Sandman

by Anna Legat

  Haji negotiates a path clinging to a sheer rock wall by a narrow gorge. Sixty feet below the Pandsher River foams and bubbles, accompanying him down to the valley where Svetlana is waiting for him in their mud brick home on the south side of his fortified kishlak. He has left his loot, the machine guns and ammunition belts in the cave where the rest of the company have left their spoils of war. They all go home, dressed in turbans and long robes, looking like your everyday peasants. They will have a good meal and a chat with their wives, maybe mend a few broken tools and pots, and listen to their children play in the courtyard. The gloss of normality.

  As he reaches the orchard of mulberries and apricots that is just outside the baked-brick wall, Haji hears the helicopters. He puts his hand to his eyes to shelter them from the rays of the setting sun and he sees two of the choppers hovering over the Salang Pass. They must have already discovered the carnage. That was fast by Soviet standards, Haji is glad he and his men have cleared the area so quickly. When the Russians see the extent of the destruction, they will come down to the villages looking for someone to blame. They might even come here.

  Approaching his house, Haji can see Svetlana’s slender figure hunched over the fire. She is cooking something, making supper for him, waiting so that they can have it together. Her veil has slid away from her head and the light from the frisky flames bounces off her fair hair, making it shine like gold. He picks up pace, almost runs towards her to grab her to lift her off the ground and hold her in his arms. She is a dove’s feather in his embrace.

  Her expression is solemn though. ‘Have you heard the helicopters? They’ve been up and down for a couple of hours now.’ She speaks in Russian to him, but she has been learning local dialect and can hold a basic conversation. Haji is so proud of her! He kisses her. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’ she asks, frowning.

  ‘They’ll go away,’ he replies.

  ‘They make me feel uneasy. Only three weeks ago, remember? That village was razed to the ground. It wasn’t far from here. I worry...’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t worry. They have their hands full. We keep them too busy to bother with villages. We steer them away.’

  ‘Not busy enough to stop them from punishing innocent people.’

  ‘No one is innocent. This is war. People die. Even if you let them live, they still die,’ Haji suddenly remembers the young Russian soldier he tried to spare, in vain.

  ‘I don’t want to die... I don’t want our baby to die...’ she gazes at him intently, her intense blue eyes fixed on his.

  Haji can’t believe it. For a moment, he is convinced he must have misheard. ‘Our baby? Are you pregnant?’

  She nods. He snatches her hands, kisses them. He doesn’t dare take her in his arms in case he breaks something inside her womb. His delicate, fragile Svetlana is carrying his child within that womb. ‘We’re having a baby...’

  She keeps looking at him, something steely sneaking into her eyes. ‘I don’t want to die. I want our baby to live,’ she repeats stubbornly.

  ‘So do I! So do I!’ He is blabbering, exuberant and drunk on the news. ‘We must celebrate! Everyone must know!’

  ‘Haji, my love, can’t you see what’s going on around us? I’m scared...’

  ‘You can’t be scared! I’m here to protect you-the two of you – with my life! You can’t doubt me!’

  ‘I don’t, and I know you’ll do everything for me, but it makes no difference. I’m still afraid... I can’t bring a new life into this place... This war will never end – can’t you see that!’

  ‘The war will end! Like every war – it will run out of fuel; it’ll fade away... You have my word!’ He will fight to convince her. He is a fighter after all. She needs reassurance – lots of it. And there will be mood swings and strange cravings. Haji will weather the storm of this pregnancy. He will stand by her like she has always stood by him.

  ‘When will it end?’ she throws her arms in the air. ‘I can’t wait, and live like this!’ She sweeps her hand around the room lit only faintly by the dying fire.

  Haji doesn’t understand the question. Admittedly, this isn’t the luxury of their flat in microrayon, but it is all they need, and she loves it: their living-breathing home as she calls it, the kyariz well with crystal-cold water, their orchard... She said –

  She said she loved it. She said she would love this life – this world of his – as long as he was here with her.

  ‘I’m here with you. I’m here for you,’ he reminds her, but it isn’t enough. He knows it isn’t.

  The thump of a helicopter passing overhead adds to the unease they find themselves in. They should be celebrating, and yet they are arguing. The flatbread she has been cooking is burning.

  ‘Haji, I want to protect our child – your child. I can’t do it here. I don’t know how. There are no doctors, no hospitals. What if...’

  ‘Everyone will help, trust me! My whole family, my mother and my sister -’

  ‘My family are in Moscow. And I’ll get decent medical care there. I must go to have our baby there. You must let me. We owe it to our child.’

  He is shaking his head, numb with disbelief and defiance.

  ‘He – she – will be safe, warm, comfortable... will go to school, and...’ she approaches him, takes his face in her hands and kisses his lips, ‘we will be back with you as soon as this war is over. I promise. And you must promise me you won’t let yourself get killed.’

  So he promises her – a promise for a promise. He promises he will wait for her.

  XII

  Heather decided to come with him.

  He had to tell her it was young Tommy’s tenth birthday because the boy’s present came out of their joint account and the meal at Pizza Express would do too. She would find out sooner or later and she would resent it even more if he hadn’t told her. She is resenting it nevertheless. But perhaps not as much. Staring at the droplets of rain that smash against the glass and are swept away by the relentless windscreen wipers, Heather remains resolutely silent as if, in her head, she is counting all those annihilated droplets. Oscar dares not interrupt her. From time to time, he glances at her from above the steering wheel. He fears she will spoil the evening, that her reason for coming is to do just that. What else could it be? She has never approved of his closeness with Katie, nor of his fondness for Tommy. She understands his motives better than anyone, but she doesn’t approve – full stop.

  ‘When I booked the table, I told them it was Tommy’s birthday. They’ll have a cake for him, with candles and all that malarkey,’ Oscar warns his wife. She must be ready to join in the celebrations with the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, and the smiles and clapping. She chose to come with him; she has to conform. For the moment, she takes her eyes off the windscreen and responds with a tearful, pained gaze. Her eyes are welled up to the brim, perhaps due to all those crushed raindrops she’s been watching so intently.

  He pats her right knee, ‘Really, Heather, there’s no need...’

  She whips her head away and fixes her eyes back on the rain-battered windscreen. Oscar’s gaze follows hers, his eyes briefly focused on the windscreen pane and the splashing droplets driven by the wind to their tragic end. The red hue of the crossroad traffic lights filters through those droplets and for a brief second they form the blood-soaked face of Sergeant Butler with the lazy, thickening tracks of blood marking his dead face.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Heather screams and jolts him back into the present day, ‘You jumped the red light! That car barely missed you!’ Her face is contorted with agitation. A 4x4 is stationary at an odd angle behind them, sounding its horn angrily. A few other cars have come to a standstill on the junction. Oscar raises an apologetic hand to acknowledge the curses and waving fists, and continues slowly on his way.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s the damned rain. Can’t see anything.’

  ‘You could have had us both killed!’

  That statement stings.

  ‘Sorry,’ he repeats
and reaches for Heather’s hands, bundled into small fists in her lap. He squeezes them firmly. He already has a man’s death on his conscience. Sergeant Richard Butler. He had him killed – sent him to his death in that Argentine bunker on the slope of Mount Langdon. A father-to-be, a father who would never lay his eyes on his daughter. Because Oscar had him killed.

  ‘Just concentrate on your driving,’ Heather instructs him.

  Yes, just concentrate on surviving. He has been telling himself that for the past thirty-odd years. He had a duty of honour to discharge towards Butler’s wife and child – an ongoing duty. He couldn’t do that dead. Heather has always understood; she just doesn’t approve. She can’t bear Oscar’s involvement with Katie: he was present at Izzie’s birth; he was by Katie’s side, holding her hand and telling her how proud Richard would be. He was the first man to kiss Izzie’s chubby little hands. He cried with joy. And then he cried with sorrow when Izzie walked away, leaving Tommy behind like unwanted ballast, a dead weight that would drag her down if she stayed. So Oscar took on Tommy as his own, alongside Katie. They shared that weight and the tears that came with it. Tears shared with Katie, tears that he could never share with Heather. They have no children of their own, and she won’t forgive him his adopted family. She resents every minute of it, every hour he spends growing closer with that woman and that woman’s child, and now grandchild. She is jealous of everything that ties them together: the good and the bad, the very few joys and the very many tears. She has nothing to be jealous of, he keeps telling her that, but she won’t listen. And maybe she is right, because it has just occurred to him that he doesn’t want her there with Katie and Tommy. He wants them both only to himself. They are his whole world and Heather is now just a chore – his cumbersome duty. He doesn’t know when and how the tables have been turned on Heather, but he knows that she would be ill-advised to test where his loyalties lie. His patience is at breaking point. ‘Wow! Is it really mine?’ Tommy’s fingers are caressing the rod and sliding down to the reel where they get confused in the complex mechanism of ball bearings and flip-switches.

  ‘Of course it’s yours! From me and Heather, happy birthday!’ Oscar feeds on Tommy’s excitement. The present is spot on, just what the doctor ordered. He smiles at Katie, seeking her approval, but she can’t see him because she’s looking at Heather.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Heather contradicts him with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I didn’t even know what was in the box. In fact, I didn’t know there was a box until this morning. I’m always the last one to know.’

  Katie is puzzled. She doesn’t know what to say to that. Has Heather said that on purpose? To humiliate Katie? Oscar feels like he should be apologising for his wife, and he knows that no apology would ever be enough. He bites his tongue. The air is heavy with discomfort. Only Tommy is at ease.

  ‘When can I try it? Can you teach me, Oscar?’

  ‘Well, we have that camping trip on the cards, don’t we?’ Oscar says. ‘I know just the lake...’

  ‘Yes!’ Tommy punches the air, and the discomfort of the adults is pushed out into the stratosphere. ‘When are we going?’

  ‘I’m thinking next Saturday, if you have no other plans.’

  ‘As if!’ Tommy snorts, sparks of thrill jumping out of his nostrils.

  ‘And if Nan is happy with that.’

  ‘Nan?’ Tommy has Katie in his grip, and he won’t let her go until she says yes. Her eyes smile at the boy, and this time that smile spreads across her face and warms its way deep into Oscar’s heart. God, he loves her! It must be in his eyes, and Heather can probably see it, but he doesn’t care.

  ‘Come on, Katie,’ he grins, ‘you can’t break both our hearts!’

  ‘Next Saturday?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She cocks her head to one side, teasing poor Tommy for a little while longer.

  ‘Nan, I can’t learn to fish in the bathtub, you know!’

  ‘Hmm... You may be right there,’ she has a beautiful smile when it touches on her eyes. ‘OK then, next Saturday it is!’

  Tommy springs to his feet. His arms close on his grandmother’s shoulders and his face disappears in her thick, long hair. Oscar wishes they were his arms and his face. And he hopes that Richard doesn’t mind, while watching from up there, how much he has come to usurp his love for his wife and grandson.

  XIII

  ‘Just saying goodbye to my favourite patient,’ Wanda is leaning over Yvonne’s bed. She has to force a smile onto her lips – Yvonne is in a bad way. To make things worse, she is refusing to take food. Intravenous feeding can only go so far and Yvonne knows that. She claims she can’t swallow; she claims her insides hurt more when she has eaten; she claims there is no point. Perhaps only the last claim is true.

  Her eyes are out of focus, but she makes an attempt to look at Wanda, ‘Who are you?’

  Wanda isn’t wearing her nurse’s uniform. Her hair is loose and curly. She has put on a touch of makeup: eyeliner and lipstick. It is no wonder Yvonne doesn’t recognise her. ‘Wanda, your long-suffering nurse!’ she forces another smile.

  ‘Oh, Wanda! How you have changed... You’re off to a party?’

  ‘Going home, Yvonne! Going home today!’

  ‘Good girl... Give a cuddle to your daughter from the dying old woman at the hospice, will you?’

  ‘I’ll give her a cuddle from my friend, Yvonne. I don’t know any dying old woman, though.’

  ‘Touché!’ A weak smile softens Yvonne’s face. She lifts her hand to search for Wanda’s. Wanda sits on the side of her bed and squeezes Yvonne’s hand. ‘Good girl... Glad you came... I’ll miss you... for as long as it takes me to die, that is.’

  ‘Enough of dying, please.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done.’

  ‘You must eat, help your body fight this...’

  ‘Have a safe trip home,’ Yvonne chooses to ignore Wanda’s advice, which isn’t surprising. She is as stubborn as they come. Wanda will miss her too.

  Andrzej drives her to the airport – he’s taken a day off. He said he had given a month’s notice at work; he said the company had asked him to stay on for a bit longer to accompany new drivers on intercity routes, and to help with their training. He couldn’t say no. They need him. Wanda won’t argue with him. She will give him time and space. After all, he has agreed to pack it all in. It’s just a matter of time. One month’s separation won’t kill anyone. She understands her husband; she knows what his work means to him. He will have to wean himself off being indispensable, but he will do it. He promised.

  He has been sitting in the car, stiff and silent, while she babbled on about the surprise this would be for Paulina. The best gift they could give her! She won’t believe her eyes! Grandma had been sworn to secrecy about Wanda’s return home. It will be a cracker!

  Andrzej drives and leaves the talking to Wanda. The traffic is awful, and it is getting late. He probably resents the detour to the hospice, but doesn’t mention it. In passing, in between the torrents of exclamations, Wanda notes his reticence but blames it on the blues of their parting. It is only temporary. ‘You know,’ she suggests, ‘I may as well put this month to good use and start looking for a flat. Mum said we could even find a small bungalow with the money we have if we go further afield, away from the city. I don’t mind. Fresh air will be good for Paulina. I always wanted to have my own veggie patch! What do you think?’

  He nods. ‘Sounds good.’

  They are rushing along, running and overtaking other travellers who seem to have time to spare to take it at their leisure and stroll lazily or stand in the middle of the floor, chatting. Andrzej has taken her wheelie suitcase from her and is carrying it, lifting it over other people’s heads and scattered pieces of luggage. It was a good idea to check in electronically from home – at least she won’t have to queue in the twisted, tightly packed line of passengers before check-in. Instead of hand luggage, Wanda is travelling with a huge teddy, a Paddington Bear, th
at will fill the whole space in the overhead compartment. Pauline will love him! He’s bringing his own little suitcase with him.

  They have reached the Passengers Only cut-off point. Andrzej takes her in his arms, the Paddington Bear squashed between them, and kisses her. It is an evasive kiss, on the forehead. He is also avoiding her eyes. Maybe they are welling up with tears – silly old boy!

  ‘Right! Will Skype you tonight, but it’ll be late... You can imagine how it’ll be on arrival! It’ll be a stampede! . Mum will’ve invited half the village.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry. We can talk tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, OK?’

  He nods. ‘You’d better be going.’

  ‘And you’d better be joining me soon!’ she laughs. ‘I want to see you home by Christmas!’

  He shifts his gaze towards her at last. ‘It won’t be this Christmas, though...’

  She has already executed half-a-turn away from him when his words catch her unawares. She almost loses her balance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said -’

  ‘You didn’t say anything! What do you mean?’

  ‘They offered me more money. It’s a promotion for me – supervising trainees. Really good money, Wanda! I couldn’t say no, like I said... Another six months on that pay, and we will be able to afford -’

  ‘You said a month!’

  ‘I know – I said... They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Only six months and I’ll be with you by Easter.’

  Last call for passengers travelling to Krakow, the announcer’s voice cuts the space between them in half. There will be no more hugs, no more goodbye kisses. Wanda can’t bring herself to touch him. ‘You lied, you bastard!’ she spits through her teeth and starts walking.

  ‘I’ll come for Christmas, if that’s what you want!’ Andrzej shouts after her. ‘Talk later! Skype me, yeah?’