Manya, Maryia, and Marusya surprised themselves with the genuine care and concern they felt for their stoic charges. They hated the women who paid them a pittance for work they should have done themselves, but they found their hatred could not touch the girls given over to their care. They grumbled about the frilly clothes and silly hairstyles and perfumed lotions and dance classes and quarterly portrait sittings, but they loved the girls and wanted to see them happy.
Kaylee, Crystal, and Lila did everything expected of them and little unexpected until their twelfth birthday, which was to be celebrated together, as it had been every year since their birth, on a day near, but not exactly on, any of their respective birthdays. Typically, the girls participated in identical activities (but never anything that could be considered a “sport,” since none of the women wanted a sporty girl: they weren’t even allowed to learn tennis), but in the world of music, they had each been assigned their own instrument at the age of 8. Kaylee’s mother had insisted on the piano, since she swore her daughter had the longest and most graceful fingers. Lila’s mother had wanted piano for Lila, who might have the slightest case of allergies or asthma and couldn’t possibly play an instrument that used the breath, but she conceded that her daughter’s fingers were slightly shorter than Kaylee’s, though mostly she conceded to not piano because if both girls played piano, one was certain to be better, and she could not risk this advantage to Kaylee over Lila. So Lila learned the violin, which had pleased her mother until she saw the marks the violin left on her daughter’s chin, but by then it was too late to switch since Lila would have been far behind the learning curve, so her mother bought a series of luxurious chin rests and convinced herself that the semi-permanent tilt of her daughter’s head made her seem a little confused at all times, which could be nothing but a plus in the pursuit of a suitable husband, since wealthy men demand witless women.
Crystal’s mother had missed the day at the spa when the others decided on instruments. She was enraged since piano and violin were also her first two choices, but she said nothing since the reason she’d missed that spa day was that she had been recovering from a certain elective surgery about which she didn’t want the other two women to know. Upon hearing the news and being asked which instrument her own daughter would play, Crystal’s mother discharged her ice shard laugh and declared that of course Crystal would play the flute, there was no question, and she already had a person finding out which flute was the best.
This was how the triplets came to be a musical trio and how each of their houses developed a soundproof room in which each girl spent more time practicing her instrument than her mother could have predicted, which was a serious source of pride and concern in each woman. And since the mothers had no real appreciation of music themselves, and since they paid no attention to what the girls learned or what music they practiced, none of them knew that their nannies had spent part of their hard earned wages to purchase certain music from their homeland for the girls to play.
The only unexpected thing that the girls did before their twelfth birthday, was that when asked what she wanted for her birthday, each girl responded that she only wanted to perform a song with her trio. Since it was the first time any of the girls had really requested anything, each mother was taken aback. None of them had any idea what the girls sounded like when they played. The girls had been receiving private lessons, solo and as a trio, for four years, but the mothers had assumed it took much longer to play an instrument decently and had never allowed their daughters to participate in any recitals, much to their music teacher’s angst and despair. Besides the obvious job of turning their girls into perfect paradigms of womanhood, the mothers took seriously their charge to avoid any and all embarrassment, which could taint their daughters and follow them through their lives like shadows plucking at their limbs.
The mothers agreed to the performance anyway, since how could they deny their daughters their single request? They were now very interested in hearing their daughters play. The daughters smiled their practiced coquettish smiles and said it should be a surprise, after all, the mothers had waited this long, what was one more week? The mothers each tried to sneak up on their respective daughter’s practicing, but the contractors had done too good a job and the practice rooms were truly soundproof. They tried to sneak by the trios’ weekly rehearsal, but when they showed up to the music space and heard half a dozen children squeaking and squawking on their instruments—because somehow the nannies had confused music practice with dance practice on the calendars—a chill ran down each mother’s perfectly cracked and decompressed spine, because what if their daughters’ sounded the same?
Fearing the worst, the mothers went directly to their personal shoppers and acquired the most tasteful and “in” outfits possible for their daughters for the event (and for themselves, of course) banking on the magic of beauty and the keenness of the eyes to erase any unpleasant sounds picked up by the ears of the hundred or so people who would be present for the triplets’ celebration.
The mothers had no way to know that on the other side of town, Manya, Maryia, and Marusya were also choosing clothes for the girls’ big day. The chosen clothes were special gifts to mark the last year of childhood in the girls, which was well-known to be the 12th year, even if a technicolor country might deny as much while doing everything in its might to turn girls into women by age ten. In their own country they had seen children turned to whores, but not in the manner they witnessed everywhere in their new land of endless opportunity. They often joked about this among themselves and nodded and spit in ways that people in the new land did not recognize as laughter.
On each girl’s actual birthday, she woke in the morning to sweet milky coffee and pastries and fruits and buttered potatoes and pickled herring and varenyky with various fillings, savory and sweet, and a slew of other delicious treats. Each nanny looked down on her charge lovingly and recited a series of well wishes for the following year. Manya wished for Kaylee all the love a life could hold, good health, much laughter and warmth, piano songs to make her cry, a special boy or girl, a long life, the best fruits, fulfilling work, and protection from things that wanted to harm her. (Here Manya was thinking of Kaylee’s silly mother.) Maryia wished Crystal health, a long life, good friends, a loving family (she said this with no hint of irony since she was thinking of herself, the other girls, her sisters, and Crystal’s future husband and children, not Crystal’s ridiculous mother and blind father), satisfying work, a comfortable home, dexterous fingers and lips and mighty lungs for her flute playing, wealth, happy days, and children with beautiful souls. Marusya wished for Lila a strong back, a quick wit, thick and serious eyebrows, the love of a good dog, the right soul for a violinist without the devil’s hand, a healthy body, a clear mind, and the sort of spiritual wisdom that comes through hard work. As each woman recited her expansive list, she looked into her girl’s eyes, holding her hands and stroking her hair, and she did not abbreviate her list in the manner of native English speakers, but instead said fully each time, “I wish for you x. I wish for you y. I wish for you z.” By the time each nanny was done, each girl was in joyous tears of despair at being loved so well and fully and being known so well and fully by another person in this great, cluttered world.
On the afternoon of their 12th birthday, which was the day after the last girl had had her real birthday, since their mothers agreed that it should be after and not during or before, because that would mean each girl had at least a day shaved off her actual age each year, the cumulative effects of which were assumed to be much greater than simple math allows, the triplets each found laid out on their cotton-colored beds two outfit choices for the day. One outfit, curated right down to a pair of thong panties, which the girls found frightening and absurd, was a series of expensive items procured by their mothers’ personal shoppers especially for the occasion. In addition to the clothes were fancy envelopes for a spa day that included “daughter’s first waxing” services. These piles took up
half the bed, but each girl instinctively moved toward her pillows where there were white shirts and skirts, embroidered in bright reds and oranges and trimmed in white lace. On the floor they found matching red boots and shuddered to see the mini sparkling heels at the other end of the bed.
Their nannies knocked and entered to find their girls decked out in their festive costumes. Smiling, they expertly pulled the girls’ hair back and added the final touch of flowers and ribbons that each had made herself for her girl for the occasion. The triplets glowed. None wanted to visit the spa, so the six went instead to a park to dance, then to the practice room to rehearse the music for the celebration.
The mothers were none the wiser. They were at the spa and assumed their girls were too. They never thought to inquire, occupied as they were amongst themselves and their bodies and images and also their quiet concerns that their girls’ might develop moles or lose their thigh gaps. They’d agreed upon the various personal trainers and dieticians and guards (if necessary) they might employ in the unfortunate circumstance that one or more of the girls might start to lose her figure. They discussed possible skin disasters with their estheticians and signed their daughters up for biweekly treatments through their eighteenth birthdays. There was some debate about which year was best to begin Botox as a preventative measure, but the estheticians insisted they couldn’t possibly begin before the girls were sixteen, which made the mothers frown, not that anyone noticed since their foreheads and cheeks stayed smooth.
The mothers arrived to the rooms of the rented hotel ten minutes early to ensure the caterers and decorators and various other employees were properly doing their jobs. Everything was as it should be except they saw no sign of their daughters, who they assumed were backstage getting ready for the recital. Kaylee’s mother grabbed a vanillatini from the nearest waiter since it was now after 1pm. Crystal and Lila’s mothers sipped champagne from delicate flutes, shooting ugly looks at Kaylee’s mother. All were worried about this very important day and how their daughters would look and be received. Children and adults began filling the white folding chairs lined up in the garden, directly in front of the small white stage that was ready with the piano and microphones.
At exactly 2 pm, the girls walked onstage and all three women gasped from their positions at the back of the crowd. Each chided herself for being so unaware of junior’s fashion that season, and none could figure out how such quaint peasant clothes could possibly be in, down to those ugly, ugly boots. The hemlines were atrocious, falling down past the knees. The flowers and ribbons seemed the worst touch, reminiscent of decades gone by that the mothers had been sure would never resurface. Each made a note to herself to fire her personal shopper. As the girls took their positions, Kaylee’s mother hissed “haaaaaair.”
It was true, each girl had a fine blond down on her legs that glittered like gold in the sunlight. The mothers darted glares toward the large speakers in front of the stage, behind which they expected the three nannies to be inconspicuously huddled.
Lila waved her bow in a few short flicks of her wrist, and the music started. First Kaylee twinkled out a few notes on the piano, then Crystal twinkled in on her flute, then Lila joined with the same twinkling sounds on her violin. The music had a light and whimsical quality of a sort the mothers had never heard before. It seemed to shimmer in the air around the girls, who smiled into their instruments and swayed, eyes gently closed, looking so much like young angels, like little girls. The music seemed a prayer or celebration, with a note of longing murmuring under the surface.
The mothers were each transported somewhere else, some time ago, to younger versions of themselves they had locked away. They each felt brimming with possibility and curiosity, as if life wasn’t laid out, as if there weren’t a set of rules they had to follow. They lost themselves in the song, not looking at their daughters or trying to gauge the response of the audience. They each closed their eyes and breathed in the summer air and smiled smiles that reached all the way to their eyes, not giving a damn about wrinkles.
With their eyes closed, the mothers failed to notice that the other members of the audience likewise had their eyes closed, all gently swaying where they sat or stood. No one noticed the nannies take the stage, each garbed in outfits to match their charges, true reds and oranges and yellows that looked young on the girls, yet appeared almost fierce on the nannies, as if they were not exactly engulfed, but rather enwrapped or perhaps buoyed by flames. They performed a slow, graceful dance as a trio, coming together, then breaking away, spinning when the music picked up, flowing with sinuous arms and elegant tilts of head. Had anyone’s eyes been open, they would have become entranced, had they not already been entranced by the ethereal music.
Once the girls’ song was done, sleepy eyes throughout the audience cracked open, unsure what world they might only now be discovering. They’d barely had time to expel dreamy breaths and register the presence of the nannies onstage before Marusya spoke softly yet firmly into one of the microphones, “And now for our gift for our girls.” Maryia placed an oboe between her lips as Manya lifted a French horn to her own. They began playing, Manya producing long then short tones of longing, Maryia’s oboe slithering around the middle register. Moments later, Marusya’s soprano came clear and strong, crooning and accusing in a language no one in the audience knew.
The girls swayed on stage, their arms linked behind each other’s backs. The audience found themselves holding their breath, mesmerized. Each person felt a gentle tugging in their chest, an insistent longing. The charm and whimsy of the girls’ song was displaced by something raw, urgent. They found themselves wishing they could check their pockets for the cure, the thing that was missing. Something was missing. That was clear. The members of the audience felt stuck in place, frozen. They could not so much as scratch an itch.
The music slowed.
The girls swayed and bobbed in their tight circle of three that took center stage. The nannies encircled the girls with their own bodies, a ring of flame, instruments and voice facing out, a wall protecting the delicate creatures contained within. Marusya hit a final, slow trebling note that rose over the sustained breath of Manya’s horn. Maryia’s oboe darted around their tones, tying a knot inside a knot.
Later, some audience members claimed there had been a fire. Others said a shimmering puff of smoke or a swirling mass like a tornado. Some suggested a gaseous attack; others claimed the party must have witnessed an event of incomprehensible horror. Everyone knew they were forgetting something very important. The mothers became internationally famous, pleading, begging, with wet eyes and trembling lips: someone, bring our daughters back. They had professional dressers, stylists, and personal assistants for their TV and radio tours. Late at night, each woman sat alone in her hotel room, lit only by the moon’s insubstantial beams. They clawed at themselves, at their arms, stomachs, cleavage, digging for the missing thing they could no longer abide.
The only ones who never spoke of what had happened were the children who’d been there, whose eyes no longer focused on adults, but instead, drifted far away, watching the luminous grass as it grew or the erratic birds as they ate and danced and played, wandering each night to the knowing silver moon in all her different phases. They hummed or whistled a foreign tune and smiled the secret smiles of children everywhere.
DISPOSSESSION
Nicholas Royle
THREE MONTHS AGO I MOVED TO A NEW place and, while my new flat more than meets my needs, I’m finding that the old one is increasingly on my mind. I can’t dismiss this as nostalgia, because I really wasn’t ever happy there, but I can’t stop thinking about the old place. The other night I even dreamed about it.
For a number of reasons, I was glad to move. I was moving from a rented studio, which was too small for me to have my children to stay, into a three-bedroom flat that I was buying. My children, who had never used the keys I had had cut for them for the old place, would get a bedroom each, which they would use two nights a
week and alternate weekends, according to the agreement with my ex, and I would be able to get the rest of my stuff out of storage.
The flat is on the top floor of a three-storey development dating from the 1950s. There are a number of blocks, each comprising six or ten or a dozen flats, separated by communal gardens. I’ve filled the flat with cheap units and shelved my books according to size, doubling up where possible. I don’t need to know how to find particular titles. I haven’t read a book in two years. Yet I can’t bring myself to give them away. I’ve bought new clothes for the children and these are stored in drawers in their respective bedrooms.
My son’s bedroom is situated at the back of the flat, his windows offering a view across a courtyard to the rear of another block. You get the same view from the bathroom, if you open the frosted windows, and the kitchen, which is where I keep my binoculars, in an eye-level cupboard to the right of the sink. The flat opposite mine has been empty for a week, the soft outlines of shampoo bottles removed from the bathroom window ledge. Two days ago I watched a man painting woodwork in the kitchen. Since then, nothing.
After I moved, I would occasionally walk past my old place on the way to the shops, but, at first, I barely gave it a second glance. Then one day the letting agents rang me to say that the new tenant was having difficulties with the phone company and would I be kind enough to give them my old number, so they could give it to her and she could tell the phone company what it was. It seemed a funny way round to do things, but I looked it up. A couple of days later they called again, wanting to know if I had had broadband installed in the old flat without encountering any major difficulties. I said that I had and I named the provider.
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