‘All this time I didn’t realise that this was your house, not ours! Elene will be here in two weeks. We’ll help her with the baby, and we’ll —’
‘You and Nana will manage that without me.’
‘He got my granddaughter pregnant, for goodness’ sake, and we were considerate and didn’t say anything to Kostya.’
‘We brought Andro up, and when it mattered we failed to see what was going on. We let him make that terrible mistake; and why? Because back then our own children and their worries seemed more important, didn’t they? I’m not going to make the same mistake with Miqa.’
Stasia had stepped aside and was lighting her filterless cigarette with one damp hand. ‘Now you just listen to me. I’ve paid dearly enough for what he did — that’s wicked, accusing me, saying I didn’t do enough to —’
Goya came flapping into the kitchen. They could hear Nana shifting furniture upstairs; she was in a real moving frenzy.
‘He didn’t do it. You know he didn’t. He gave in, he just gave in to your granddaughter. That was the full extent of his crime: he was just a boy, and he couldn’t control himself with a half-naked girl.’
‘Who had to pay the greater price? My poor girl, who had her womb scraped out at the age of fifteen, or Miqa, who had his fun and was sent back to his parents?’ Stasia was screaming now; her eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘It’s a miracle she got pregnant again. Doesn’t that count either, Christine?’
‘I tried to prevent it.’
‘And you didn’t! And do you know why? Because we’re not all-powerful, and we can’t save anyone! When are you going to understand?’
You will not succeed in leaving me:
The door is open and your house — empty!
MARINA TSVETAEVA
Driven by the growing strength of the women’s movement, the mobilisation of the left and its increasingly insistent demands for a new kind of politics, a new way of life; whipped up by the people of ’68 (who only became known as such years later), by Woodstock and the new music generation, by the public desire for demilitarisation which was growing increasingly vocal, at least in the West; driven by outrage over the murder of Martin Luther King, the world began to seek new weapons to carry its ideas.
There were the Hendrixes and the Joplins, of course, a new type of brilliant anarchist, but people also needed someone who could point the finger of blame at the world without recourse to heroin and marijuana. And then they happened upon my great-aunt Kitty, who had had a few hits, had even made it into the British charts, but was still living in her three-room flat in Soho; who dutifully paid her taxes, and could look back on an unusual political past. And what a past it was! But that only came to light when the photo was published. The photo from Wenceslas Square. The Magnum photo. It appeared in the papers, and exploded like a bomb.
Six months after the events in Prague, The Guardian published an article on the embarrassing failure of socialism. The main theme was, of course, the ‘Prague Spring’, so they went looking for interesting, as-yet-unpublished images. And found the photo of Kitty Jashi.
*
As was only to be expected, Amy had withdrawn from Kitty and left London without saying where she was going. Kitty heard that she had gone to her husband in Wales and, later, that she had left for Italy. It was months before she reappeared, again with no warning, and resumed her work with her protégée — in a much more businesslike and reserved way, but still. She asked no questions. The subject of Fred was, of course, taboo. She no longer invited Kitty to her home in King’s Cross, nor did she take her to private functions, but she continued to arrange Kitty’s radio and television appearances, planned her concerts, advised her in her dealings with the press, and went into overdrive trying to boost record sales with all kinds of advertising and marketing strategies. Kitty could hardly expect much more from her; the main thing was that Amy had kept her in her life, still believed in her music, and had put her organisational talents at her disposal.
Her call took Kitty by surprise. It was late, and it was a long time since Amy had rung at this hour: an evening call might appear overly intimate. She could tell from her voice that her manager (who no longer wanted to be her friend) was excited; layer by layer, the carefully cultivated formality stripped away from her vocal cords as she drenched Kitty in a torrent of words.
‘Hang on a minute — what newspaper, did you say? I didn’t understand a word of that. I’m at home, if you’d like … No, I’m alone.’
Amy did in fact agree to come round in half an hour. ‘We’re only talking business,’ she added, as if trying to legitimise her visit and under no circumstances allow the mood to become conciliatory. She was wearing a lurid green raincoat and a brightly coloured elastic band round her hair, which had gone completely wild and was falling in her eyes. She slammed the next day’s edition of The Guardian down on the table in front of Kitty.
‘And you don’t tell me something like this!’
The big black-and-white photo of Kitty was splashed across the front page. Kitty had never seen it before. At first, she couldn’t believe that the girl in the picture with the guitar was really her. Or was it a collage, just someone having a joke at her expense?
‘So. What the bloody hell is this?’ Amy flopped onto the sofa.
‘I have no idea who took this photo, or how it ended up in here! I’m not even sure it’s really me.’
‘Are you insane? Who else would it be? The Pope?’
‘I have no idea, Amy. Really I don’t.’
‘The real question should be: why are you in this picture at all? Why didn’t you leave that bloody city the second that army of cut-throats marched in? Who, for God’s sake, thinks of standing there and singing? You’re a bit old for revolutions. I ought to thank you, really, for taking that madwoman away from me, but putting my source of income at risk, after I’ve spent years working my arse off for it — that’s a bit much!’
‘I’m sorry the first thing I thought of at the time wasn’t your wallet!’ Kitty answered sarcastically. Inwardly, though, she was triumphant. Amy seemed more than a little impressed; she had also broached that other unfortunate topic, which seemed to Kitty a very good sign.
‘My God, that gang of terrorists could have arrested you and stuck you in a gulag somewhere,’ ranted Amy, who only really took an interest in politics because it was fashionable, and whose impression of the Soviet Union could be summarised as follows: ‘Dark. Grey. No clothes. Everyone in the same rubber boots. Cold. Slush. Cold again. Lots of old men. Bad music. Unhappy faces and no sex.’ (Actually, she wasn’t too far wrong on this last point, when you consider that in the land of my birth the established motto ‘We don’t have sex in the Soviet Union’ was certainly not intended by the state as a joke.)
‘Listen — you look hungry. I’ll make us a little something to eat, and then we’ll talk about everything, okay?’ Kitty interrupted Amy’s outraged monologue and strode into the kitchen.
Over supper she gave a detailed account of her stay in Prague, using vivid colours and big words to describe the street scenes she got caught up in, increasing Amy’s respect still further; she answered her questions over and over again, but she omitted the encounter with her mother.
‘This is all pretty crazy. And now that you’ve reassured me, I think perhaps it wasn’t so stupid at all, darling — not stupid at all, what you did back there.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well, read what it says here. They’re hailing you as a minor heroine in the courageous fight against the evils of communism. I quote: “Miss Jashi raised her voice against oppression and totalitarianism.” Blah blah blah. Come on, think — what am I getting at?’
‘But …’
‘As of tomorrow, we can bank on getting interview requests. As of next week, you’ll be in a BBC studio. I guarantee it. After that, the Americans will come. A
nd they’ll all want you to tell them how terrible it was, how you feared for your life, and how oppressed everyone is over there. Then you tell them about your terrible past and we can count on a European, maybe even an American, tour, after that maybe even a gold disc. That means: get started on a new album right away. This is the best publicity we could have dreamed of. You’re the next big thing, darling.’
‘I need time. I haven’t written a single song since …’
‘Since …? No, I don’t want to hear it. Just a little piece of advice: the person you’re thinking of is not necessarily the one who enhances your productivity, so I’d be a bit careful if I were you.’
Amy was like someone who’d been brought back to life: a new life, full of wonder, promises kept, and sweet recompense. She took out her pink notebook and scribbled in it avidly. Kitty covered her face with her hands and heaved a deep sigh.
‘Oh, all right then, if you absolutely have to tell me. What’s the matter? Oh, oh, oh, poor Kitty … No, I can’t actually imagine it, I mean, you’re so bloody hetero, I don’t understand it, my brain just refuses to process it. Although, if I think about it, she’s capable of persuading even my husband to go to bed with her.’
‘She’s not well,’ Kitty interrupted quietly. She started kneading her fingers. ‘I sent her to a clinic last week. A detoxification programme in a clinic in Richmond. A new sort of clinic.’
‘Detoxification programme? Has she been drinking too much again?’
‘No. Worse.’
‘How much worse?’
‘Heroin.’
‘Oh my God.’ Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. She jumped up, sat down again, wanted to say something, to object, respond in some way, but in the end she just sat there without speaking, staring at Kitty with frightened eyes.
‘Yes, I didn’t want to believe it either, but it’s got bad, very bad. She almost died. I didn’t dare ask you for help.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Since America, I think. When I got back from Prague, I found her half-unconscious, and all this paraphernalia in the bathroom. I completely freaked out. She hasn’t painted anything for ages, let alone sold a picture. It was unbelievable, the amount of debt she’d run up. She wanted to call you, for money, but I ordered her not to. I thought —’
‘You should have called me.’
‘But I couldn’t, and I didn’t want to, Amy. Not like that. Not for this.’
‘I’ll pay for the clinic.’
‘No, no, you don’t have to do that. I can manage.’
‘Yes, I do. Is she any better?’
‘I don’t know. She says she is, on the phone. The doctors strongly advised against visiting her in the first few weeks. I call her twice a week. She sounds better, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She’s an incredible actress, as you know.’
‘As I know. Yes. I certainly do.’
*
When Kitty paid the taxi driver, picked up Fred’s little suitcase, and strode off towards Hyde Park to sit down on a secluded patch of grass, she already knew what she was letting herself in for. She had just collected Fred from the station. She was a bit thinner than usual; to Kitty’s dismay, she had practically shaved her head; even her skin seemed whiter. With her green Ray-Bans balanced on her head she looked like a fourteen-year-old boy.
Kitty sensed that the battle was by no means won; that it had, in fact, only just begun. She tried not to let her shock at Fred’s unkempt appearance show. However much she used to drink, looking good had always been important to her: perfect haircut, well-tailored clothes. Now, her trousers were torn at the knee, she smelled of stale sweat, and her hair appeared to have been sacrificed to lice or some other equally unappetising creatures.
Fred stretched out beside her on the damp grass. In the distance, a nursery school teacher was walking past with a gaggle of children.
‘How could you do it?’ Kitty began, struggling to control herself.
‘I’m not going to justify myself,’ Fred answered, indifferently.
‘So as far as you’re concerned I don’t even deserve an explanation? You look terrible, by the way.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to go and get my make-up done. As you know, I had to leave in an awful hurry.’
‘And whose fault is that? I get a call from some hysterical nurse, who tells me they’re throwing you out of the clinic for drugs and indecent behaviour. I mean, Fred … Indecent behaviour!’
‘I was practically dying, all I did was —’
‘You probably seduced that nurse in the ladies’ loo so she’d get you a fix.’
‘I just wanted a little morphine, that’s all. I was in pain.’
‘Right. I’m going to make you an offer. I am only going to say this once. I will take you home, I will nurse you, I will cancel all my appointments, I will take time off, and I won’t leave your side for three months, I will watch over you day and night so you finally escape this hell, and then … you’ll be clean. If you’re not, if you try to mess me around or trick me, we’ll never see each other again. But I will give you this one chance.’
‘Hey, you’re talking to me like I’m a baby.’
‘Your intellectual level is not necessarily any higher, Fred. Right now, I’m making a commitment to you: that’s the most important thing, that’s what should be the most important thing for you.’
‘I like it when you’re furious. It makes you really sexy.’
‘Don’t change the subject. I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Do you remember the first time we met? Do you remember how you came to me and said —’
‘I’m not senile.’
‘Good. Then you know what I’m talking about.’
‘You never committed to me. I liked that. I always had to run after you. I liked that, too. And now you want to become like all the others?’
‘You’re an ungrateful bitch.’
‘Yeah, go on, let it out. Finally an end to the nauseating do-gooder crap. Go ahead and spit out what’s really going on inside. It’ll do you good.’
‘Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. You’ve ruined enough already. I’m not becoming like all the others. I’m doing something no one has ever done for you: giving you a chance to stay, and not keep on running.’
‘Why? I’m not worth it, sweetie. I’m just a dried-up piece of shit. Go ahead, be angry with me.’
Fred fell silent. Scratched around in the earth with a little stone. Shifted her bottom back and forth. Picked at the hole in her trousers. Scratched her head, scratched her arms. Then she said quietly, almost inaudibly, ‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
‘I’ll try.’
So Kitty Jashi took her friend back to her flat and stayed there with her. Despite all Amy’s threats and pleas for her to finally start work on the new album and respond to the interview requests — because of course Amy had been right, and the renewed interest in Kitty exceeded their wildest imaginings — Kitty stuck by her promise to save Fred from herself. And one June morning, when her guardian angel, her nameless friend, called to inform her that she had become the great-aunt of a healthy baby girl, Kitty was in the middle of holding a bowl to Fred’s mouth as she vomited into it, cursing.
Creating the idea of an enemy for oneself releases a destructive power.
Because it is not the enemy who creates mistrust, but mistrust that
creates the enemy.
MERAB MAMARDASHVILI
When Daria asked Stasia why her eyes were different colours, Stasia answered her as follows: ‘That, my sunshine, is because there are two animals who live inside you: a husky, the sled-dog with the piercing blue eyes, from whom you get your blue eye, and a hedgehog, small, shy, and prickly — you get your brown eye from him. Your
husky is the brave part of you that’s always running, that doggedly follows its path, on and on and on, that never shies away from any adventure, and the hedgehog is the part of you that needs protection and calm, security and lots of love, that fears the wide world of the husky and so is always trying to retreat.’ Daria stuck to this story all her life, and would tell it whenever people commented, in amazement and wonder, on her eyes.
*
When I picture Daria as a little girl, I always see her dressed in her smart clothes, for which my grandmother was primarily responsible. She looked like a child from a pattern magazine, with stylish little patent-leather shoes and white socks, her curly blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. I see her purse her lips, holding sway over everyone and everything. A princess, whom our family was only sheltering temporarily, and who was therefore allowed to do anything, was entitled to anything she wanted.
Daria really did have the strangest, most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. And everything about her was beautiful and well-proportioned, practically perfect; only her deep voice, like that of a sulky boy, didn’t really go with her angelic appearance. I can still hear the whispering whenever I think back to when we used to walk along the street holding Mother’s hands: people speaking to one another in low voices, their glances lingering on her, circling her like wasps around a jam jar. Of course, I would be lying if I claimed I didn’t suffer torments back then; I would be lying if I claimed I hadn’t, some nights, wished a plague upon her. However, these torments were caused not so much by Daria or her beauty, but by our grandfather’s idolisation of her. In his eyes, she had everything she needed to lead a brilliant life, everything he valued in the female sex: unparalleled beauty; the innate ability to smilingly, trippingly, get her own way; the sleepwalker’s confidence that accompanies such beauty; and the obedience of a well-trained circus horse.
I’ve already said, Brilka, that despite all the many fights we had throughout our childhood, for me she was always the big sister I looked up to and wanted to emulate, in the certain knowledge that I would never succeed.
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