But above all she hated the voice of the boy her own age who, uninvited, and, to her mind, inexplicably, had moved into her house the day she left and taken her place; that contented voice she could hear in the background whenever she spoke to her mother or grandmother or great-aunt on the phone. She should be where he was now. She should be him; she should be leading the life he led.
Miqa, on the other hand, loved everything that life in Tbilisi had to offer. The school, the city, the peculiar sisters; reticent, principled Nana; he loved the guilt-ridden attention that was bestowed on him; he loved having the right to be a child at last — because he didn’t have to do chores in the house, he didn’t have to keep the courtyard clean, he wasn’t constantly told he should act like a man and not like a crybaby, nor did he have to take part in his home village’s frightening pagan rituals.
Nana had to admit that Miqa was quite different to Elene: an absolute model of courtesy, good manners, politeness, and restraint. He was malleable, like soft clay; he was grateful for every gesture; compliant, shy, not the type to do anything silly. He was no trouble at all. He wasn’t especially popular at school, but he got tolerably good marks, and he never had to be reminded to do his homework. His presence in the house was almost imperceptible. He never interrupted the grown-ups when they were talking, he didn’t smack his lips while eating, he washed, he crept past the ladies’ bedrooms on tiptoe, and he never gave any of the house’s occupants any cause for complaint or rebuke. How had this country boy acquired such good manners, Nana wondered. Sometimes she would reproach herself and wonder whether she was a good mother, whether she had done the wrong thing by her daughter, whether it had been a mistake to expose her child to the influence of these unworldly women; whether it wouldn’t have been better if she had gone with Elene to join her husband in Moscow while his offer to live what he called a ‘normal family life’ still stood. It was almost embarrassing to be forced to admit to herself that she would view the future with much less anxiety if her daughter were equipped with the same character traits as Miqa.
Miqa fell under Christine’s spell right from the very first day. No matter how much Stasia made a fuss of him and always made him feel part of the family, Christine’s attention mattered more. He would try to guess her wishes and gauge her moods. If Norma was playing, he knew she was in a good mood, and that he would be allowed to sit in the room with her, listening to the music at full volume. Initially it had bemused him, but, as time went by, he found it more and more beautiful and impressive. If she was listening to Tosca, she was in a melancholy humour, and he would pick her flowers from the garden. If she didn’t want to listen to any records at all, she was tired or had a headache, and off he would go to boil water for her tea.
On the days when she picked him up from school, he could barely contain his pride at walking beside this elegant beauty. Though at first she was amused by his attentiveness towards her, ruffled his curls, laughed at and shook her head over him, which hurt his feelings, she gradually became increasingly tender. She didn’t return his tremulous, dreamy love with the same fervour as she once had her nephew’s; but she did return it, in that she made him her ally. Miqa was practically euphoric; he felt as if he were one of the chosen ones in Christine’s secret realm.
At first, Christine saw the boy as a welcome distraction in her daily life, which had become sadder and more sentimental since Elene’s departure. She also liked the fact that he was so well behaved, and she enjoyed his attentions. The way he would sometimes stare at her in amazement reminded her of Kostya; of before, of her heyday. Increasingly, she began to seek his company, as if he gave her something she had been missing for a long time, or was no longer able to accept from anyone else: he gave her a sense of completeness, as if he didn’t see her veil, her disguise. As if he saw her whole.
*
A playful, somnambulistic peace descended upon the house. For a while it even seemed to Nana that it was tidier, more homely. As if the wildness and neglect had been halted in their tracks. She also managed to finish her doctorate at last. It had cost her two years of her life and put an extra six kilos on her ribs.
The peace was interrupted only by the evening telephone calls from Moscow. That was when the three women would gather round the phone to listen to Elene’s somewhat distracted voice and to hear from Kostya how she was doing, what she was having for breakfast, whether she had a cold, whether they were wrapping her up warm enough, whether she was doing well at school, whether she had already made friends, and so on.
At times like these, Miqa would usually sit in the library in Ramas’ old study; picking up a book he would try to concentrate on it, but still he couldn’t help listening. He would hear the pride in Stasia’s voice when she spoke to her granddaughter, the concern in Nana’s, Christine’s subdued delight, and they would put him in an odd frame of mind.
He would think then of the mountains, of the house where he was born, of his mother’s suntanned skin, his melancholic father’s cracked hands and alcohol breath, the village boys who considered him unmanly, and he would feel afraid. Because he didn’t want to leave: he wanted to stay here, to go on enjoying the unconditional care he received in this house. But there was this girl, out there, far away, the girl with the thick hair and grazed knees, and her voice alone was enough to tear all three women away from him and focus their entire attention on her, for hours: this girl who was hundreds, thousands of kilometres away, whereas he, sitting in the room just upstairs, was forgotten.
*
Since Elene had been living in Moscow under her father’s and Lyuda’s supervision, she had become much more tractable than she had been in the realm of the women. She ate her meals without objection, did her homework, accompanied her father to various events, went with him to the cinema, theatre, museums; her behaviour was more grown-up, more ladylike, all of which gave her father the feeling of being in the right when he maintained to Nana that Elene was not a difficult girl at all, quite the opposite, she was the most obedient child in the world, you just had to know how to win her heart.
She saw the sparkle in Kostya’s eye when she recited a poem for him or brought a good grade home from school. She liked the way he was so solicitous then. Even though she sometimes cursed him in her head for transplanting her to this cold and alien country, he was her only source of stability and a substitute for all those she missed. He was the great man people greeted on the street with their heads bowed low; a man who made important decisions, and sat up late into the night bent over plans that seemed to Elene like secret code.
Lyuda catered to her every whim and never raised her voice. Yet Elene longed for Nana’s hysterical outbursts, her warnings, her constant discipline; wished she could be returned to Stasia’s and Christine’s negligent guardianship. Here, in these high-ceilinged rooms with the heavy, dark furniture, on these wide streets and marble staircases, there was no place for silliness; here, everything went according to plan. Kostya’s plan.
Under his command, her duty was to be his best soldier. It was a role from which she recoiled. At the same time, she was afraid of disappointing him. In her eyes, he stood on such a high pedestal, was so unassailable, his opinion had always seemed so definitive, that she didn’t dare to doubt him.
She wanted to walk, run, explore, seek, and find; instead she walked decorously, holding Lyuda’s hand; sat in her father’s big car like a fine lady; politely answered questions the grown-ups asked her; looked after her toys as she was instructed; and let her father read to her (mostly books he had selected) — only to press her face into her pillow late at night and cry until she fell asleep, exhausted. Only the prospect of the winter and summer holidays enabled her to get through it all, waiting for the day when she and her father would drive to the airport, board the plane, and fly to Tbilisi.
When they arrived, she flung her arms around everyone’s necks, gave them all sloppy kisses, ran, jumped, skipped, and sang. Because
here she felt at home. She wasn’t afraid, not even of her father’s anger, because in Tbilisi his rules did not apply. Here, there was a mother; here, there was Stasia, Christine, Goya — and they would protect her. She was deliberately obstinate so as to put her mother’s and grandmother’s love to the test. She gladly accepted being sent to her room for being naughty because anything was better than having to play the grown-up in Moscow.
Miqa wasn’t at the house during the school holidays. His father came to pick him up and took him to the mountains. Nonetheless, he was omnipresent: his toys and clothes, and his books, carefully piled up on the old writing desk, were constant reminders of him. And when any of the women compared her with Miqa — Miqa’s so good, Miqa really loves that cake — Elene’s anger would bubble up, making her even more rebellious and uncontrollable. Kostya’s aversion towards the ‘parasite’s son’, as he tended to describe Miqa, was very apparent, and he would side with his daughter against him.
‘Will you stop winding her up by going on about this stupid boy!’ he said indignantly one evening in the kitchen after dinner. Elene had jumped up from the table and run out because Stasia and Christine couldn’t agree on how Miqa liked his potato pancakes: with or without butter?
‘If you want to bring the bastard up here and pay for him, that’s your affair, but I don’t want my child to suffer as a result.’
‘What are you saying?’ Christine’s fir-green right eye widened.
‘What am I saying? You took him in here behind my back — at my expense, mind — and not even my own dear wife felt it necessary to inform me.’
‘Kostya, please!’ Stasia admonished him.
‘What? I’m not the one who fought for the fascists; I didn’t plant the idiotic notion of capitalist freedom in my sister’s head; I didn’t bring a child into the world that other people have to pay for.’ Kostya’s tone was haughty and cold.
‘Andro is like a son to me — he was like a brother to you!’ Stasia had abandoned her meal and was looking her son straight in the eye, appalled. Nana stared fixedly at the floor, as if there were a secret door in it that could lead her out and away from this unpleasant situation.
‘How can you say such a thing?’ Stasia’s voice was trembling. ‘All of us — yes, all of us — are constantly striving to please you; I’ve accepted the worst thing, the worst thing anyone can do to a mother, and you’re asking the same of your wife.’
Christine stared at her sister in astonishment.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? What exactly am I doing to my wife?’ Kostya’s voice cracked.
‘You took Elene away from her, just because the child simply had to go to an exclusive Russian school; of course she had to live in Moscow, this is a veritable backwater, isn’t it? You’re taking her child away from her, like you took mine away from me.’
Stasia had jumped up from the table and fetched herself a cigarette. Her chin was quivering with emotion.
‘I took your child away from you? I did? You’re out of your mind, Stasia!’ He had stopped calling her Deda long ago. ‘I vouched for her, I staked everything — I risked my life, goddamn it, but it seems none of that’s good enough for you. I’m sure it’s easier to love a traitor and a murderess!’
The room fell silent. Christine slowly rose from the table and hovered uncertainly for a while, as if she didn’t know whether to go or stay. Stasia stood frozen by the tap, filterless cigarette in hand, while Nana glanced anxiously back and forth between Stasia and Kostya.
‘Don’t you dare call her that again! I swear to you by all that’s sacred to me —’
‘I didn’t think anything was still sacred to you!’ said Kostya coldly. He rose from the table.
‘Stay here, damn it, stay here! I want to know where she is, after all this time — I want to speak to my daughter. I can’t go on living like this!’
Kostya, already in the doorway, turned round again and looked at his mother.
‘I saved her from death. We have no information as to her whereabouts, do you understand me? You don’t, and I don’t. We know nothing.’
Stasia moaned. Kostya stormed out of the room and Christine followed him. Nana slowly got to her feet and began clearing the table. Stasia didn’t move; for a long time she stood there in silence. When she looked up again, little Elene was standing in the doorway with a grazed elbow.
‘I hurt myself. Because of stupid Goya.’ Elene gave her grandmother an imploring look.
‘It’s all right; come here, I’ll clean the cut and then we’ll patch it up, all right?’
And Elene hurried over to Stasia, holding her elbow out in front of her as if it were a trophy.
What is this moment
What was yesterday
What whirlwind runs
Like a beast through the field?
KONSTANTIN BALMONT
‘Billie Holiday, the greatest female singer in the world, died five days ago. Perhaps she’s making way for you. You’re looking good!’
These were the words with which Fred greeted Kitty after a long absence. She had turned up outside Kitty’s flat on Old Compton Street, in a white shirt and an expensive-looking leather jacket, and rung the bell. Kitty had moved in only a few weeks earlier. Now that she was earning her own money, she had, with Amy’s approval, finally taken a flat of her own, since, according to Amy, she would soon earn even more now that she had British citizenship. Almost nine years had passed since Kitty had left her homeland and, apart from the scant information from her anonymous friend, she’d had no other news of her family.
Fred Lieblich strode, uninvited, past the dumbfounded Kitty and into the brightly lit flat.
‘It’s the end of an era. The bastards didn’t want to admit her to hospital because she was black. I don’t want to live in a country like that.’
Kitty, caught completely unawares in the midst of preparing for her first television appearance, stood in the hallway staring after Fred, who marched straight into the kitchen.
‘How do you know where I live?’
‘Oh, come on, don’t be silly. I need a drink, I’ve come straight from the airport, I just dropped off my things with some friends.’ Fred lit herself a cigarette.
‘Amy will be picking me up any minute. I’ve got a show this evening.’
‘Excellent, then I can see her too. Good old Amy. I’d never have believed she’d go all out for you like that. And your English is exemplary. Excellent! That song of yours — sorry, I can’t remember the title — I liked that song very much. So I say let’s all have a nice evening together, the three of us.’
‘And how am I to explain your turning up at my flat?’
‘I don’t owe anyone any explanations. I wanted to see you, so here I am.’
‘You don’t, but I do. Because unlike you I have some principles, which I’m not prepared to throw overboard just because you suddenly reappear and think you can turn everything on its head again.’
Fred had found what she was looking for and was mixing two gin and tonics with practised ease.
‘I can’t drink anything. I’ve got a live performance!’
‘Nice place you’ve got here! Cheers!’ Fred took a large swig of the sparkling liquid with great relish and sat down at the kitchen table.
Outside, it had started to darken. The noises of the street grew quiet; an almost audible silence fell. A slight, rather tired scent tickled Kitty’s nose: her scent, the scent of this emotional tightrope-walker. Kitty reached for her glass. She had to get through this, it would be over soon, she wouldn’t give in, she would be strong.
She had been working non-stop. She and Amy had been shaping her new life; the foundations were still shaky, she had to keep going, battle on undeterred, she was on the right path. This person sitting in front of her, this brazen, egotistical person, was an obstacle, a threat, a catastrophe. She had to
do something to stop her.
‘Please leave now.’
‘So Madame has changed, has she?’
That accent, that soft, cocky intonation — how intimately familiar it was to Kitty’s ears!
‘Please!’ Kitty rose and gestured towards the door. Fred stood, leaving her half-full glass of gin and tonic on the table. Kitty felt churlish. But that which had been forgotten should not be remembered, no, not under any circumstances. The main thing was not to look at her, then soon it would be over.
In the hallway, Kitty was aware again of that almost imperceptible scent in her nostrils. She tugged at the door handle, kept her face turned away: don’t look, don’t. Suddenly she felt a cool hand on her cheek. Fred was stroking her face. Kitty spun round and slapped her, so hard that Fred staggered back and slammed against the wall. Kitty’s palm was burning.
It wasn’t possible to forget.
She couldn’t see Fred’s face; she had one hand pressed to it as if trying to smother the pain. Then Fred seized Kitty’s wrist, gripping it so hard it hurt. Kitty cried out and tried to free herself from her grasp. Where did this diminutive person get such strength? The woman before her was quite a bit smaller than her, she’d never really been aware of it before. Fred’s other hand slipped under Kitty’s skirt, undid the suspender belt; one nylon stocking slid down to her ankle. Kitty felt shame. She watched her clothes fall to the floor.
The flame-haired woman pressed her against the wall so hard that she gasped for breath. Fred was still holding one of her wrists twisted behind her back, and it hurt. This time she wasn’t numb; this time she was conscious of this woman’s every movement, every impulse. It was a feeling somewhere between disgust and pleasure.
The Eighth Life Page 50