“You know, my cousin was in a nursing home in London that was closed because of a scandal—the proprietor was stealing the residents” money. Some of the other nurses there were from Malawi. They all lost their jobs. The agency found new jobs for them, but they had to pay another agency fee. Nightingale Human Solutions.”
Yateka wrinkles her nose. It is a small plump nose, shiny like a stub of polished wood. Quite a nice nose, in fact.
“Would you like me to ask my cousin?” says Blessing.
“Yes, please. I give you telephone number where Emanuel is staying. Maybe you help brother and sister reunited.” He writes the address and phone number of the Richmond house on a piece of paper and passes it to Blessing.
Another rather pleasant thought has started to nudge at the edges of his consciousness. He has heard it said that black women are incredibly sexy, but he has never before had an opportunity to find out for himself. Maybe here will be an opportunity for him? This little coupé-model Malawian nurse, she has quite an entrancing smile. And the other one—Yateka—see the way she moves, the curve of her shapely legs accentuated by those clumsy lace-up nurse’s shoes, the sway of her buttocks in her slightly-too-tight uniform. You have to admit, there is something incredibly sexy about a woman in a uniform.
Stop! Stop this idiocy, Palenko! Here is a lovely high-spec Ukrainian girl sitting beside you, and still you are letting your thoughts chase about after other women. When the road forks, whichever way you choose, you can only go one way. Good-bye, Africa Yateka. Good-bye, Vagvaga Riskegipd.
Good-bye and God be with you? Or good-bye and see you again? Andriy Palenko, what’s the matter with you? Good-bye is good-bye. End of story. And yet…And yet it’s not really desire that makes that last good-bye so hard to say—it’s curiosity. Never to know where the other road would have led you. Never to know what lies beneath that taut crisp uniform; never to know whether that long-ago kiss lingers in her memory as it does in yours. Never to know what would have happened when you met.
Irina’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. She is talking about something incredibly interesting.
“I think there is only one thing to do,” she is saying. “We must give Mr. Mayevskyj back his gearbox.”
“Gearbox?”
“Yateka told me he used to keep a gearbox in his room. A beloved relic of an old motorbike. But the matron found it and took it away from him.”
“Since then,” said Yateka, “he has become unstable.”
“It is enough to make any man unstable.”
“I think if he had his gearbox again, he would behave in a more normal way.”
“You are right, Irina.”
Sometimes you have to let a woman think she is right.
I AM DOG I AM SAD DOG MY MAN IS IN LOVE WITH THIS MORE-STUPID-THAN-SHEEP FEMALE HIS VOICE IS THICK AND SOFT HIS PISS IS CLOUDY HE STINKS OF LOVE HORMONES SHE STINKS OF LOVE HORMONES TOO SOON THEY WILL MATE HE WILL HAVE NO MORE LOVE FOR DOG I AM SAD DOG I AM DOG
“I think Bill the handyman will know where the gearbox is,” says Yateka. “Since Matron asked him to take it away.”
“Down the stairs at the end of the corridor, then turn left,” says Blessing.
Bill is back in his basement room, poring over an open newspaper. He is a short square man with a bald head and a clipped mustache. He looks up as Andriy comes in.
“They’ve nicked me bloody matches again. Those old birds. You can’t trust ’em. Bunch of flaming firomaniacs. Who are you, anyway?”
“I am looking for gearbox of Mr. Mayevskyj. He has been asking after it.”
Bill takes this as a reproach.
“It weren’t my idea to take it off of ’im. I just do what Matron says.”
Even as his mouth searches for a suitably annoyed expression, his eyes fall upon Dog.
“That your dog?”
“Yes, my dog. Dog.”
“I used to have one like that. Mongrel. Called him Spango. Great ratter.”
Bill settles himself back in his chair, and passes the newspaper he has been reading over to Andriy.
“What d’you think of them, eh?”
A young woman with bare breasts and blond hair is smiling at the camera. Andriy looks at the picture. The light in the basement is dim. Actually, she looks very much like his last girlfriend, Lida Zakanovka. Could it really be her? He stares more closely. Did she come to England? Did she have a mole like that on her left shoulder?
“Nice, eh? Better than the missus. You should have seen the pair last Thursday. Magnificent.” Bill gives a companionable grunt. “You can keep it, if you like. I’ve finished with it. Anytime you like, you can bring your dog down here.”
“Thank you.” Andriy folds the newspaper under his arm. He will have to look at it in daylight.
“Does he drink tea, your dog? Spango was a great tea drinker. Here, boy…?”
Bill reaches for a mug with a few centimeters of cold brown tea left in the bottom and pours it into a bowl for Dog. Dog wags his tail and starts to drink, gulping noisily. Andriy watches, amazed. He realizes for the first time how little he knows about this dog. First he was sitting up for chocolate biscuits. Now he drinks cold tea, slurping and slopping as if in ecstasy. Where did this creature come from? How did he appear so mysteriously in the night? Why did he choose them?
Meanwhile, Bill searches in the corners of the room and comes back with a small, heavy package wrapped in an oiled cloth inside a plastic bag.
“This must be it. She told me to throw it away. But you can’t, can you? Don’t tell her where you got it from.”
“Thank you. Dog likes your tea.”
There is no one in the nurses’ room when he takes the gearbox upstairs, so he pulls out a chair and sits down to wait. Something else is bothering him now. That mole—did Lida Zakanovka have a mole there? He unfolds the paper to take a closer look. Hm. Definitely it is like Lida. Holy bones! What is she doing in England? Here in the brighter light of the nurses’ room, he can see clearly. No, maybe this one is more pneumatic. His Lida was more like the cabriolet model. To think he wasted four years of his life over her! What a fool he was. Lucky she never got pregnant. This girl in the photo is quite something. Good curves. Not too thin. But is it Lida?
“What are you looking at?”
Andriy jumps up. Yateka is standing behind him. She must have tiptoed in on those softie-softie nurse’s shoes. She is frowning. Andriy jumps to his feet and quickly folds the newspaper. Did she see? Of course she did. That was a bit of bad timing.
“I have gearbox, Yateka.” He smiles pathetically.
“You have it already?” Her face is severe. Her uniform is so crisp it almost seems to crackle. He can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks.
“Should I take to Mr. Mayevskyj?”
“Better wait until tomorrow. It is nearly his bedtime now. Too much excitement at bedtime can make him knotty.”
“What is knotty?”
Her face relaxes. The smile comes back. “You know, that Ukrainian, he is always looking for a wife. Mrs. Gayle, Miss Tollington, Mrs. Jarvis. They all told me he asked them to marry. And they all three accepted. And now…” Yateka rocks back on her heels hooting with laughter; she laughs so much she almost falls over, and has to hang on to the door for balance. “And now also Irina.”
“Irina?”
“Yes, he has asked Irina to marry him. I think she will accept.”
“Irina?”
“It is a good marriage for her. British passport. And he has an inheritance.”
“It is not possible.”
Yateka smiles. “In love, anything is possible.”
Then one of the buzzers starts going off, and Yateka grabs her bag and disappears silently on her softie shoes.
There was a gravel pathway leading through the rose beds down to a lower lawn, a secret place hidden away inside a circle of laurels, with a couple of benches and an old sundial.
“You and Andriy can sit down there,” said Yateka.
“I finish at seven o’clock. Then I’ll show you the spare room.”
It was still warm, but the sky was heavy with rain clouds, and no one else was in the garden. You could sense the storm coming, the leaves of the laurels were curling in the heat. Dog appeared out of nowhere and started padding along beside us, farting disgustingly. What had he been eating? Why couldn’t he leave us alone?
Andriy sat down on one of the benches, and I sat down beside him. He seemed very moody. I was wondering whether I had done something to annoy him. Bad moods are not attractive in a man.
“I want to discuss a problem with you,” he said. “Love problem. Man-woman relationship type of thing.”
Oh, at last, I thought, and my heart started to beat faster. Then he said, “Mr. Mayevskyj, this old scoundrel, has proposed marriage to three old ladies, and all have accepted.” He gave me a nasty narrow-eyed look. “Now I hear that it is in fact four. And that you also, Irina, have fallen victim to his charm. Is it true?”
What has that naughty Yateka been telling him? I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly.
“Irina, you cannot go about smiling at every man who comes your way.”
This made me quite annoyed. What makes him think he has the right to lecture me?
“I can smile at who I like.”
Then he said, in a very primitive voice, “And if you do, you will end up giving full body massage to Vitaly’s mobilfon clients for twenty pound.”
I was shocked. Why is he saying such a horrible thing to me? I thought he was teasing, and now it seems he’s serious.
“Vitaly is dead,” I said.
“No, the world is full of Vitalys. You just don’t see them, Irina.”
“What are you talking about, Andriy?”
“The men you smile at, Irina—some of them are not decent types.”
Oh, so he’s still upset about the twenty-pound note, I thought.
“Mr. Mayevskyj is not a bad type.”
“Actually he’s quite a scoundrel.” He frowned. “Are you going to marry him?”
“That’s my business. I can decide how to live my life. I don’t need you to lecture me.”
“You are blind, Irina. You don’t see what is happening in this world.”
“For example? What don’t I see?”
“This mobilfon world all around you. Businessmen buying and selling human souls. Even yours, Irina. Even you they are buying and selling.”
“Nobody is buying and selling me. I made my own choice to come to the West.”
I was thinking, if he is going to carry on like this, maybe tonight will not be the night after all.
“The West is no different. This Orange Revolution that you like so much—what do you think this was but a Vitaly-type business promotion? Who do you think paid for all the orange flags and banners, and the tents, and the music in the square?”
What on earth has got into him? I thought we were going to walk in the garden, and maybe talk about something romantic, that would be nice, and instead he starts prattling about politics. Maybe this is how it happened with Papa and Svitlana Surokha. No, with them it was probably the other way around—first the politics then the romance. Well, if he can argue, so can I.
“If we’re going to talk about this, at least let us do so honestly, Andriy. Nobody paid my mother and father to be there. They went because they want Ukraine to be free from Russia. To have our own democracy—not one run from the Kremlin.”
“To exchange one run from the Kremlin for one run from the United States of America.”
“This is Russian propaganda, Andriy. Why are you so afraid of the truth? Even if the government doesn’t change, the important thing is that we the people have changed. No one will take us for granted anymore. Once in a lifetime a nation makes a historic bid for freedom, and we have the choice to be participants or to stand on the sidelines.” Was that from one of Papa’s speeches, or one of Svitlana Surokha’s?
“What use is freedom without oil and gas?” he sneered.
“With freedom, maybe we can join European Union.”
“They are not interested in us, Irina. Only for new business possibility.”
He lectures me in that ridiculous Donbas accent, as though I am the dimwit.
“And who do you think paid for the buses that brought you up from Donbas? Eh?”
“This is all Western media propaganda. You are naive, Irina, you believe anything that any mobilfonman tells you. You thought you were the actors, but you were only extras.”
“You didn’t walk, though, did you? You Donbas miner?”
“Hah! Now we hear the typical voice of the bourgeois schoolgirl!” His tone has become harsh and sarcastic.
“I’m not a schoolgirl!”
I don’t know what came over me at that moment. I just wanted to hit him. I wanted to punch his smug stupid face. That ridiculous superior smile—what does he think he’s got to smile about? I just wanted to get rid of that smile. I couldn’t help myself—I lunged with my fist. But he caught hold of my wrist and held it. He wouldn’t let go. And then he pulled me toward him, and then he grabbed me in his arms, and next thing he was kissing me, on the mouth, with his lips, with his tongue. And pressing me closer, so tight my breath was squeezed away, and my heart was beating its wings like a bird struggling to ride a storm. And the sky and the clouds were spinning and wheeling around my head until I didn’t know where I was. But my heart knew I was where I wanted to be.
It is night time. The clouds have cleared, and through the pointed gable window above the iron-framed bed Andriy can see the hunter Orion, bright in the southern sky, his jeweled belt, his dagger, and nearby the starry faithful Sirius. On the floor at the foot of the bed lies his own faithful Dog, almost as starry, snuffling in his sleep.
Irina is in the bathroom at the end of the corridor, taking a shower. She has been in there half an hour. What is she doing?
So far, everything is as it should be. All satisfactory. You have moved up from second to third without slipping, and now all you need is to gather a bit of speed and gently engage fourth, without suddenly slamming into reverse. No, Andriy Palenko, it’s more than satisfactory, it’s fantastic. This is no Zaz, this girl, this Irina—so sweet, so lithe, one moment she melts like a snowflake in your hands, then she sears you like a fire, until you don’t know whether you’re freezing or burning; you only know you want more. And even though she doesn’t yet know what’s coming, somehow her body already knows it’s yours; you can feel it, and so can she. Like a garden waiting for rain.
And although you can see there will still be many disagreements to negotiate—because this girl, this Irinochka, she’s still young, and she thinks she knows everything; she has led a very sheltered bourgeois life, her experience is limited, and there’s a lot she has to learn—and let’s face it, she does say some very stupid things—still, you’re in no hurry, you have eternity in which to reeducate her. And though she can be both stubborn and slippery, she’s not unintelligent. Quite the opposite. She has already started to take an interest in Ferrari, and look how she came up with a solution to the gearbox problem. Yes, definitely you have made the right choice.
Andriy gazes through the window at the stars. Why is she taking so long? His mind drifts back over the events of the day, and for no particular reason he starts thinking: Room twenty-six, Mrs. Gayle’s room, is directly below this one—two floors down. Is she still smoking down there? He thinks he catches a faint whiff of smoke wafting upward. The matches—what was that word the handyman used?—he should never have let her have the matches. Is there a fire escape in the attic? If that room were to catch fire in the night, how many of them would survive to see the next morning?
Then the door opens. Irina comes into the room, padding softly on bare feet. She is wearing nothing but a towel twisted around her hair in a turban and a small towel wrapped around her body. A very small towel. She walks toward him. Her legs and arms are rosy from the hot water and her cheeks are glowing. She s
mells wonderful. He murmurs her name.
“Irinochka!”
She smiles shyly. He smiles too. He reaches out his arms to her. His whole body seems suffused with radiance. Wait a minute—one part of his body is not suffused with radiance—the manly part. From there, all radiance seems to have completely disappeared. Why is this? What has happened to you, Palenko?
At that moment, Dog wakes up and sniffs the air. He growls, a long low growl. He sniffs again, then he starts barking madly.
I AM DOG I AM GOOD DOG I SNIFF I SMELL SMOKE MAN SMOKE FIRE SMOKE I SMELL FIRE PAPER FIRE WOOL RUBBER CLOTH BAD FIRE SMELL FIRE NOISE CRACKLE CRACKLE I BARK WOOF WOOF I BARK TO MY MAN WOOF WOOF WOOF MY MAN RUNS TO FIRE HELP HELP FIRE HE SHOUTS GOOD DOG HE SAYS I AM GOOD DOG I BARK HE SHOUTS BELLS START TO RING EVERYBODY RUNS ALL DOORS ARE OPENED ALL OLDIES START TO RUN SOME START TO PISS ALL THE PLACE SMELLS OF OLDIE PISS SMOKE FIRE AND OLDIE PISS ALL OLDIES STAND IN GARDEN TALK TALK TALK BIG RED WHEELIE COMES WHOO WHAA WHOO WHAA WHEELIE IS FULL OF WATER WHEELIE PISSES ON FIRE SSSSSSS FIRE GONE OLDIES LAUGH MY MAN LAUGHS GOOD DOG HE SAYS I AM GOOD DOG I AM DOG
Mrs. Gayle has been expelled from the home. The door of her room gapes open, and peeping inside, Andriy sees everything is black with smoke. The small rug where Dog had sat and eaten chocolate biscuits yesterday is a charred mess, and even the edges of her bedclothes are singed from the fire. Really, she had a very lucky escape. Good Dog.
Mr. Mayevskyj’s room is farther along the same corridor. It is a small, untidy room, with books and loose papers spread over every surface, and it has the same all-pervasive smell of rabbit hutch and air freshener. Sometimes the rabbit hutch seems stronger, sometimes the air freshener dominates; and now the faint whiff of smoke adds its own sinister aroma.
“Oh, you darling!” cries Mr. Mayevskyj.
Andriy thinks at first he is addressing him, but the old man’s gaze is fixed on the gearbox that Andriy is holding in his hands.
“This gearbox is from 1937 Francis Barnett. My first love.”
“But not your last, Mr. Mayevskyj.” Andriy tries to sound severe. “I have heard you have made many conquests among ladies at Four Gables.”
Strawberry Fields Page 26