The Eighth Life

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The Eighth Life Page 81

by Nino Haratischwili


  This tour felt like her own personal Golgotha. She had never felt so old and worn out. So alienated. As if all spiritual nourishment had been withdrawn from her, and she had been reduced to purely biological functions.

  ‘Then in December, we’ll go to New York.’ Amy’s triumphant voice rang out from the next room. ‘I mean, of course we’ll take up that contract. You’ll write for these people. You said yourself back then that composing under those circumstances might be more fun because you’d have some peace and quiet, so I don’t want any objections. Anyway, I’m not going to pass up that much money just because you’re going through one of your melancholy phases. You’ll write the songs they want, and voila.’

  ‘Have you heard any news of her?’

  Kitty was standing in the doorway with the pillow in her hand.

  ‘The last I heard she was in Wales, in a private hospital. I asked Magnus, he made enquiries; the hospital is supposed to be one of the best.’

  ‘Did you pay for her treatment?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  Kitty was grateful to Amy for not trying to lie to her.

  ‘The fact you sent her there doesn’t necessarily mean she stayed.’

  ‘I did what I could. The last time I saw her, she hardly had a good tooth left in her head. I get the sense she knows that this is her last chance.’

  ‘I can’t get her out of my head, Amy, especially when I have to perform — it always starts then, it’s like a sickness, like a virus that infects me.’

  ‘Would you take a look at the shirts and tell me which one you want to wear tomorrow? The concierge says they can have the best of the best delivered straight to the room. Do you want to try on some different styles?’

  ‘Oh, spare me, please. They’re white shirts. They all look the same.’

  ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong!’ Suddenly, Amy paused in her constant movement and studied Kitty. ‘You’ve written some really wonderful songs. This album is your most mature work yet; you should enjoy it and be proud of yourself. I think it would be unforgivable if you didn’t enjoy this success. If it sets your mind at rest, I’ll call London and make some enquiries about her. Although as far as I’m concerned, for once, here and now, this is just about the two of us: you and me, and this thing we’ve created together. Do you get that? It’s about us, not her.’

  ‘She’s as much a part of this us as we are, Amy; you know that.’

  Kitty dropped the large, soft pillow on the floor. For a while they both stared at it, senselessly dropped, senselessly lying there, as if it was a proxy for someone or something else. Amy put her arms around Kitty’s shoulders.

  ‘This is not an easy thing for me to tell you, but when she looked at me, particularly in the last few months, and when she turned up at my door again not knowing what to do with herself, when she needed money or just a place to sleep, I knew she was looking at you, not me — that it was you she saw. Yes, Kitty: she stayed in my life because of you, as ridiculous as that sounds.’

  *

  The spotlight pierced her eyes. There was a mysterious quality to the silence. A breath held before the applause started; soon this silence would erupt into something phenomenal. The white shirt stuck to her exhausted body. She hadn’t yet put down her guitar; she was standing at the front of the stage, looking into the darkened room where around two thousand people were sitting. She was still clutching the microphone. The string players rose from their seats and stepped towards the edge of the stage. Soon they would be judged and, ideally, rewarded for the two and a half hours they had spent giving their all, right to the end. The heat held her body in its grip, and she wiped her forehead with the handkerchief she always carried in her shirt pocket. The music was still ringing in her head. Her fingers still hurt from every single chord, remembered every single note they had played that evening.

  During the first song, she had realised that the music was threatening to slip away from her, that her singing was unfocused, distracted, and mechanical, and she had forced herself to think of her face: of the red hair, of the photos they had taken together in America, of the words they had spoken and not spoken to each other — and the surrender, the longing, and above all the deep resentment came back into her voice. Eyes closed, she dedicated her songs to Fred, fervently hoping that she would return to herself. Not to Kitty, not to Amy, just to herself. And that evening she managed to keep the ghosts away from the stage. Fred Lieblich brought her songs back to life. Fred Lieblich was alive, and that evening she wanted to believe that she would stay that way.

  Then, suddenly, the thunderous applause broke out; Kitty smiled through the sea of stage lights out into the darkness, bowed to her audience, turned round, beckoned her colleagues forward, and bowed again. The clapping was deafening.

  Let the trumpets loudly ring out

  And the cheerful drummers play!

  The song of friendship we will sing out

  Greeting this new golden day!

  PIONEER SONG

  The autumn sun caressed my ankles as I ran down the hillside. I ran as fast as I could, lifting up the skirt of my school pinafore, racing the light breeze that pursued me from the woods.

  I loved the places I thought of as mine: the woods, the clearing, the curve of the hillside. How often had I come up here after school and lain down in the grass. Neither rain nor wind, not even snow, could keep me from my walks. I would lie on the ground and look at the sky. It was a sight that helped me forget the most awful part of the day: the hours I spent at school. The boredom that overcame me there, the children I hated, the fist-fights, the people I fell out with, the insults, and, above all, Daria’s coldness. She was two classes above me and refused to acknowledge me, didn’t even come to my defence in the playground when someone threw a half-eaten apple at me, called me a swot, or pushed me over.

  But that day I didn’t want to stop, I didn’t want to lie down. I wanted to run. I wanted everything that had happened that morning to be carried away by the wind.

  ‘Niza is a nutcase, Niza is a nutcase!’ They had all chanted it in chorus, then a stocky third-year boy had lunged at me and pulled my pinafore top down. There was a laugh of malicious glee from all sides. This encouraged the stork-like boy from 4a to yank my dress up over my head, at which everyone doubled up with laughter.

  ‘Niza’s got blue knickers, Niza’s got blue knickers!’ They were really bellowing now. I got away, made to run out of the playground, and then beautiful Anna from my class planted herself in my way. I clutched my skirt — the stork boy was trying to pull at it again from behind — clamped the hem between my legs and stood there like a toddler who had wet herself.

  The others gathered round, joined hands, and formed a wall of bodies in front of me. I screwed up all my courage and tried to break through the barrier, but I couldn’t; I fell flat on the ground. Again, they laughed. When I turned my head, I could see Daria standing on the other side of the playground, looking over and doing nothing. Just standing there with her friends, all of them pretty, with their spotless white knee-socks and flat patent-leather shoes, doing nothing, not even speaking. She stared over in my direction as if spellbound, as if she herself couldn’t believe I was the one the other children were laughing at, pushing, humiliating, and insulting. She would have had the power to end my torment. But she didn’t move.

  She didn’t move. Her brown eye seemed sad, ashamed, while her blue eye stared almost gleefully in my direction. My lips parted, I tried to say something, to call her name, but no sound came out. I was ashamed for her, ashamed on her behalf, because she couldn’t admit her shame at having me for a sister. She was a victor, a winner, and a winner can’t have a loser for a sister. A girl with tousled hair and scabby knees, her socks around her ankles. I couldn’t hold back any longer; I started to cry. I was almost hysterical. I screamed so loudly and for so long that the teachers came rushing out of the buildi
ng, chased away the swarm of children that had gathered round me, picked me up, and carried me into the school to phone my mother.

  Now I wanted to forget it all. I wanted to erase these terrible images, these voices, from my head. I didn’t want to think about sitting in the school sick-bay while my mother conferred with my class teacher. As if I had committed some offence, as if she had to apologise for me. I wanted to shake off the unpleasant feeling that I was putting too much of a strain on my mother. This feeling hadn’t left me for some time.

  It was already starting to get dark. Elene hadn’t stayed so long at the Green House in an eternity. Kostya and Nana would be home soon. It seemed she was waiting for her parents. For her father. Maybe she meant to tell him about my disgrace today. I ran faster, finding it hard to catch my breath, but I didn’t want to stop. I prayed that she would just go home, that she wouldn’t see Kostya, wouldn’t tell him how they hated me and laughed at me. I was racing the wind. If I got down to the garden first, then it would all be over. The horror of school, the daily torment, Kostya’s reproaches. And if the wind won, everything would stay as it was.

  I stood at the garden gate and doubled up, gasping for breath. Had I won? I couldn’t feel the wind any more. I stretched out my palms and waited. I had outfoxed the wind. I was sure I’d won. Had I, had I?

  The lights were already on in the house. I could hear muffled voices inside. I crept up to the terrace and sat on the creaking swing seat. Kostya and Nana were back — of course — and Elene’s car was still in the driveway. My prayers had not been answered: she was talking to them about me.

  Daria stepped outside. Eyed me with mistrust. Then she sat down hesitantly beside me.

  ‘They told me to go outside. They’re talking about you.’

  I shuffled sideways a little, keeping my distance from her, to be on the safe side. There were brown plasters on both my knees, from the school sick-bay. Seeing the plasters made me think about that morning again, and I felt a cold, blind loathing come over me. I didn’t want to stay next to my sister. I stood up, went to the door, and sat on the mat in front of it.

  I could hear Kostya’s trembling voice inside. Then I heard Elene fly into a rage.

  ‘For God’s sake, she’s a really gifted child! When will you understand that? The teacher made it very clear again today. “Gifted”, that was the word he used. It’s not wishful thinking, not some kind of illusion. Deda, say something, won’t you?’ Elene was clearly appealing to Nana. ‘You must have noticed, you must be able to see it! And you’re telling me she’s not making enough of an effort? Well, I salute you. I don’t know anyone but you who would react to that news with those words! Any other grandfather would laugh with happiness, but no, not you, of course not. How could I forget: she’s my little bastard, gifted or not!’

  ‘Then find your children another grandfather,’ Kostya retorted icily. ‘Or better still, find yourself another father. You’re old enough now. Find someone to pay for your children, for their education, their clothes, their future. Someone who can give them a good life!’

  ‘This isn’t about me, or you, or any of that crap — it’s about Niza.’

  I could hear in Elene’s voice that she was close to tears.

  ‘And what am I supposed to do now? What do you want from me? She’s already at the best school in the city.’

  ‘It’s not about being at the best school. It’s about how she needs to be treated, about the right methods, and above all the right environment. This month alone there’ve been three similar incidents, and she didn’t even tell us. I mean, they’re inflicting mental and physical cruelty on her, just because she’s cleverer than the others.’

  ‘And this teacher is qualified to make those judgements about the child, is he?’

  ‘She’s bored at school because she can do it all already, don’t you understand? She’s doing Daria’s homework for her now! And she’s only in the first year. Please!’

  ‘Daria does her own homework,’ retorted Kostya.

  ‘Oh, stop it now!’ Nana suddenly exclaimed.

  ‘She needs a different kind of challenge. I don’t know; the teacher thinks we should find out what other possibilities there are. Maybe a special school, or —’

  ‘The child stays where she is. It’s the best school in the city. And special treatment could hamper her development. She has to learn to fit in. After all, life isn’t tailored to child prodigies. She has to learn to deal with it, and we have to toughen her up.’

  ‘Toughen her up? To deal with what? Being punched and taunted?’

  ‘Well, they won’t have given her a shove because she’s too clever, will they? She’ll have been cheeky, or … I know what she’s like!’

  ‘A shove? You’re out of your mind! Deda, say something, tell him how outrageous that is!’

  Elene groaned. I fervently hoped she would manage to get to the end of the argument without crying. I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want her to cry in front of Kostya.

  Daria pursed her lips as if she was about to whistle — it was what she did when she was embarrassed or wanted to cover something up. She gave the swing a nudge, then hauled herself into it. I got up from the doormat and went over to her.

  ‘Shall I push you?’

  She nodded to me like a landowner allowing a serf to kiss her hand. She probably thought this was a peace offering. Now and then I would help her with her homework; it looked as if she wanted my help again now, and that meant a reconciliation was necessary.

  I pushed the swing with all my might. She cried out, but I carried on, swinging her higher and higher until she slipped off the seat and fell onto the hard ground. Her face was twisted in pain, but that pleased me. It gave me a moment of comfort before her voice rose in a soft, writhing, plaintive cry. In that moment, I was the winner. And it was a good feeling.

  *

  In the middle of the night, Stasia woke me and told me to follow her. Barefoot, I tiptoed slowly outside after her. Daria was sleeping in Kostya’s bed, exhausted from crying, her ankle cooled by many ice packs. We went into the garden. It was a mild night with the warmth of the day still in it. Behind the lilac bushes, Stasia spread out a blanket, and we lay down together and looked up at the clear, starry sky. I snuggled up against her threadbare old towelling dressing gown. We lay like that for a while in silence.

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ she said abruptly into the silence, pressing my head against her chest.

  ‘Yes!’ I whispered back excitedly. I loved her secrets no less than her stories.

  ‘Do you see the cherry tree over there? Sometimes a friend of mine comes round. She sits under the cherry tree and smiles at me. Sometimes another friend comes as well, and they play cards. But they can’t really be here at all. They’ve both been dead a long time.’

  I pricked up my ears. I prepared myself for a ghost story, even if the beautiful clear night sky wasn’t really the right setting for it.

  ‘But that can’t be true, Bebo.’ I made an effort to bring some logic to the matter.

  ‘Yes, well, I was coming to that.’

  Stasia put her right hand inside her dressing gown, rustled around in her nightshirt, and paused.

  ‘Sometimes we humans can’t explain things, sometimes we don’t understand things, but just because most people don’t see these things and don’t believe in them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

  ‘And what don’t most people see?’

  ‘They don’t see my friends standing under the cherry tree, and nor do they see how special you are.’

  ‘Why am I special?’

  ‘You can do things other people can’t.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You learn faster than the others. You have a different understanding of things. You have a feeling for people.’

  ‘You mean I can tell if someone’s been crying, e
ven if they’ve already washed their face?’

  ‘For example, yes.’

  She took something out of her dressing gown and held it tightly in her hand.

  ‘But why can’t the others see your friends? Is one of them standing there now? Can I see her?’

  ‘No, there’s no one there just now. They probably have to sleep, too. I don’t know if you would see them. Most people don’t see them because they didn’t know them, and they didn’t love them enough.’

  ‘What was your friend called?’

  ‘Sopio.’

  ‘And why did she die?’

  ‘Because the world is a dung heap and most people are pieces of cow shit.’

  ‘And me?’ I giggled. I liked Stasia’s choice of words.

  ‘You’re a diamond in the rough, and you have to learn to ignore the muck. Things aren’t going to be easy for you at school, but you must learn to stand up for yourself. You must learn to get by without the others, if need be — even without your sister.’

  ‘I didn’t want to make her fall off the swing.’ I didn’t know why I was lying.

  ‘It’s all right to want it. But it was wrong of you to do it. She let you down. But don’t hurt anybody just because they’ve hurt you: it’ll come back like a boomerang. It won’t lessen your own suffering. You need to understand that people don’t hurt you because you’re stupid or ugly; they hurt you because they’re envious of you.’

 

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