Mazarine

by Grimshaw, Charlotte

  I persisted, stolidly. ‘Life is strange. I had to offend my family to change my brain, lose them even. They wouldn’t tolerate me questioning.’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t lost them completely.’

  We’d been heading towards the centre of town; now she turned up a narrow street and into a small square bordered by a park. We sat at an outside table to wait, and soon a tall, thin man entered the square and crossed towards us.

  Emin Khasanov had black hair tinged with grey and a handsome, hawkish, finely lined face. His dark eyes were keen and alert. He greeted Mazarine and nodded at me, putting his hands together and looking me over sharply. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his shoulder bag, lit one as soon as the introduction was over and drew deeply on it, suppressing a series of coughs.

  He placed a fist on his chest and said ‘Mazarine’, drawing out the name, his tone cold and insinuating, implying, What are you up to now?

  Then he threw a glance at me and smiled at her with surprisingly white, even teeth, his eyes lit, a derisive look tinged with anger. I saw how familiar they were with each other; her expression was sharp, she gave him a cold smile that said, Yes, I know all your insults and no I don’t give a shit and mind your own business and go to hell.

  ‘Ça va?’ she said brightly.

  His expression turned serious. He suppressed another cough, a rattle deep in his chest, and struck his fist twice against his ribcage. He gestured, drawing her aside and talking quietly in rapid French, glancing at me as he talked.

  Mazarine frowned, clicked her tongue, said something sharp, they walked away and argued briefly. He shook his head, adamant. She came back, ruffling her hair.

  ‘He’s going to be late for work, so he wants me to ride on the Métro with him. I’ll meet you back at the flat.’

  ‘Why can’t I come?’

  ‘He wants to talk. Sorry, but I think it might be best.’ She raised a hand to shoo me away, and when I hesitated she hissed, ‘I think he’s got something to tell me, so can’t you—’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you back at the room. Nice to meet you,’ I said loudly to Emin, who nodded and went back to smoking and staring impatiently at Mazarine.

  She noted my tone, her lips pressed together.

  It took some time to find my way back through the series of narrow streets to the part of the city I knew. I felt frustrated, stung at having been dismissed and embarrassed by my resentful farewell — why could I not be cool like Mazarine? On the other hand, perhaps the unfriendly Emin would reveal something useful.

  I drifted along, at a loss, my anxiety about Maya uppermost again, despite the fact that I went on noticing the new openness, the glasnost, in my mind. I tried to describe it: if previously I’d avoided looking, and the street had seemed half-full of faceless figures, now I looked freely, and saw women who appeared — potentially — knowable, relatable, loveable. Looking for answers, searching for Maya, finding Mazarine, had led to my ‘tearing down the wall’. There was loss too, since the wall had enabled me to be close to Inez, who was willing to keep me near only while I was blind.

  A scene played out in my mind: I imagined contacting Werner Bismarck, and telling him all this. He was such a great believer in the power of narrative I almost owed it to him to reveal the next chapter. I’d left him, stopped the thousand and one stories so he couldn’t wield the magic axe called termination — I’d got in first. I was so fond of him though, perhaps one day I would go back.

  When Werner went through his phase of focusing on my selves, and trying to bring them together, I told him: there is one self who is never heard from, but who directs all. Everything comes from that self (all the stuff about selves, for example, that I could never have dreamed up) but that self is unknowable. It takes over sometimes. It’s ruthless — it understands human impulses, it reads the mind in the eyes, it knows what love is — but its only allegiance is to the story.

  That self is called the writer, I told him.

  By the time I’d found my way to the base of the hill and was starting up the steps it was noon, and I looked out for Mazarine, who’d presumably accompanied Emin as far as his work and then got on a Métro train in the opposite direction, and should now also be making her way up the hill to the room.

  I stopped to catch my breath, looking back at the view of the city, the buildings wobbling in the hot air, the sky crossed with wavering jet trails.

  A shutter banged above me and a splash of water hit my arm. I stepped back, colliding with a man, who dropped the phone he was holding up to take a photo of his wife posed against the picturesque backdrop of city and sky.

  Amid the apologies, I retrieved his phone, which had skidded dangerously close to a metal grating. The screen was cracked and I apologised again, explaining that someone had tipped water on me from above. He forgave me graciously, in an American accent.

  I turned away and saw, in the doorway of a café in the street below, beneath a faded sign advertising Orangina, Nick Oppenheimer, standing side-on and talking intensely to a woman with brown hair.

  As soon as my eyes fell on them he took the woman by the arm and pulled her out of sight, into the café. I heard the American’s grunt of surprise as I pushed past him, elbowing his wife who said ‘Hey’ in an aggrieved voice. I ran down the steps, looking for a way to reach the street below, but there was no shortcut and I had to get to the bottom and take an alley at the side of the staircase before finding the café, a swift glance around the tables revealing that Nick and his companion had gone.

  I walked quickly around the area, then hiked back up the long staircase, red-faced and sweating. At the top I pushed past the same American couple, who drew back as you would from a crazy person, pointing me out in low voices to their tour group.

  In the lobby of the building, which was cooled by a battered air conditioner whirring over the concierge’s station, I paused to get my breath. I texted Mazarine, opened the glass door and put my head out, checking the street. The area was so crowded I couldn’t see the busker, who was sending his twanging electric chords across the square. I stood scanning the faces of passersby until the concierge tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to shut the door so his air conditioner could function.

  I went up to the room and found Mazarine sitting hunched on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  As soon as I came in, she jumped up and started pacing, ruffling her hair and checking her phone. Her face was flushed, her eyes swollen. I’d never seen her agitated before.

  ‘What is it? What did he say?’

  She sat down on the bed, wiped her nose on a shredded tissue, got up and started pacing again.

  ‘Mazarine.’

  ‘It sometimes upsets me, talking to Emin.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She stared at me, then shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  She gave me a frazzled look. ‘Can I have some of that?’

  ‘What?’

  She pointed. I had a bottle of orange juice that I couldn’t remember buying.

  I handed it to her. ‘Come on,’ I said again, my voice hard. I felt like shaking her.

  She drank from the bottle, gazing off out the window, massaging the small of her back. ‘It’s too hot, I can’t think. I have to lie down.’

  ‘Okay, go on then.’ I gestured at the bed.

  ‘You too,’ she said.

  I lay down beside her, my face close to hers. Her cheeks were burning. She cupped her hands, put her mouth close to my ear, whispering.

  ‘Emin said that before he disappeared Mikail stayed in a house in Cornwall.’

  I sat up. ‘Aiden Wood had a house in Cornwall.’

  She signalled to me to be quiet, pulled me down, her breath hot in my ear. ‘He said Mikail gave information to the man who owned the house.’

  Silence.

  ‘And? And?’

  ‘We can’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

>   ‘I think Mikail wouldn’t want us to tell.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her eyes filled, I felt her hot tears on my cheek. ‘I miss him,’ she said.

  ‘Who? Emin or Mikail?’

  She didn’t answer, only sighed.

  ‘Did Emin know where Maya and Joe are?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mazarine.’

  She whispered, ‘Emin used to say to the boys when they misbehaved, “I’ll send you to Babushka.” It was what his own father would say to him. I asked him where Mikail was, and he used that word.’

  ‘Babushka? What did he mean?’

  ‘I think he meant Mikail’s gone to Grozny.’

  ‘And what about Maya and Joe? Surely they haven’t gone there too?’

  ‘He hates me,’ she whispered, ‘he wants to torture me, if he didn’t hate me how could he tell me these things?’

  ‘What things? What’s Mikail been doing?’

  She didn’t say anything, only squeezed her eyes shut.

  I gripped her arm, making her wince. ‘Was Emin involved in whatever Mikail was doing?’

  A long pause. ‘No. Mikail always confided in Emin when he needed help.’

  ‘So, did he help?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Hello? Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I said, ‘It’s not just about your sons; it’s my daughter. My child.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, when Emin said that word, you took it to mean he might have sent Mikail to Grozny. Does that mean he helped him?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  I leaned on my elbow, staring at her. ‘Why the mystery? Isn’t Emin meant to be a professor of linguistics? An academic?’

  ‘Yes, but with his connections …’

  I waited.

  ‘He had family members he never talked about.’ She hesitated, then said very quietly, ‘Emin’s name now is Khasanov …’

  I waited. ‘Yes?’

  ‘But he changed it. He actually has ties to the ruling family. In fact, he’s a member.’

  ‘Of the Chechen leader’s family?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Does he have much contact?’

  ‘I don’t know, I never wanted to know.’

  ‘And what about Maya and Joe?’

  She rolled on her back, put her arm over her face. ‘They’re not with Mikail.’

  ‘Did he know whether they’re still together?’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘Then he has seen them.’

  She didn’t answer.

  I felt unreality rolling in: was this happening, could this be happen-ing? Her cryptic answers were so frustrating, I got up, looked out the window, trying not to get angry.

  Mazarine said, ‘Frances. Sorry.’

  I went back and sat down, put my arm around her. She dabbed her forehead, pulled me close. We were silent for a while.

  She said in a calmer voice, ‘Emin always makes me crazy. Maya and Joe didn’t do anything. I know Emin’s looked after them, he’s devoted to Joe. I think I know where they are. We should go there. Not contact anyone, just go there, straight away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The other Babushka.’

  ‘The other …?’

  ‘It’s what he called her.’ She mouthed the words. ‘My mother.’

  I refused, flat out. I couldn’t see the sense of it, going half a world away from London, where Maya was most likely to show up, without making inquiries or consulting authorities, seemingly acting on no more than a hunch, since Mazarine wouldn’t explain her sudden urgent conviction that Maya and Joe were in her mother’s flat in Buenos Aires, except to repeat that she was sure Emin had indicated to her it was so.

  This didn’t seem an adequate basis for such a drastic course of action, I said, sarcastic.

  She whispered mournfully about Mikail, saying she was worried, missed him, but if I suggested asking for help she was adamant; no one could do anything, we wouldn’t get anywhere.

  ‘I don’t trust Emin anymore,’ she said, but when I was incredulous, asking why and what she meant, she would only press her lips together gloomily and shake her head.

  We argued, lying close together on the bed; she talked in whispers, and each time my voice rose with exasperation she pulled me closer, urging me to be quiet. My ear burned with her hot breath. I had a sense of absurdity, unreality.

  She was so determined, I thought she must be keeping something back, but she would only say, ‘After all, Buenos Aires is halfway home.’

  ‘That’s the problem. Halfway home is half a world away from Europe. Where the kids probably are.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ It was maddening. I went on refusing, insisting she should at least ring her mother, who would presumably mention the kids were there, even if Mazarine was too cloak-and-dagger to ask.

  She shook her head, No.

  I said I wouldn’t even consider going unless she rang.

  In the end, she gave in and called her mother, who answered her cellphone at the second try and revealed she wasn’t in Buenos Aires but on a winter holiday in Punta del Este, and that her apartment was empty while she was away. She asked after Joe and Mikail, with no hint that she’d heard from either of them.

  Mazarine’s fraudulently light tone made a disconcerting contrast with her appearance, mascara smudged and eyes full of worry. Her distress was so uncharacteristic and she looked so anxious, I felt a rush of love and protectiveness, wanted to throw my arms around her.

  She put down the phone, frowning, her mouth set, stubborn. ‘Joe knows how to access Mamma’s apartment. We’ve been there.’

  ‘What if we find nothing there and have to go back to London? I can’t afford it,’ I said. ‘This Airbnb costs a fortune, I rented the Normanby, I cleared out of there and went to another hotel—’

  Suddenly I remembered. I faced her. ‘Mazarine, I saw Nick again. Here, in Paris. Today.’

  She stared. We were both silent for a moment, then she ramped up her arguments: if I was right, if this man really did keep showing up, bearing in mind that I might be wrong since I’d admitted to a ‘facial recognition problem’, all the more reason to go to Buenos Aires, get away from him, and from Emin.

  ‘What are you not telling me?’ I said.

  Finally, she pulled out her laptop. ‘I’m going. You can stay here, or go back to London and wait there. I’m going to find Joe.’

  I watched her searching for cheap fares, nails clicking on the keyboard.

  She said over her shoulder, ‘Lufthansa flies from here, then we could get Air New Zealand from Buenos Aires to Auckland.’

  ‘I can’t afford it.’

  ‘I’ve just sold my house, I’ll pay.’

  ‘Really?’

  She winced, looked away to steady herself and said with a kind of vulnerable dignity, ‘Yes, I could pay.’

  I regretted my tone, the sarcastic accusation in it. I felt as if I’d hit her. ‘No. I’ve got money. It’s not about that.’

  ‘Will you go back to London then? Research your novel?’

  ‘I’ve got the Normanby for a week. I’ll keep looking.’

  She went on tapping away at her keyboard like a travel agent, searching websites for cheap fares, muttering about price specials, connections, air miles, points. Staring at the screen she said, ‘What’s it going to be about, your novel?’

  ‘Family connections. Touch. Disconnection.’

  She looked sideways. ‘You could always set part of it in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘No!’

  Her fingers tapped on the keys. Down in the street there was a blast of car horns, distant shouts. Sirens started up.

  ‘I’m not even thinking about the novel. I can’t write anything until I find Maya, obviously.’

  She put the laptop aside, pushed me over on my stomach and started massaging my back with her strong hands. I lay with my face in the pillow,
all the blood swarming under my skin.

  A long silence.

  ‘You could have been imagining it when you saw the man — Nick.’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Even with your face blindness?’

  ‘I told you. It’s just that I can’t visualise.’

  ‘But you said you get actual people wrong. Mix them up.’

  ‘Only when I don’t know them well.’

  I lay in silence. It was a kind of trap. Since I’d lost Patrick, I’d jogged along all right by myself, had kept a part of myself separate from Nick, but the new self Mazarine had awakened in me, the self of glasnost, needed her presence, found the prospect of separation too painful to imagine. I wanted to stay with her, not lose her, and I didn’t want to be alone in Paris or London, with Nick out there. But Maya came first. It was wrong to up and leave, without solid evidence.

  ‘Are you sure about Buenos Aires?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was massaging my neck, back, legs.

  The doubts swirled around; what if Mazarine and Emin were colluding, and had agreed that she would draw me away from Maya and Joe? Emin with his unfriendly eyes and his family he never mentioned — whatever his secrets were. How could she have married such a harsh, austere man if there wasn’t something cold, even unnatural, about her?

  Uncannily, making me feel she’d been listening in to my thoughts, she said, ‘You can trust me. Trust me.’ And then, ‘Things were always a bit wild with Emin.’

  ‘Why did you marry him?’

  ‘He was attractive, exotic. Also a bit too exciting.’

  ‘He’s handsome. I suppose. Sort of.’

  She said in a high-minded tone, ‘I’ve often been drawn to ethnic guys, Frances.’

  ‘Ethnic?’

  ‘Once I went out with an African. From the Congo. I was idealistic.’

  I laughed into the pillow.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘He was really sexist. The African, I mean.’

  ‘Was turning gay idealistic?’

  She went on kneading my back. ‘I think you have issues with trust.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I don’t think you know who you are, Frances.’