by Robin Byron
Exhilarating though it was, she was beginning to get nervous. A couple of times she thought she was being watched and since the beginning of March she had convinced herself that she was being followed. She remembered some of the tricks she had read about in spy novels and started to apply them in the metro – leaving a train just before the doors closed or getting on a train at the last second. I’m being stupid, she told herself. I have no training for this – and anyway, if I start behaving like a spy I’m more likely to be taken for one. Time to bring the curtain down on Larry and these games.
Edward was flying back to England for ten days over the western Easter and taking Izzy with him to spend time with his mother. Marianne had a couple of classes still to teach and was anyway behind with her research so had decided not to go with him. She told herself that this would give her one last fling with Larry and then she would end it before Edward returned.
‘So, you are going to be all alone for ten days?’ said Larry, as Marianne began to get dressed after a lunchtime assignation in their familiar hotel room.
‘That’s true.’
‘I have an idea. Have you ever been down to Georgia? I have to spend a week down there and this would be a great opportunity. It will be real spring down there. We could go together – or separately, perhaps – if we don’t want to be seen to travel together.’
Marianne knew instantly that this was a suggestion she was not going to be able to resist. ‘Georgia – well, I can’t say I’m not tempted. I have been thinking how I must see the Caucasus. I mean, they were so important to Lermontov.’
‘Lermontov, of course, I forgot your research; then you must obviously come – we’ll explore together.’
As Larry was due to spend the whole week in the capital Tbilisi and Marianne could not spare the time, it was agreed that she would fly down with Larry for the weekend and then come back on her own. Cautiously they made separate bookings on the same flight, deciding not to acknowledge each other at the airport and sitting some way apart on the plane. Marianne had obtained a window seat but was disappointed that her view of the high Caucasus was almost entirely obscured by cloud. However, as they cleared the mountains and came down towards Tbilisi she was able to glimpse the city straddling the S-bend of the Mtkvari River, set in a broad valley and protected by the high fortress of Narikala.
When Marianne had finally shaken off the obligatory Intourist guide who had shepherded her to the hotel, and Larry had arrived in her room, she threw her arms around him in a hug of childlike enthusiasm. ‘It’s so romantic – I mean, to be in Georgia. I’ve always wanted to come here.’
‘It’s good to see you so happy,’ he said, bending his head to kiss her, ‘but strangely I’ve never thought of Georgia as being especially romantic. I’ve always associated it with Stalin and Beria and that whole gang of murderous thugs.’
‘Oh, no, you shouldn’t think like that at all. It’s a place of love and poetry. Pushkin raved about Georgia, said he was literally reborn here. Let’s go out for a walk. I’ve got a map; we should go down to the old town.’
Together Marianne and Larry made their way down to the river, past the Metekhi church on its rocky promontory and across the bridge towards the old town. It was not only the warmth in the air which enchanted Marianne but the happy blend of Asia and Europe which was so refreshing after the drabness of much of Soviet Moscow. Walking up to Lermontov Street, a natural magnet for Marianne, she admired the elegant nineteenth-century houses with their exquisite fretwork balconies. Further up they came to a square where she paused and consulted her map, then turned to Larry: ‘Hey, this is the house I was telling you about. It was originally a house reserved for Russian officers and it’s where Lermontov stayed when he was in Tbilisi.’ Together they admired the massive overhanging balconies that seemed to defy gravity and allow the elegant lacy arches to float above the street.
Only one thought troubled Marianne as she and Larry retired to a café and ordered slices of cheese pie and a bottle of Saperavi, a local Georgian wine. I should be doing this with Edward. My universe with Larry was confined to Moscow and the Minsk hotel. It was a closely guarded citadel which was entirely separate from the rest of my life. But this is different. This is travel, a cultural exploration that I should be making with Edward; this is my work, my thesis, my real life. I shall enjoy this weekend but as soon as we are back in Moscow I must bring this affair to an end. Having made this firm vow to herself, Marianne felt able to relax and gobble up every delicious sensation the weekend had to offer, both the intimate parts in their hotel bedroom and their exploration of Tbilisi. In quiet moments, Larry read briefing papers on the suppression of Georgian nationalism and the survival of the Orthodox Church, while Marianne read guidebooks and accounts of Lermontov’s visits to the Caucasus whilst planning in her mind the trip she and Edward would make later in the summer.
It was with a mixture of sadness and relief that she sat back in her seat while the plane lifted off from Tbilisi en route back to Moscow. It had been fun, satisfying and necessary to her life, but now it was over. She would meet Larry at the university and explain why it had to end. As the plane rose higher into the sky and turned north towards the Caucasus she felt a sense of cleansing; the same sense she had had on the few occasions when she had made her confession as a young teenager, still half believing in the power of the priest to absolve her from sin. No priest was necessary now for Marianne to consign the past few months with Larry into the laundry basket of her experiences, where in time it would be washed, dried and ironed by her memory into a comfortable shape – a shape she could live with and remould around herself in a harmless and agreeable way. Thus cleansed, Marianne could now resume her happy and fulfilling life immersed in the world of Russian literature and, more particularly, as Edward’s wife and Izzy’s mother.
Izzy – this was the longest separation she had ever had from her daughter. Of course, it was right that she should spend time with her grandmother and it was good for Edward to spend time with his daughter, but she knew that she would be counting the days now until their return.
The plane was now passing over the Caucasus but the majestic snowy peaks which Marianne knew to be there were once again covered by cloud. Now they seemed to have hit a patch of turbulence. The seatbelt sign went on, the meal service was suspended and the plane made a series of stomach-churning jolts – a few seconds during which Marianne could sense the plane being forced up and then the inevitable, sickening drop. After a particularly heavy thud, one of the overhead lockers flew open and a bag fell into the aisle, scattering its contents. An air hostess rushed to help gather up the bag and re-stow it in the locker, smiling reassuringly to Marianne as she did so. Marianne was not unduly perturbed; she was used to flying and had experienced bad weather before. She was disappointed, however, when the captain announced that the weather was bad all the way to Moscow and they would not be able to resume the food and drink service. She tried to read but the bouncing and lurching of the plane became too distracting so she sat with her eyes shut and tried to sleep.
Her efforts were not successful; with her eyes closed the illusion of security which flying creates – the banality of rows of passengers snoozing, the lucky ones drinking; some trying to read – disappeared and was replaced by the image of her body in a small metal tube being tossed around five miles up in the sky. Suddenly she felt small and vulnerable and wished she had Edward with her. Now they were approaching Moscow airport. The flight was nearly over. She began to feel more relaxed. In ten minutes, I’ll be on the ground, she thought. But first the plane must land and why couldn’t they stay level? Why was the plane tipping left and right as if engaged in some crazy gymnastic exercise: arms outstretched, now up left, up right, keep the arms in a straight line…
‘Seems like we have a strong crosswind,’ the man in the adjoining seat said. Curiously, they were the first and only words she heard him utter. And then it happened.
She saw it from her window. The wing – her wing, the wing she had been watching all flight – hit the runway. The noise was strangely muted, unless it was so loud as to temporarily deafen her, but there was no escaping the sickening and disorientating somersault, an explosion of pain, screaming, followed by darkness and a brief moment of silence. Then more pain… prayers… the smell of burning… followed by more screaming; more and more screaming.
Now all I need to do is die. And as quickly as possible. To end the pain and not to burn. Please, don’t let me burn. I’ll just die now. But how to do it?
She hadn’t thought of it like that before. Dying was something that happened to you. People said ‘John died’ as if John had done something, but really it was death that did it to John. ‘Death took him’ – a funny expression, but surely that’s how it is. Death kills you. John is the victim. Yesterday, John died. Hier, Jean est décédé. Aujourd’hui, Marianne est morte. I like it better in French; it seems like less to do. Isn’t that why we personify death – the grim reaper, the angel of death? It comes along and ends your life. But perhaps I’ve got that wrong. Perhaps there’s more to it than that. Perhaps I need to do something which I haven’t done yet. It’s the last thing you do, everyone has to do it, the dying thing, but I’m not sure how.
7
Cambridge, Spring 2031
Marianne lay on the floor, a sharp pain in her wrist and the side of her face on the cold tiles. For a while she didn’t try to move, waiting to recover her breath and cursing her increasing decrepitude. It wasn’t the first time she had fallen visiting the bathroom in the early morning, and she knew it might not be the last.
She experimented with a small movement of her wrist; painful, but not broken, she thought. Although her face had hit the tiled floor, and she would have a nasty bruise on her cheek, the damage could have been a lot worse. Slowly, she raised herself to her knees, crawled to the edge of the bath and using her uninjured arm she got to her feet, hobbled back to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
She looked at the clock. In less than an hour Anna would be there. Marianne would normally get up and dress herself, making a conscious effort not to become over-dependent on Anna. That morning, feeling fragile after her fall, she decided to await Anna’s arrival and enjoy her assistance for the routine of bathing and dressing.
Anna had been with Marianne for three years, and if it was a cliché, it was nevertheless true that now Marianne couldn’t imagine life without her. She hadn’t known what she was looking for when she had seen a posting which caught her eye: ‘I’m a 22-year-old woman from Latvia, living in Cambridge and looking for work as a carer…’ It wasn’t the right way to go about it, as Callum was at pains to tell her. She should have gone through a reputable agency, taken up references and so on, but Anna had become far more to her now than she could possibly have imagined when she replied to the advertisement. She got back under the duvet and shut her eyes.
By the time she was having her breakfast, her wrist bandaged and Anna fussing over her, Marianne began to feel better.
‘You must look after yourself,’ said Anna.
‘Bumps and bruises have to be suffered in old age – like being a child again.’
‘But the kids – they recover more quickly. You must rest today.’
‘Well, I won’t be able to type, but I do need to get on.’
‘Maybe I could help?’
‘That’s kind. But I’ll probably just spend the day reading. I’m still trying to work out who’s who.’
‘So exciting – about your family history.’
‘It is, though it’s hard work trying to make sense of it.’
A month earlier, her sister Claire had been sorting through some old trunks and boxes which had belonged to their mother, and which for years had lain untouched in her attic, when she had found a pile of wartime notebooks. Claire had taken one look, then bundled them up and sent them to Marianne.
Marianne’s curiosity had been aroused immediately. Her mother had died without ever disclosing any more about her wartime experiences. Most of all there was the question of Marianne’s biological father. The diaries were difficult to read. Spidery writing combined with frequent use of codes and shorthand meant deciphering them was a laborious business, but bringing all her research experience to bear, Marianne had started the process of preparing a typescript and simultaneously an English translation. She had looked ahead to the last volume to see if she could find a clue about her father, but so far without success.
‘I will go to the shops now,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t forget Callum and Helen come for lunch tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Maybe Leah as well?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Marianne’s son, Callum, had come back from Australia the previous year. Initially this was due to a bad bout of pneumonia which Marianne had suffered but they had subsequently decided to stay ‘for a few years’ – as Callum had put it. Marianne was in no doubt that Callum was the driving force behind this plan and his wife, Helen, was far from enthusiastic about leaving her beloved Australia. It also meant that whilst their daughter Leah had come with them and was now at school in London, their elder daughter, now at Melbourne University, had stayed in Australia.
At first, Marianne had been thrilled to have Callum in the same country, and finally she was getting to know at least one of her grandchildren; but more recently she had sensed that it was causing strains in their marriage. Nothing had been said to her, but she had little doubt that Helen would whisk Callum back to Australia the moment she breathed her last.
Marianne was still feeling shaken from her morning fall, so she took one of the notebooks from her desk and sat down in her armchair, wondering what she might discover, but her eyes gradually lost focus as her mind went back to when she was first told about her father.
‘Il faut que tu saches que Papa n’est pas ton vrai père.’ ‘You need to know that Papa isn’t your real father.’ Maman always speaks to her in French. What does she mean?
‘You will understand it when you are older.’
‘Why is Papa not my father?’
‘Papa is your father, absolutely he’s your father – it’s just that… he’s not what people call your natural father. You might hear someone say that one day. It’s not important – don’t ever worry about it – but I felt you ought to know.’
But she doesn’t know. What isn’t real about him? She feels herself wanting to cry, but knowing that her mother would tell her off, she runs outside to her den behind the garden shed where, under a roof made from an old tarpaulin, she has stowed the stained pink blanket her mother had thrown out and her second-best doll, Sally. Curling up in a foetal position and clasping Sally to her chest, she asks her why her father isn’t real, but Sally has no answer. So, she cries for what she doesn’t understand, for her father who isn’t a natural father and for herself who by rights ought to have a real father like other children.
Later, she begins to wonder if she has misunderstood her mother. There doesn’t seem anything unreal about Papa, and anyway perhaps it doesn’t matter if Papa isn’t a real father, so long as he looks like a real father and behaves like a real father. She decides it was wrong to have cried and so she whispers half a Hail Mary to show God that she is sorry.
Callum and Helen were due to arrive at around twelve thirty. Marianne decided she needed to take a walk in the garden before they came. She put on her coat and scarf and with Anna taking her arm she hobbled out into the bright but chilly March morning. A sharp wind pulled at Marianne’s scarf: straight from the Urals, they had told her, when she first came to live in Cambridge. She looked towards the end of the garden where the forsythia swayed and danced as if it wanted to escape the wind’s whip while the daffodils bowed in unison, acknowledging a superior force. Yellow – the colour of spring, of sunshine; an optimistic colour,
so why don’t I like it? she thought. Maybe it’s because I associate it with this freezing weather. Maybe I resent the relentless optimism of spring: yellow for cold – and cowards.
Callum and Helen arrived in a cheerful mood; Callum embraced his mother and then, unusually for him, kissed Anna on both cheeks. Even Helen seemed less brittle than usual. They were alarmed to see Marianne’s bruised face and bandaged wrist.
‘Why don’t you carpet the bathroom, Mum?’ said Callum. ‘That way at least you won’t be falling on hard tiles.’
‘I don’t think that’s the answer.’
‘You need one of those portable toilets by your bed,’ said Helen.
Marianne sighed. ‘A commode – yes, you’re probably right, but I intend to resist that for the time being. Anna and I have decided that I need a rail to hold onto along the bathroom wall, and that’s what we are going to do.’
While Anna laid the table for lunch Marianne observed her son. Streaks of grey were becoming more prominent now in his thick dark hair but he was still a good-looking man. A high, smooth forehead with sculpted eyebrows and an inconspicuous nose – a handsome face, no longer too fleshy as it had been in his youth, betrayed only by a slight weakness of the chin and a trace of anxiety which always seemed to hover around his eyes. There was a lot of Edward in Callum, a genuine altruism – not a cultivated show of do-goodery but an instinctive desire to do his best for others, to put his own interests second. An admirable quality, she thought, but it had made him a pushover for a determined woman like Helen.