In the past, Juliana would have pulled the trolley up the stairs, straight into the kitchen, and gone to the larder. But she hadn’t had the strength to do that for quite a few years now. The shopper now stayed down near the entranceway, where she unloaded the shopping and then carried it upstairs piecemeal. Seven steps up and down again, back and forth – it was very time consuming, but there was nothing for it. Finally, carrying the last bit of shopping, the butter, she hauled herself upstairs. Just one more step now.
She wheezed, straining to bring her breathing and racing pulse under control. The strange woman she’d met had disappeared so fast; she’d just turned around and she was gone. Had she thanked her properly, she wondered?
After putting the cheese on the shelf she rummaged around to see what else was left there: spinach and carrots. Further down were some oats, rice and raisins. Her provisions weren’t as depleted as she’d feared. Only the milk might run out. She was about to lock up the larder and go back and fill the kettle with water for a cup of tea when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye that didn’t belong there.
The middle shelf was for cheese, or at least that had been the rule since she’d started using the larder in this house. That tin of peeled tomatoes was definitely not supposed to be there. Shaking her head she picked up the tin, when all of a sudden a shadow loomed up behind her.
The tin fell from her hands and crashed to the floor. Sheer presence of mind made her reach for the poker. The tin rolled away, hit something and came to a stop.
In the silence she glanced around. But all she could see was a sack of potatoes propped against the wall. She listened intently. The grandfather clock gave a lazy mechanical rattle, getting ready to strike the hour.
She didn’t have the strength to bend down and reach for the tin. She put the poker back on its hook and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. She could have sworn…
The kettle seemed extra heavy, even heavier than usual, and the distance to the sink, over to the tap, twice as long. She turned on the gas, and used both hands to lift the kettle onto the ring. Everything was fine. She must have just got out of bed on the wrong side today.
She arranged her cup and saucer on a tray and, as her pulse returned to normal, remembered that she hadn’t told Sophia anything about today’s adventure yet. That morning in the garden, near the rear wall: for the first time this year she had gone down to the stone bench to check that everything was in order. From back there it was clear how much the walnut tree had spread. The paths were getting narrower as well. Now, in spring, it was high time someone cut back the ivy, as well as the thistles and nettles. But she was getting off the point – the stone bench.
It was broken; heaven knew how that had happened. Maybe the frost? Probably. No question, the bench was tilting at a crazy angle. As it stood, there’d be no possibility of sitting there peacefully in the summer, watching dusk fall over the garden – no way. Nothing lasted for ever.
As she searched for the little silver spoon, she asked herself when Sophia had last sat back there, on the stone bench. Or if she’d actually ever done so. Her beloved cousin only liked to take a short walk. Wasn’t that the case? She took her tea to the window, pulled up a chair for herself and settled herself next to Sophia’s armchair.
It was strange that at that very moment she should recall the story with the count – Count Dietrich, with the high forehead and the blonde sideburns. Always travelling, always on his way to Vienna, Trieste or Dubrovnik. Belgrade was only a provincial backwater in the Balkans, but for Sophia – the daughter of the renowned furrier Lazarus Spajić – for her it was worth his while stopping off even there. She was quite a catch, and – what was more – she was easy prey. Well, she had taught him a lesson. The slap in the face she gave him, sitting on the stone bench, had gone down in legend. But that had been a fair few years ago now.
Juliana took a sip of tea. She had lost her train of thought. Yes, the stone bench. This morning, when she’d noticed that the lilies were in bloom beneath the bench, those small and tender pale pink ones, she realised that it was the time of year, and of the month – maybe even the anniversary – of the day she had first come to this house. She, the poor cousin from Kopaonik, whose only possessions were the clothes she stood in and the handful of meagre provisions her father had wrapped up in the bundle she was carrying. Her arrival at the home of Uncle Lazarus, the Spajić House – how many years ago would that have been now?
Juliana closed her eyes. She could see everything clearly in her mind’s eye: Sophia as a small girl wearing a dress with polka dots, a ribbon in her hair and white socks, and her little sister in the same get-up, only two sizes smaller. The maids with their starched and ruched aprons and Drinka, the cook, who had put a plate of bread here on the table by the window as a gesture of welcome and sustenance for her – with lots of butter and parsley on it. The excitement that was in the air in the house, the doctor with his big bag, the white sheets, the bowls with hot water – she was so excited she had not understood at first what was going on. But the day of her arrival had also been the day of Nicola’s arrival into the world. The day she had stood here on the steps with her bundle had been the same day her little cousin Nicola had been born.
Anyway, back then she had been involved in more exciting affairs: her voyage of discovery in Sophia’s wake. She had never before set eyes on a soda fountain or a light switch. Not a telephone, nor a bell like the one that summoned the servants up to the salon of Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Persida – or Master and Mistress, as they were known and referred to. The enormous car in the garage, and in the shed the man with the round felt cap – he scared her with his dark sideburns and bushy eyebrows, which were so mobile she almost imagined they could talk. When he came over to her, offering her a toffee in his outstretched hand, Sophia had whispered into her ear, ‘Careful, that’s the Albanian. He steals little girls!’
With a jolt, Juliana suddenly sat bolt upright and looked around in confusion. Had she fallen asleep? It was nearly five o’clock! What was the matter with her today? All these memories, the past, all this was suddenly so alive again. Ah, Nicola, she couldn’t keep hanging on very much longer. And where was the dish with the cookies?
One day she would forget her own head. She stood up, walked past the stove in the kitchen, back to the larder, unlocked it and switched on the light.
On the middle shelf, the cheese shelf, there was the tin of tomatoes again.
She felt giddy, and clutched at the doorframe and the post supporting the shelves to steady herself. Then everything became clear. It was one of Nicola’s pranks. He was playing tricks on her. It was his way of telling her I’m back, little Juliana, dear cousin. Typical! Instead of simply walking in through the door, he sneaked about her like a gremlin, into her larder, and created an almighty mess. Now he was probably hiding somewhere and laughing himself silly, watching her struggle to comprehend what was happening. Juliana put her hands on her hips and looked around. ‘Nicola,’ she called out, ‘that’s enough now. Where are you? Come out. Show yourself.’
She wasn’t angry with him; she’d never been angry with him, not for anything. Quite the contrary: it was good that he brought a little life into this sad house. And she was relieved that she wasn’t going completely gaga. She even felt a little triumphant: after all, she – unlike Sophia – had never doubted that her gadabout cousin would keep his promise and come home one day.
Ah, Nicola. With a smile on her lips she took the tin and put it on the shelf on the other side, where it belonged.