applied; here, she could let herself go, especially when she was alone. No one cared.
She felt relaxed, and the dreaded melancholy did not materialise. On the contrary, she was cheerful; she could have danced all night. She started to hum one of her songs; her voice grew stronger, louder, until she was singing as loud as she could. She let herself be carried away by her own voice, grabbed the whisky bottle and held it to her mouth like a microphone. She whirled around the pub with all the showmanship she could muster, then closed her eyes and bowed to her imaginary audience.
Suddenly she heard clapping coming from the street. A tall, sturdy woman in a strikingly fashionable red coat was standing at one of the windows, applauding enthusiastically. Kitty came down to earth with a bump; mortified, she put the bottle down on the table and staggered backwards. She hoped the woman would disappear, but she stayed where she was and went on clapping, then knocked on the window. Kitty felt obliged to go to the door.
‘We’re closed,’ she said, opening the glass door a crack.
‘Your singing is fantastic. Fan-tas-tic! Incredible! What language was that?’
‘I only speak a little English.’
‘Was that your language you were singing in just now?’
‘That was Georgian.’
‘Oh … Isn’t that somewhere in Russia?’
‘No, it’s in Georgia.’
The woman laughed, and indicated to Kitty that she wanted to come in.
‘But we’re closed, and I’ve already —’
‘I’m not a demanding customer.’
Kitty turned the light on again above the bar and put a glass down on a coaster in front of the woman. She had asked for a whisky, too. Her soft blonde hair was pinned back on one side with a hair slide, and she had clear, friendly features, harmonious and symmetrical. Everything about her was inviting, but although Kitty sensed that she could trust her, she felt uncomfortable: she was ashamed of her own inability to speak, and annoyed that she had let herself go like that in front of her. Initially, their conversation
was stilted, but the woman persevered. She introduced herself as Amy — just Amy. No Miss, no Mrs. She questioned Kitty about where she came from, and about her songs. How had she learned to sing so well? What songs were they? What was she doing in London?
Although one wouldn’t have thought it, judging by her elegant outfit and genteel way of speaking (ladies like her were an unusual sight in this part of town), she drank every bit as much as the regulars at this pub, and let Kitty keep refilling her glass. Kitty’s tension had dissipated, and she too carried on drinking steadily. When the woman asked her for the third time if she would sing something, she relented, and began, quietly at first, hesitantly, then louder and more confidently, to sing her songs. Songs she hadn’t sung for two years. Songs that were there in her head, that accompanied her everywhere, that went on writing themselves in her mind, that wanted to be sung.
The woman didn’t take her eyes off her. Her expression was tense, attentive, and at the same time blissfully content. From time to time, she raised her eyebrows or closed her eyes when she wanted to concentrate especially hard.
‘I may not know much, but I know what good music is. Music is my passion, and I can tell you that your music is good — very good, even. You should do something with it.’
Before she left, she gave Kitty an extravagant tip, and wrote her address and telephone number on a beermat.
‘If you want to take your music further, give me a call. I’d be happy to help you,’ she said, shaking Kitty’s hand.
‘I have one more question,’ said Kitty. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. ‘Aren’t you celebrating Christmas? Why are you here on your own at this time of night?’
The Eighth Life Page 41