by Rose Tremain
After four hours Rudi and Lev stopped again and drank tea from a flask and ate bread and smoked herring, packed by Lora. They sat on a lichencovered boulder, smoking and staring at a lone bird, turning and dipping, turning and dipping toward some invisible prey. Rudi’s plan was to reach the cave before nightfall, make a fire, and sleep there on its earth floor. To keep them warm in the night, he’d brought a flask of Ukrainian brandy.
“Ukrainian brandy,” Christy interrupted. “What the hell’s that like?”
“As you would expect, poor quality,” said Lev. “But very cheap. And in cold air you don’t taste difference.”
“Okay,” said Christy, “I get the drift.”
Lev sat down opposite Christy. He lit a cigarette. He told Christy that they had come to the rock face below the cave in early afternoon, with an hour or two of remaining light. Set into the rock was an iron ladder, which went almost vertically upward for a hundred feet, and near the base of the ladder, they discovered, among the scrub and stones, rusty tins that had once contained liver sausage and sardines and condensed milk. They examined these objects, to which faded labels still clung in spite of their scorching by time and weather. Then they looked at the ladder. It was as rusty as the tins, and the bolts that held it to the rock face were missing in places. Several of the rungs were broken. But neither Lev nor Rudi had commented on the ruinous state of it.
“I will never forget going up there,” said Lev. “All around me space and air. Nothing to hold. Only the ladder, so broken. But I say to Rudi, ‘I am going first and you stay on the ground until I reach cave.’ If one of us is die, I want it to be me.
“So I climb. And my pack feels very heavy. Heavy like a child on my back. And each moment I think, Now the air takes me and I fall and that is end of me. But you know something, Christy? For all that time I am climbing I don’t think about Marina. All I think about is getting to cave. Like cave is made of gold or something. You know?”
“Well, I never believed in caves of gold meself,” said Christy, “but I can see how that might take your mind off everything else.”
“On I go,” continued Lev, “my arms in pain. Pain everywhere. How many steps? I don’t know. We never counted. But many, many. I think to myself, This have no end.”
Above the ladder, in front of the cave’s mouth, was a broad ledge, and it, too, was strewn with old food tins and plastic bottles. Lev hauled himself onto this ledge and lay facedown among the debris, breathing hard. Up here, the wind was strong and dust swirled at the cave mouth.
Lev didn’t want to go into the cave before Rudi arrived. He let his rucksack fall and knelt at the top of the ladder, facing the void, watching Rudi climb. Rudi was heavier than he was. Lev heard the metal sing, could feel it shudder as the weight of Rudi’s boots fell on each rung. It was at this moment—with Rudi halfway up the ladder—that he heard himself whispering to his friend, “Don’t look down . . . don’t look back . . .” and he felt that he suddenly understood why Rudi had brought him here and that the thing he had to embrace was the idea of perseverance.
The mist had cleared by the time Rudi and he went into the cave. By the last rays of the sun, they could see something lying on the cave floor. They crept toward it, and then they stopped. There lay a huddle of human bones, clothed in what looked like a dusty military uniform, stained a deep brown. Lev and Rudi stared at the place where the skull should have been, but there was no skull. Resting on the rib cage, where the buttons of the uniform had once shone gold, was an old Kalashnikov rifle. On the ground beside the bones lay more empty tins and a metal spoon.
“Jesus Christ!” said Christy. “Didn’t the body stink?”
“No,” said Lev. “Flesh gone.”
“What about the head? Did you find it?”
“No. But pieces of bone. We think he put rifle here, under chin, and shot his head away.”
Christy got up and went to the window. He looked out at Belisha Road, where a police car was shimmering by, lit up by its blue, shrieking light. Then he turned back to Lev and asked, “Who was it? Did you ever find out who it was?”
Lev sighed. He said, “Well. It was me.”
Christy stared at Lev. The flashing police car could be heard accelerating up Junction Road, toward Archway. Christy opened his mouth to ask another question when Lev said, “Rudi knew this dead man was there. A colonel or general from Communist time before our country’s new era. And this colonel or general, he couldn’t make any progress with his life. He was ended. He lay in the cave—like I lay in my hammock—and ate food out of tins. And when tins ran out, he shot his head away.”
Christy’s hands were shaking as he lit a new Silk Cut. After a while he said, “That fella Rudi: he goes to some lengths to make a point, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Lev. “But he helped me. From this time, I didn’t lie in hammock anymore.”
“Well,” said Christy with a sigh, “that’s a nice thing. Survival’s always nice to hear about.”
Sophie’s friend Samantha was bone-thin, with boyish hair, colored white-blond. In the noisy pub, she was wearing a short, low-cut black dress and purple snakeskin boots. Everyone called her Sam. Sophie told Lev that Sam Diaz-Morant was becoming a famous name in the world of hat-making. Her youngest clients were the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie.
“Yes?” said Lev.
“Yes,” said Sam. “Poor mites that they are. They’re doing their level best to become beautiful, but nobody’s giving them much of a hand, except me.”
Sophie, who was wearing jeans and a tight cream sweater, explained to Lev that most of Sam’s hats were miniatures, like the one she was wearing to the pub tonight, a baby black topper, attached to her head by spangled elastic. She said, “Sam believes that the days of the unironic hat are completely past. Unless you have an exceptional face—which rules out ninety-nine percent of everybody. So she’s doing pastiches of old styles, in titchy form, and they’ve caught on amazingly. She’s getting rich now.”
“Yes?” said Lev.
“Not rich-rich.” Sam smiled. “Just comfy.”
“She goes to film premieres and all that shit. Don’t you, Sam?”
“Sometimes. I just treat them like personal catwalks. I go to parade a hat.”
“She had a big show at London Fashion Week.”
“Not big-big.”
“She’s an amazing star.”
“Not amazing-amazing. I still live in Kentish Town.”
The Amazing Star was looking Lev over. Her ferret eyes flickered from his newly washed gray hair to his mouth, and then to his left hand, on which he still wore his wedding ring.
“I didn’t know you were married, Lev,” she said, sipping the vodka and tonic Lev had bought her.
“I told you, Sam,” said Sophie quickly. “Lev’s wife died.”
“Oh yes. Wow, sorry. I forgot. I’ve got a show coming up and my brain’s gone into coma mode. Tell me about hats in your country, Lev.”
“Hats in my country?”
“I get inspiration from all round the world. Spain was fantastic. The mantilla is such a flattering idea. Virtually everyone looks good in it, because you can get the lace to cover half the face, if necessary. God, I’m nasty! But, to be fair, most women also look reasonably brilliant in those wide-brimmed hats the picadors wear. I’ve just adapted them a bit with trailing ribbons. I’ve never visited your country, but somehow I imagine women in head scarves. Am I right?”
“Sometimes,” said Lev.
“I don’t mean the full Muslim scarf thing, the hijab or whatever it’s called, but head scarves like the Queen wears, right?”
“Yes.”
“But things are changing now, right? Women are smartening themselves up. Are hats coming back?”
Lev conjured up a street in Baryn or Glic. He saw women hurrying through the rain, clutching cheap, flimsy umbrellas or holding magazines over their hair. He couldn’t see or imagine a single hat.
“No,” he said.
“Well,” said Lev, “in Jor, you can find some nice clothes, these days. Quite expensive . . .”
“No, I don’t mean for shopping. I mean to get a look at ethnic headwear. What about at weddings?”
Lev was about to reply that Ina kept in a drawer the embroidered cap she’d worn in 1959 at her wedding to Stefan and which Maya had once found and tried on. This trying on of her wedding cap had upset Ina for reasons Lev could only guess at and she had snatched it out of Maya’s hand. But as Lev opened his mouth to speak, Sam turned away from him to embrace a young man with floppy hair, wearing dark glasses. “Andy,” she said, “darling. How’s it going?”
“Good,” he said, removing the glasses to reveal narrow, sleepy eyes, which rested on Samantha’s skimpy cleavage. “How’re you, beautiful?”
“Insane,” said Sam. “Bloody show in two weeks. Look at my fingers. Raw with stitching.”
“Love the dress. Love the boots. And love the dinky topper!”
“Yeah? You do? Relieved about that, petal. But tell me about rehearsals.”
“We’re not in rehearsal yet. We’re still casting—or trying to . . .”
“Oh, who? Tell me who.”
“Well, long story, babe. We’d been pretty hot for Sheridan Ponsonby, but then we realized the posh arsehole just didn’t begin to understand the play.”
“Oh pants, Andy. I adore Ponsonby!”
“Really? I used to like his work. Now I think he’s a vain twat. He’s not Brain of Britain, I can tell you, Sam, despite going to bloody Eton. I mean, he kept saying the whole play was ‘transgressive’ and I had to keep reminding him, ‘That’s the whole fucking point, luv, this is a totally transgressive story. We’re testing good-taste boundaries, we’re testing audience shock. We’re way beyond Jerry Springer—The Opera.’ ”
“I know you are, darling.”
“Why are actors so fucking thick? But, fingers crossed, we’ve got Oliver Scrope-Fenton. We’re talking deals with his agent now.”
“Ollie Scrope-Fenton. Brilliant! I love him! It’s going to be such a totally groundbreaking piece of theater.”
“I hope. Who knows? Anyway, how’re you, sweetheart?”
“I’m good.” Sam turned again toward Lev and Sophie. “Sophie you know, darling. And this is Sophie’s friend Lev, who also works with G.K. Andy Portman, the extremely famous playwright.”
Lev held out his hand and the famous playwright, Portman, gave it a violent shake. “Hi, Lev,” he said. “How’s G.K. treating you?”
“Okay,” said Lev. “He calls me “Nurse.’ ”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, I keep everything clean . . .”
“Oh, right. Right.”
“C’est le plongeur,” Sam whispered to Andy, “mais il est assez beau.”
“Right,” said Andy again. “Drink time. Everybody okay?”
Andy Portman disappeared into the crush of people near the bar. Sam Diaz-Morant took a cigarette holder from her bag, looked at it longingly, caressed it for a moment with her lips, then put it away again. “I’d better explain,” she said to Lev, “that Andy’s written a brilliant play, Peccadilloes, which is being done at the Court. Alias the Royal Court Theatre. Opens in the new year. It’s going to be unlike anything the British stage has seen.”
“Peccadilloes?” said Lev. “What is that?”
“Oh, you know. Explain it to him, Sophie.”
“No. You explain it.”
“Well. Doing little naughties . . . Isn’t it, Sophie?”
“I guess.”
“Not the world’s most catchy title,” said Sam. “Confused it with Piccalilli when Andy first said it.”
“Piccadilly?” said Lev.
“No. Piccalilli—gherkiny table sauce my mum serves with cold meat.”
“I am confused . . .”
“Oh well, never mind. But what the play’s about is the extreme forms desire can take. It’s about the total infiniteness of the human imagination.”
“Is ‘infiniteness’ a word, Sam?” said Sophie.
“Well, ‘infinity.’ Whatever. I don’t fucking know. Anyway, Peccadilloes is a groundbreaking play.”
There was a silence. Sam Diaz-Morant adjusted the spangled elastic on her baby hat.
“Sorry,” said Lev. “Now I am lost . . .”
“Right,” said Sam. “Well, I guess it’s complex. Talk to Andy. He’s got a whole thesis on the subject. He’ll explain it to you.”
Sam turned away and Lev was left looking down at Sophie, who, he noticed, wouldn’t meet his eye. His vodka glass was empty and he began, suddenly, to feel the heat and noise of the pub as a desolate vibration in his heart. He set down the empty glass.
Sophie’s gaze returned nervously to him. “Sam and Andy are good fun,” she said brightly. “You’ll see, Lev. They’re ambition-crazed lunatics, but they’re also good company. We’re going to have a fun evening.”
Sophie reached up and stroked Lev’s cheek, and the unexpected touch of her hand on his face surprised and consoled him just enough to vanquish his longing to be away from there, out in the cold street. He took Sophie’s glass and his own and made his way to the bar and put the two glasses down. He took out his wallet. The price of vodka in England shocked him anew each time he heard it uttered.
He found himself standing next to Andy Portman. Portman wore a leather jacket very like Lev’s own. Lev stared at him. Then he said, “Sam told me you would explain your play.”
“Explain my play?”
“She said you had ‘thesis.’ ”
“A thesis? You mean on theater?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Andy sighed as he ransacked a bulging wallet for drink money. “I’m kinda tired of explaining all this,” he said, “but I’ll give you the short version if you want. Okay?”
“Sure,” said Lev.
Andy took his change from the barman and took a gulp of his pint of beer. “Imagine society as a house,” he said.
“A house?”
“Yeah.” Andy wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand, dried the hand on a small towel set out on the bar top. “A house. With the usual rooms: sitting room, bedroom, kitchen, et cetera. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Well, British drama, in the 1950s, was stuck in the sitting room—or what people liked to call the drawing room. Everything was decorous and unspoken and polite and full of lies. Then, in the 1960s, plays moved into the kitchen. Wesker, John Osborne, David Storey, and so on. We had honesty. We had working-class emotion. Then it crept into the bedroom. Did you ever see Pinter’s Betrayal?”
“No.”
“Okay, but you know of it. You’re following me, right?”
“Not well . . .”
“I’ll make it simple, then. I was going to do a riff about Stoppard and Frayn and their intellectual universes, about the clever-clogs vogue for whirling the play outside the societal and domestic space, but none of this fits too well with my analogy—and you probably wouldn’t get it anyway, right?”
Lev said nothing. He felt helpless and ignorant. Andy Portman’s eyes kept flickering round to where Sophie and Samantha stood among the roaring crowd, then returning reluctantly to Lev.
“Do you see where I’m going with the house thing?” he asked. “Can you tell me what little room has never really been visited on the British stage?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think. The toilet, of course. What we in Britain term the loo. You know this word?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Well, I think it’s time we looked in there. It’s time we had the courage to look at the filth that’s never more than one or two rooms away from us—or, in other words, inside us. Don’t you think we should do that?”
The barman arrived in front of Lev at this moment and he ordered the two vodkas. He noticed that his hand holding a tenpound n
ote was red and raw from its hours immersed in dishwater, like some uncooked root vegetable. And he thought, This is how these people see me—as a turnip with no intelligence and no voice.
“You don’t agree?” said Andy. “I guess you—like almost everybody else—just want to be presented with everything nice and clean and refreshed and made ready for you, and never notice how each one of us adds to the excrement pile?”
“No . . .”
“You wouldn’t be alone. That’s exactly what most people in the West feel, even if they don’t admit it. But I want to force them to look where they don’t want to look: at their dark side, because there is a dark side—sometimes a really seriously dark side—in us all.”
“Dark side?”
“Yup. And one of the things we have to own up to is that the stuff we crave can be absolutely transgressive. We need to look this straight in the eye. And people agree with me, or I’d never have got Peccadilloes on. I know it’s going to shock, but that’s the whole point. I guess maybe you come from a culture that isn’t yet aware of the need to shock.”
Lev knew the word “shock.” Managing a shallow smile, he said, “There has been ‘shock’ in my country, sir. Very much shock. Many, many years of —”
“Right. Absolutely. I hear you. But I’m not talking about political systems, Lev. And please, for fuck’s sake, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m talking about art.”
“Okay . . .”
“In your country, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do, artwise. That’s fine. I completely understand. I’m sympathetic to that. But here in Britain, we’re at the cutting edge of things and the work has to be razor-sharp, otherwise it won’t fucking cut.”