Strawberry Fields

by Marina Lewycka

  The man with the scar looks around wildly. His eyes light on Zita.

  “Is it this one? This ugly dog? Do you take me for complete cabbage-head?”

  “Please, Smitya. We are civilized men, not gangsters. Let us talk business.”

  “You no play tip-tap with me.” His scar is purple against his livid skin. “You forgotten who I am, dead-boy. You think you talk clever business? You forgotten how we talk business in here.”

  He sees the man draw a revolver from an inside pocket of his jacket. It all seems to happen very slowly. He sees a scarry smile stretch across his teeth. He sees Vitaly’s face contort in fear. Zita screams. The man fires four shots: two at Vitaly, one at Zita, and one at the mirror behind the bar.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The quick succession of blasts reverberates like underground explosions in the contained space. Andriy puts his hands over his ears. Around him there is a chaos of screams and shattering glass as Zita falls backward, Vitaly slumps forward onto his table, and the young couple eating their meal start to scream hysterically. The man turns, walks quickly back out of the front door, and disappears into the street.

  In the stillness that follows, Andriy can hear Gilbert shouting from the kitchen, “What the fuck’s going on out there?!” He can hear the female of the couple talking to the police on her mobilfon. He can hear Zita’s long quivering moans as she examines the shattered mess of flesh, blood, and bone that was her left leg. There is no sound from Vitaly. He steps carefully over to where Vitaly has fallen across the table. Dark blood is oozing in a vivid widening stain into the white damask, along with some other grayish stuff that is bubbling out of a gaping double wound in his forehead. The eyes are open. The hand still grips the stem of the wine glass that has shattered in his hand. Suddenly, a strange music erupts from his body—a grotesquely cheerful jingle—di di daah da—di di daah da—di di daah da—daah! It rings for a few moments, then goes quiet.

  Andriy stares. Horror rises up in him like bubbling gray matter—horror compounded with guilt. Should he have intervened? Could he have saved him? Was it his own unspoken anger that had summoned Vitaly’s death to him? His first instinct is to laugh—he has to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself. His next instinct is to run—to run from death into the sunlight of the living world.

  Beefy Gilbert takes control in an amazingly matter-of-fact way, telling the dining couple to shut up, sit down, and wait for the police, attempting to stanch Zita’s wound with clean napkins.

  “You can go if you like.” He pulls Andriy quietly to one side. “If you’re worried about the police.”

  “Is okay,” says Andriy. Then he remembers the gun in the bottom of his backpack.

  When he goes back into the kitchen, he finds that all the other staff have disappeared. Only Irina is still there, clutching on to the sink with both hands, as though she’s about to be sick.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  She nods silently. She doesn’t look okay.

  “You?”

  “Yes. Normal.”

  “Where’s everybody?” she asks. Her whole body is shaking.

  “I think they’ve gone. They’re all illegals. Apart from Gilbert. Someone called the police.”

  Gilbert shouts from the dining room for some ice. Andriy gets a bowl, fills it with ice cubes, and takes it out to him. In a space between tables, Gilbert is struggling to stanch Zita’s wound, his big meaty hands amazingly deft at knotting the napkins into a tourniquet. The smell of cordite still hangs in the air. The young couple are gazing in stunned silence at Vitaly’s forehead, which has stopped oozing and started to congeal, and at their own congealing dinners. The young woman is crying softly.

  Suddenly, the front door of the restaurant opens. Andriy looks up, expecting to see the police or an ambulance crew, but in walks a big man holding a mobilfon in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. He looks like another diner in search of a pleasant meal who has opened the door and stumbled by chance across this terrible scene. But it isn’t just another diner—it is Vulk.

  Vulk stops in the doorway and looks around slowly, as if he’s trying to make sense of the chaos. His jowly face reveals no emotion. Andriy backs away noiselessly, his heart pounding. Vulk walks over to look at Vitaly’s slumped body and mutters something under his breath. Just as Andriy reaches the kitchen door, Vulk looks up. Their eyes meet. Vulk lunges forward. Gilbert bars his way with a beefy arm.

  “Sorry, sir. We’re closed.”

  Vulk tries to push through, shouldering Gilbert aside, using the flowers as a flail, but Gilbert is as big as he is. He blocks his way.

  “Didn’t you hear? We’re closed.”

  “Hrr!” Vulk gives him another hefty shove and barges through to the kitchen. But in the moment’s grace that Gilbert’s intervention has bought him, Andriy has grabbed Irina, pulled her into the kitchen storeroom, and, taking the key from the lock, has locked the door from the inside. Clack.

  The storeroom is cool and smells of onions. The light switch is on the outside. In the darkness they wait and listen. She is shaking and whimpering. He grips her tight against him, putting his hand across her mouth to keep her quiet. He can feel her heart jumping around inside her chest. On the other side of the door, they can hear him still charging around. They hear a crash of plates and the metallic bounce of a saucepan rolling on the ground, and that voice, like a mad beast bellowing, “Little flovver!” The storeroom door judders and the handle rattles, but the lock holds. Someone—it must be Vulk—switches the light on from the outside, and for a moment they gaze into each other’s terrified eyes.

  “Little flovver! You vill never hide from Vulk! Everyplace you hide I vill find you!”

  Then they are plunged into darkness again.

  He holds her closer. A moment later he hears Gilbert.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here, you asshole!”

  There is more crashing and banging, and a yell that could be Vulk or Gilbert or someone else. Then the kitchen is suddenly quiet. They can hear a faint wail of sirens.

  “Is he gone?” Irina whispers.

  Andriy listens. “I think so.”

  As quietly as he can, he turns the key and eases the door open a crack. In the dining room he can hear voices, but no one is in the kitchen. He tiptoes through to the scullery end and the sinks. No one. No one in the cloakroom. He peers through the back window. The yard is empty. He picks up his backpack from the cloakroom and Irina’s striped bag—ever since the incident with the children, they don’t leave anything of value in the trailer—and makes his way back to the storeroom. The door is locked. She has locked herself in again. He taps softly.

  “Open the door. Quick. It’s me.”

  He hears the key turn in the lock. Clack. She opens it two centimeters and sticks her nose out.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes. Let’s go!”

  He grabs her by the hand and together they sneak through the kitchen and out of the back door. There is no one in sight. When they are in the street they start to run. The wail of sirens is everywhere. He has slung the bags over one shoulder, and holding her hand he pulls her along. The trailer is only a couple of blocks away. At least, he thinks it is. Maybe it’s the next block. No? Maybe the next one? No, surely it was back there by those bins. They turn back. They are no longer running, but panting for breath as they walk. They go around the block a couple more times before they realize that the trailer has disappeared.

  He sits down on the pavement and sinks his head in his hands. His legs, stretched out in front of him, have turned to lead. His heart is still thumping. The trailer and the Land Rover. Their sleeping bags. A few clothes. The carrots. Their water bottles. All gone.

  “Dog! They’ve even taken Dog!”

  But even as he is thinking of what he has lost, another part of him is thinking, you’re alive, Andriy Palenko, and the mobilfonman is dead. His blood is turning sticky on his fancy suit, and yours is pu
mping through your body. And you held the girl in your arms and felt her body against you, yielding but firm, soft but lithe, tenderly curved. And now you want more.

  And here’s the problem: They all want more—the twenty-pound-note man, Vulk, Vitaly, and all their seedy cohort of clients—they all want what you want. To wash themselves in the sweet pool of her youth. This decent young girl, as fresh as the month of May. And she senses it. No wonder she trembles like a hunted rabbit. No wonder she jumps about all over the place. Leave her alone, Andriy. Be a man.

  I AM DOG I RUN I EAT TWO PIGEONS MY MAN AND MORE-STUPID-THAN-A-SHEEP FEMALE ARE GONE AWAY I AM DOG ALONE TWO MEN COME TO TAKE AWAY OUR WHEELIE-HOME I BARK I SNARL I JUMP ON THEM I BITE BAD DOG SAYS MAN HE IS BAD MAN I AM BAD DOG I AM SAD DOG I AM DOG ALONE WHEELIE IS GONE MY WHEELIE-HOME IS GONE BAD MAN CATCHES ME PULLS ME INTO BACK OF WHEELIE CAGE WITH MANY SAD DOGS WHERE ARE WE GOING WE ARE GOING TO DOG’S HOME SAYS SAD DOG I KNOW THIS DOG’S HOME IT IS NOT A GOOD PLACE SAYS SAD DOG IN THIS HOME ALL DOGS LIVE IN CAGES SMALL CAGES AND ALL THE PLACE SMELLS OF DOG SADNESS AT NIGHT SAD DOGS CRY THEY HAVE NO MAN I WILL NOT GO TO THIS SAD DOG’S HOME I AM A RUNNING DOG MAN OPENS WHEELIE-CAGE I JUMP I RUN MAN RUNS I RUN FASTER I RUN FROM CAGE I RUN FROM DOG SADNESS I WILL FIND MY MAN NEAR THAT PIGEON PLACE I RUN I RUN I AM DOG

  When he held me and pressed me against him in the storeroom and I could feel the grip of his arms around me, strong and protective, that’s when I knew for sure he was the one. It was dark in there. I couldn’t see anything. I could only smell and feel. I could smell onions, and spices, and the warm nutty smell of him, my face pressed against his chest, and I could feel our two hearts beating together. Boom. Boom. Boom. I was scared, yes, but he made me feel safe. It was so beautiful, like that bit in War and Peace when Natasha and Pierre finally realize that they’re meant to be together. Except I think he doesn’t realize it yet.

  He grasped my hand as we ran, not in a passionate way, but it was still romantic. And I thought, even if it doesn’t always last forever, all that man-woman-romance stuff, you still have to believe in it, don’t you? Because if you don’t believe in love, what else is there to believe in? And now I’ve found the one; it is only a matter of time until the night. Maybe tonight, even, him and me together in the fold-out double bed, wrapped in each other’s arms in our little trailer home. Okay, I know it’s not War and Peace, but so what.

  When we found the trailer had disappeared and we had nowhere to go, he sat on the pavement with his head in his hands and I thought he was going to cry, so I put my arm around his shoulder. But he just said:

  “Dog! They’ve even taken Dog!”

  I love the way he really loves that dire dog. I was thinking that they had also taken my new thirty-pound trousers, which was annoying as I hadn’t even worn them yet, but I didn’t say that. Of course I also felt very sad for the loss of our homey little trailer, especially when I realized that tonight wouldn’t be the night after all. I showed him the yellow and black sticker I’d found on the windshield, and he said, in quite a nasty voice, “Why didn’t you show me this before?” Then he said, “Sorry, Irina. It’s not your fault. Probably it was already too late.”

  I love the way he says sorry. Not many men can do this.

  We sat side by side on the pavement, with nothing except what was in our bags. We hadn’t even been paid our first week’s wages. At least I had some tip money. How I was wishing I hadn’t bought those trousers. Andriy said that we should get out of London and go to Sheffield straightaway, so I said I’d go with him. Sometimes you have to let men have their way.

  We spent that night outside, huddled up on a bench in a square, not very far from our trailer parking place, because Andriy said the dog might come back. We put on all our clothes, and we found some newspapers and cardboard boxes to put underneath us and two unused black plastic rubbish bags outside a shop which we climbed into like sleeping bags. And though it got cold in the night, I think it was one of the happiest nights of my life, feeling so safe with his arms around me, his body solid like a tree, and all the brilliant lights of the city twinkling away, and up above them, very faint in the sky, the stars.

  We didn’t get very much sleep because so many people came by to talk to us—aged alcoholics, religious types, police, drug dealers, foreign tourists, a man wanting to know whether we were interested in posing for some photographs, another man who offered us a bed for the night in his luxury accommodations, which I thought sounded quite nice, but Andriy politely said, “No thank you.” Somebody feeding the pigeons gave us the bread she had brought, and also some cake. Somebody else brought us a cup of coffee. It is surprising how many very kind people there are here in England. For some reason, that thought made me start to sniffle pathetically.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. He must have thought I was really stupid. “Tell me about this Sheffield.”

  “You know, Irina, this Sheffield, it is one of the great cities of Europe,” he said, in that funny Donbas accent, but I didn’t laugh. “It has wide-wide avenues lined with trees, so there is always shade in the summer, and cool water plays from many marble fountains, and there are squares and parks filled with flowers, and red and purple bougainvillea grows over the palace walls.”

  “Is this really true?” I asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me some more.”

  “And the inhabitants of this city are renowned throughout the world for their gentleness and kindness and their welcome to strangers, for they have learned the art of living in peace from their ruler, Vloonki, who is a leader of great wisdom, who lives in a bougainvillea-covered palace on top of the hill, and he is a visionary even though he is blind. When we get to Sheffield, Irina, we will be safe, and all our troubles will be over.”

  I can’t remember what else he said, because then I fell asleep, still with his arms around me.

  When we woke up in the morning the square was full of pigeons, and Dog was there, sitting at Andriy’s feet, wagging his tail.

  He can picture them so clearly—the fountains. Was it in Yalta or in Sheffield? And the bougainvillea tumbling with such abandon over the walls, cascades of red and purple pouring down the stone. He had asked his father what it was called. Yes, probably that was Yalta. That was a nice place. In the old days, in the days of the Soviet Union, when a miner was somebody, and a miners’ union representative was somebody who counted, there was a sanatorium at Yalta for miners and their families, where they went every summer. Surely they must have something similar in Sheffield? All the buildings were of white stone and they gleamed in the sunlight. That was a good time.

  And you told her about the blind ruler, Vloonki, and his words of peace, and the warm welcome that awaits you in Sheffield. But isn’t it time, Andriy Palenko, that you told her about Vagvaga Riskegipd?

  Because now she wants to come with you, and she’s a decent girl, a good-class girl, and she seems to like you. And even if she has some stupid ideas, and she can’t make up her mind, still you shouldn’t lead her on if you’re going to abandon her when you get to Sheffield. You have to decide, one way or the other. So maybe this is the time to make a possibility with this girl, and forget about Vagvaga Riskegipd and Angliski rosi and red Ferrari, which is probably just a stupid idea anyway. Bye-bye, end of story.

  And don’t be troubled about Vulk and Vitaly and Mr. Twenty Pounds. You’re not in that category. Because you’re the man who will protect her and make her happy with your love. Sooner or later—it will be sooner, you can tell from the way she is looking around, smiling at every man who comes her way—some man will take her and have her for his own. And it could be you, Andriy Palenko.

  four gables

  so there we were, standing by the North Circular Road, heading for Sheffield. In front of us, a great torrent of metal—two torrents, in fact—was rushing in each direction, the cars gleaming black, blue, silver, white, as they caught the sun, wave after wave, as endless a
s a river pouring into the sea. In my opinion there are too many cars in England. Andriy was watching the cars like a man bewitched, following them with his eyes, turning his head this way and that. Once he shouted out, “Look, Irina, did you see that Ferrari?”

  “Mm. Yes. Wonderful,” I said, even though to me they all looked the same, apart from the different colors. You have to do that, with men, share their interests.

  Poor Mama tried to share Papa’s interest in politics, and became very Orange, and stood in the square chanting for Yushchenko. But he obviously shared more with Svitlana Surokha.

  “Slavery begins when the heart loses hope,” Papa had said. “Hope is the first step toward freedom.”

  And Mama had said, “I hope in that case you will learn one day to wash the dishes.” You see? Mama only has herself to blame. She should have tried harder to please poor Papa. Maybe I will have to stand by the roadside, shouting for Ferrari.

  “Andriy, tell me what is so special about Ferrari?” I asked

  He looked very serious and furrowed his forehead. “You know, Irina, I think it all comes down to engineering. Some people say it is design, but I would say it is high quality of V12 engineering. Transverse gearbox. Dry sump lubrication.”

  “Mm-hm,” I replied.

  I like it much better when he talks about Sheffield.

  Although it was early morning the sun was already hot, and the air had a bad smell of burning oil and warm asphalt. Despite the torrent of cars, it was almost an hour before one stopped to give us a lift. The driver was an old man, almost bald, with thick-lensed glasses. His car was also very old, with patches of rust on the doors. The seat cushions were squares of foam with raggedy knitted covers. I could see the disappointment on Andriy’s face.

  It didn’t take us long to realize that his driving was very strange. He kept swerving from lane to lane, passing cars on either side. When he accelerated, his car groaned and juddered as though the wheels were coming off. Andriy was hanging on to his seat belt with both hands. Even Dog looked alarmed. Sometimes when we passed a car the old man thumped his horn Beep! Beep! Beep! and cried out, “That’s another Gerry shot down in flames!”