The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

  THE SQUEEZE

  LESLEY GLAISTER

  Set between 1989 and the downfall of Ceaușescu, and 2013, The Squeeze travels between Edinburgh, Romania and Oslo and see this ­multi-award-winning and bestselling author at the height of her powers.

  Marta, a teenager trafficked from Romania in the early 1990s is forced to work as a prostitute in Edinburgh. Mats, a Norwegian businessman, who longs only to be a good husband and father, becomes involved with Marta and both their lives are wrenched – for good or ill – in new directions.

  Told in a splintered narrative style that allows glimpses into several points of view, The Squeeze explores the transactions that take place between men and women.

  Sex, money and the desire for love, are at its heart.

  Praise for the author

  ‘Eerily atmospheric Little Egypt, made me shudder; certain passages were read through half-closed eyes, the way you watch grisly scenes in a film — desperate to know what happens, but not wanting to disturbing images imprinted on your mind.’ —ROSEMARY GORING, The Herald

  ‘Glaister’s greatest success in Little Egypt is in her pacing and her use of language to obscure change; through effortless and consistently engaging prose, Isis’s transformation, the degradation of the house, the growing panic over her parents’ prolonged absence, and the book’s more sinister themes, all emerge discreetly.’ —CLAIRE KOHDA HAZELTON, TLS

  ‘This tale of imprisonment and neglect explores our passion for nostalgia, with hints of Dodie Smith’s darker side. An excellent read that pulls at the heart as well as the head.’ —VICTORIA CLARK, The Lady

  ‘Glaister’s novels always appear to be as effortless for her to write as they for us to read.’ —The Times

  ‘Glaister has the the uncomfortable knack of putting her finger on things we most fear, of exposing the darkness within.’ —Independent on Sunday

  THE SQUEEZE

  lesley glaister is the prize-winning author of thirteen novels, most recently, Little Egypt. Her short stories have been anthologised and broadcast on Radio 4. She has written drama for radio and stage and published a pamphlet of poetry. Lesley is a Fellow of the RSL, teaches creative writing at the University of St Andrews and lives in Edinburgh.

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX United Kingdom

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Lesley Glaister, 2017

  The right of Lesley Glaister to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2017

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-78463-117-8 electronic

  For Jill Glaister and in memory of Oliver Glaister.

  One

  1989–91

  Alis

  Mama’s salt tin had a picture of a ballerina balanced on one toe. Her other leg floated up behind her, one finger pointing to heaven. Her dress was made of silver cloud. When I was a little kid, I wanted to be this ballerina.

  So stupid.

  I am a realist. Of course, I always knew I’d end up like Mama. She worked hard and sometimes the men were bad but not often. Usually there was food for the table, sometimes very good food. And drink. Mama had the need to drink. But when she was not too drunk she was very funny. She made jokes and we’d laugh and laugh at the stupid pricks. We laughed a lot. We did.

  Mama died long ago of too much drink.

  I don’t know what happened to the salt tin.

  Mats

  Watching history happen before your eyes, it is amazing. It was on the news, extended news that night: the breaking down of the Berlin Wall. We saw the sudden party it became, people from East and West chipping with hammers and chisels for souvenirs; heavy machinery; cranes swinging blocks through the air; tears and songs and laughter, a kind of ecstasy of destruction.

  My wife wasn’t a political person, or an emotional person, but she cried. Never had I seen her like this. I was moved too for sure, by what was happening in Berlin, and by Nina’s face. In the flicker of the TV light I watched her struggle with her expression – she hates to give anything away. We wanted to be a part of it so we opened a bottle of red though it was a work night. We raised a glass to freedom and then raised several more.

  It was seeing Nina in that moment as almost vulnerable that gave me the courage to ask her the question I had not dared to ask before. I’d been offered a transfer from our head office in Oslo, a promotion to Director of Communications and Transformations in our northern UK branch. This would mean a move to Edinburgh, for at least a year, maybe for longer or even for good.

  She stood to move away and mute the TV. ‘But I have everything here,’ she said, sweeping her hand to indicate this. Her back was against the glass wall of our apartment; snowy pine trees behind her showed blue. I could not clearly see her face. Her hair was piled high on her head the way I like, to show her neck, so delicate.

  ‘Why would I want to leave my job? My friends?’

  ‘Not for ever,’ I said. ‘Maybe a year – and see what you think then?’

  She turned her back. So slim in her black clothes. Around her the blue snow glowed. She said nothing; I said nothing. She made coffee. We sat on the sofa across from the window, coffee pot on the table. On TV, silent youths danced on top of the wall, throwing high their fists. We watched for a few minutes more before she switched it off.

  Her jaw was pulling little strings in her neck – a bad sign. When she spoke again it was to change the subject. We talked about her work, so much more interesting than mine; her patients, some of them famous. She works with skiers, the Olympic team, sportsmen and women of different kinds, providing physiotherapy. In the early days, if I had a stiff back she used to fix it, her fingers hard and cool, effective. But later, not so much.

  Maybe it was stupid of me to bring up the subject of the child at that moment. Next year, she always said, but the years were adding and she was 39. Past time already, I considered. Most of our friends had children by now. My first thought when Kristian offered me the post, had been the child: would this be good or bad news for the prospect? I was excited at the thought of working somewhere new and Edinburgh was a city I had many times promised myself to visit.

  Whenever I mentioned a child, Nina’s hand would go to her flat stomach. There it went again, onto her thin, black wool sweater. On her white hand the diamond of her ring glinted; two platinum rings, wedding and engagement. Each night she took them off to polish. She’d lay them neatly on the bedside shelf and rub cream into her hands, cream that smelled faintly medicinal.

  Her face I could not properly see. I stood to switch on the lamp. She is so fair with slanting eyes, blue like sea glass, even in the light impossible to read.

  ‘You could take a sabbatical,’ I suggested. ‘Relax, maybe get pregnant. Have the baby there, maybe.’

  There we were in the glass, a couple having coffee in the evening. The pine trees had gone now but through our reflections street lamps pricked points of lig
ht.

  She put down her mug, loud on the glass table. ‘I’m certainly not giving birth in a foreign country,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking, Mats!’

  We sat in silence. I stood to fetch a cigarette, switch on music, Garbarek, soft saxophone winding like the smoke. Her hair shone in the lamplight. Her small skull gave me a tender feeling. I bent to kiss her slim neck, downy at the back, fine white strands she has never seen.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘It was just an idea.’

  She reached up and caught my hand. ‘How about the cabin, at the weekend?’

  In winter there is nothing at the cabin but fire and snow, the sauna and the bed.

  We added brandy to our coffee and went upstairs.

  Alis

  Mama told me not to go near the guy with the flashy car. How do you think he got so rich? And girls did disappear, pretty girls. But in Romania, to disappear was not so strange. An everyday thing.

  I took no notice and now I am here.

  It is dark and I am alone. I do not like to be alone. I do not like the dark. Please God bring me light.

  Marta

  Pocked with shell damage, the bridge was unsafe for traffic, but always busy with pedestrians. On a sultry afternoon, Marta walked Milya home from school. A chemical haze hung in the air – you wouldn’t want to breathe too deeply. Milya ran back to talk to a friend and Marta waited, gazing at the posters plastered all over the stonework; not so long ago you’d have gone to prison for that. Or disappeared. Years ago this bridge was lined with statues of saints, but now along the parapet stood only the stumps of feet and shins.

  Marta peered down at the riverbank, clogged with rags and rubbish, scum and slime, but in the middle, still deep and bright, swam fish. You’d have to be desperate to eat them, knowing what they swam in. On one side of the river were the flats where the workers lived; on the other the school, shadowed by the chemical plant and the cement works. In the chemical plant lights burned twenty-four hours a day so that the sky never grew properly dark at night, was always stained with orange.

  ‘Come on.’ Milya tugged at Marta’s hand.

  ‘Five plus seven,’ said Marta.

  ‘Twelve. Do me some takeaways.’

  Marta wiped her brow, noticed a guy watching her, a stranger in a suit. He had the look of a businessman. Marta began to hurry past but he held his hand up and spoke: ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a place to eat. Is there a restaurant nearby?’

  Marta had to fight not to laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘No, it’s just flats that side.’ She pointed at the six towering blocks – stained concrete, hanging washing, broken windows, haphazard patchings, hen coops and leggy tomato plants on the balconies. ‘You need to go back into town.’ In truth there was Yuri’s where you could buy tea and onion soup, but it was too close to the stink of the river, not a place for the likes of him.

  Milya fidgeted beside her. ‘Come on, Marta.’

  Marta lifted her shoulders at the man, apologetic. He was ­middle-aged, heavy and well cared for. Though he spoke Romanian, he was dressed as if he came from the west. His suit was beautiful, a sheen to the cloth in the hazy sunshine. His shoes were scuffed, but beneath the dust you could see the gleam of expensive leather. Everything was dusty from the cement works. Even Milya’s copper curls looked grey.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Milya insisted, tugging.

  ‘You’re not the only one.’ The man smiled down at Milya, who stared back at him curiously.

  ‘You can have your dinner with us, can’t he Marta?’ she said.

  ‘Milya!’ Marta flushed. ‘Mr . . . the gentleman’s looking for a restaurant. Go back across the bridge, take a taxi back to town – there you’ll find . . . fine places,’ she finished vaguely.

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes lingered on her face. ‘Good day, Marta is it? Antenescu, Pavel.’

  She took his moist hand, confused by the look he was giving her, just like those from the factory boys. She knew where such looks led and did not want that, no thank you, not a flat full of babies before she was twenty.

  ‘And you live?’

  ‘There.’ Milya pointed. ‘Flat 67, block 1. It’s the bestest block.’

  ‘And what’s your family name?’ he asked.

  ‘Sala,’ said Milya. ‘Come on, Marta!’

  Before he turned away, Mr Antenescu squeezed Marta’s hand tight in his own, leaving an imprint in her fingers.

  ‘Don’t be so free to tell people things,’ Marta scolded.

  ‘Why?’ Milya tore her hand away and ran ahead.

  For a change, the lift was working; as it creaked and grunted upwards they held their breaths against the stench. When she entered the flat, Marta tried seeing the apartment from a stranger’s point of view, noticing afresh the grease and urine smell that, scrub as they might, she and Mama could never overcome. Nor could they overcome the sadness that had clung to the furniture and deepened the shadows since Tata’s death.

  Marta began to peel potatoes, cutting away the green bits, the bad bits, the sprouting eyes. The memory of Pavel’s warm, smooth squeeze stayed in her hand and she stopped to gaze at it, considering.

  Alis

  Never did I trust a guy before, but this one, he said he loved me and I believed him! What happened to my brain that day? He said I was his girlfriend, the special one, and then I remember nothing for a while. Maybe a drug in my wine or my coffee. How do I know? I woke up in the dark with a pain in my head. There was noise. Something soft nearby. I could not see, but I could feel long hair, thick hair.

  It was a girl and I was so glad there was another girl so I was not alone in the dark.

  The trip was rough. I only knew it was a ship when we started to tip. We were hidden behind boxes with dishwashers inside. We did not see this till the container doors were opened and there was light. The girl was small, only up to my shoulder, very pretty, thin but with big tits.

  As soon as I saw her I thought she’d never stand whatever was coming next.

  Mats

  It took an hour or two to heat the cabin that had been empty for weeks, to light the sticks and get the logs to burn. There is no electricity in the cabin. We had a routine. Nina likes routine. She is an efficient person. If she says a thing will work, it works. At first I used to argue and find my own way to do things, but she turned out always to be right.

  While I worked on the fire, Nina lit the candles and lamps, bringing the place back to life. I set the sauna stove going too, ready for the morning. It was late before we had the place the way we liked it, warm enough to remove our sweaters as we ate bread and cheese and sipped red wine heated on the stove. Snowflakes fell through the darkness against the windows like big hands stroking. Later, we climbed the stairs to the bed on the platform above the main room, made each other hot, watched flame shadows playing on the timber above us. Our shadows were enormous when we sat up, the ski slope shadows of her breasts, the nipples peaked, the mazy patterns of her hair.

  We made love so much that weekend I was afraid I’d let her down if she wanted more. We sweated in the sauna; she rolled in the snow, though that extreme is not for me. So tender we were, raw and open. We would have made a baby for sure if she hadn’t been on the pill. I wondered if she might have stopped taking it, the way she kept her legs around my waist, keeping me deep inside her even when we were done.

  Our best times were always at the cabin, our most natural times. I mean that is where we were our simple selves. It was so good, but curiously I found it a relief when we packed up to leave on Sunday afternoon, the passion, how can I say it? almost too much. I wanted to be back at our apartment in the hot reliable shower, in the flatter, firmer bed.

  The way you sank into the feather mattress of the cabin bed, sometimes it was as if you might never climb out. I thought how different it would be if we had a child; there would be purpose other than just o
ur own physical gratification, a responsibility. We had driven all that way basically to eat and drink and fuck. I was tired when we left, after the Sunday routine: clean the stove, strip the sheets to take in the car with empty bottles, wipe up the butter smears, sweep the floor.

  The last part of the routine: ‘Bye bye, cabin,’ Nina said, winding her scarf around her neck. The cabin had been in her family since she was a little girl, and she kept this childish habit, the only one. I found it incredibly touching. And then she turned to look at me.

  ‘Take the job,’ she said as she stepped out of the door.

  Alis

  This I have never told a living soul.

  It is too sad to tell.

  I was twelve the first time. Big money for a virgin. And then many more men paid big money for a virgin. I was small and they believed. Stupid pricks. Mama said I was too young to have a baby. I got bigger round my stomach and tits. Of course, I was growing up. But one day my belly started to jump.

  When Mama saw this she cried and said, Sorry, so sorry, so sorry, my baby to have baby. She said, God forgive me and she prayed to God to ask Him what to do. My Mama was not a bad person, only a poor person who needed to drink.

  Maybe sometimes she was bad.

  But God forgives.

  It was a good time for me when I was pregnant. Mama said I did not have to work any more till the baby came. Mama helped me when he was born. My little boy. I held him for one hour. He had dark hair and a sweet wrinkled face. My little monkey. His fingers were strong. He held my thumb very, very tight with his tiny fingers. Nobody else has ever held me so tight – except to get something from me. I can still feel his fingers on my thumb. They squeezed so tight.