When I get home Rob isn’t back, but a letter is lying on the kitchen table. On the back it has the address of my father’s solicitors printed in red. I sit down at the table and stare at it. I get up and walk to the window, look down into the courtyard, go back to the table. I pick the letter up and turn it over again and again, examining the two addresses, the postmark.
So this is it. My mother said he’d never write, but she was wrong. Now that I need him he has come. I hold the envelope against me. From far below I hear the thread of a melody, one slow note after another, like a music box winding down. I push my finger under the flap, feel the paper unsticking. I know it’ll contain a brief letter from the solicitors and then, inside it, a letter from my father. My fingers stumble on the stiff paper. I wait for that other letter to fall out. I check inside the envelope. Nothing. The words on the solicitors’ letter blur in front of my eyes. My letter has been forwarded, they say, but no response has been received. The address they used may be out of date. It is their belief that my father is still in Mexico, and enquiries will be made.
My hands are numb as I fold the letter away. I feel him fading from me. I imagine my letter, pinned down beneath the timbers of a blown-down shack on a turquoise beach. The corner of it flaps in the wind. The ink has washed from the letter, leaving only a watery purple stain. But he will get in touch with me, I know he will. I look up to see Rob at the kitchen door although I didn’t hear him come in. For a moment he stops and looks at the letter. Those notes still sound from below, slower and slower. Rob steps forward, wraps me in his arms, and we kiss awkwardly. ‘Brrrrh,’ he shudders, but the kitchen isn’t cold.
He starts to open his backpack. ‘Happy Birthday again.’ He told me this morning he had a present for me but that he’d left it at the office. He’s digging around now, trying to find it. As he puts his pack on the table, he pushes papers to one side, deftly shuffling my father’s letter under my Russian dictionary. ‘Here we are.’ He hands me a flat package, wrapped in used Christmas paper, then looks at his watch. ‘OK, so we’ve got an hour before meeting Maya.’ He drops his coat on a chair, gets out glasses and a bottle of vodka.
I sit next to him at the table, our knees touching, and we drink. Dribbles of condensation run down the outside of the vodka bottle. A corner of my father’s letter still sticks out from under that dictionary. Rob is waiting for me to undo the package but I don’t want to start, because I already know what’s inside. From below, those slow notes continue to press against us. I am a person coming to the boil. My cheeks burn where Jack’s stubbly chin grazed my skin.
My fingers become thick as sausages as I try to undo the paper. I rip at it, blood pumping in my ears. The paper comes away. Inside is the same book of Maiakovskii poems. I balance it in my hands and conjure a smile. ‘Thank you. Thanks so much. That’s just what I wanted. I’d have bought it for myself.’ I feel that other copy of the book in my coat pocket. One man, another man. Why does the difference matter so much? I don’t know, but it does.
In the basement restaurant of the Hotel Smolenskaia, glass balls made of tiny mirrors hang from the ceiling. As they turn, they spread glittering light. The tables and chairs are metal and Formica, the curtains patterned in circles of brown and orange. European businessmen sit beside Arab diplomats and Russian girls with high cheekbones and dangerous eyes. In one corner a man tinkles the keys of an electric organ and women in tinsel skirts prepare to dance. This is the world of people who aren’t in love, and I envy them.
As always, there’s a problem with the table booking. The waiter seems to have no knowledge of the reservation Harvey made. It’s suggested that we should share a table with another group. Rob intervenes and eventually they show us to a table set for six. ‘Oh yes,’ Maya says. ‘I forgot to mention, Estelle and Manfred are coming as well.’ Maya fusses with her cigarettes and her shawl so she doesn’t have to look at me. In my head red nails flash and the hem of a fur coat ripples.
An English family with two children come to sit at the table next to us. I can hear fragments of their conversation … High Street Kensington, blossom in the garden, Granny for the weekend. I feel a sudden longing for home. Rob and Harvey are talking about the referendum that will take place a week on Sunday. It’s the first-ever Soviet referendum, and it seeks support for a new Union Treaty. Harvey says that Gorbachev is going the way of every other Russian leader – a few attempts at reform, which soon lead to violence, justifying a return to the traditional methods of police rule. Rob says it’ll be different this time. Gorbachev will get support for the Treaty but the referendum will also strengthen Yeltsin’s hand.
Estelle and Manfred arrive. She isn’t wearing a fur coat and her fingernails are no particular shade of red. I’ve never met Manfred before, but he turns out to be a German version of Harvey, except he works in telecoms rather than oil. The food was already on the table before we sat down – slices of cold meat, beetroot and a slab of butter. The electric organ starts to play.
Maya produces a bag from beside her chair. ‘A birthday present for you.’ She hands me a purple box tied with a gold ribbon. I push back my chair so I can open it. Inside layers of tissue, I find a coat, made of grey velvet with a fitted top and a wide skirt. Like a military uniform it has gold buttons, black braid on the shoulders, and wide cuffs. At the back, a horizontal panel and two gold buttons mark the waist. ‘I bought it in New York,’ Maya says. For a moment I imagine myself in Room 815, spinning around on one foot, showing the coat to Jack. Then I remember he won’t be here.
‘It’ll probably be too long,’ Maya says. ‘And it’s not made for these winters, but you can wear it in the spring, if spring ev-e-er arrives.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Estelle glances at the coat with sour eyes. She complains to Maya about the pot-holes in the roads, and how they’ve damaged the wheel of her car. A group of fat men wearing gold jewellery arrive at the next table. Drunkenly they leer at the dancing girls who loll near the organ. To the side of the room a man stands against the wall, watching. A bulge under his jacket suggests a gun. This is the first time I’ve seen people who look so obviously like the Mafia. A second plate of food appears, with green beans stacked at one side. Rob sees me eyeing the beans and, with one deft movement, he moves them from my plate onto his.
Estelle turns towards me, raising her eyebrows and lighting a cigarette. ‘You know, I’m just thinking, I saw you somewhere recently but I can’t remember where.’ My hands tighten on my knife and fork. I look up at Rob, still talking to Harvey and Manfred, and he has no idea how close we are to the edge. For a moment I’m reminded of myself as a child, far out on the mud beach with my father. The storm is about to break, the tide is turning. But I don’t know that the sea monster is close, and that soon there’ll be no more days with the sun spreading its rays like the spokes of a wheel.
Estelle is waiting for my response, but I turn to Harvey and start to talk about the referendum. How can it possibly have any validity? Six of the Republics are refusing to participate and all the radicals will certainly refuse to vote. I talk louder and louder but I can still hear Estelle’s voice. ‘What’s his name? John Flame? Well, anyway, I was told that he’s wanted in America in connection with setting up some cult.’
‘Trading drugs,’ Manfred says. ‘I’m sure that’s what he does.’
My mind veers away from an image of that wooden box with its ivory clasp. I feel my skin tighten. The smallest touch of my hand unbalances the glass of water. The tablecloth is soaked, the glass spins over the side of the table and smashes on to the floor. I stand up and reach for a napkin. ‘Never mind,’ Maya says. ‘Ne-e-ver mind.’ A waiter arrives and I think he’s going to clear up the water, but instead he asks to speak to Rob. I turn to Harvey, determined not to let the conversation about Jack start again. ‘Did you hear that the body of a man has been found in the river and they think it’s definitely a Mafia killing?’
‘Yes,’ Harvey says. ‘I certainly did hear that.’
Strange, really, because I just made that up.
‘We’ve all got to be very careful,’ Harvey said. ‘The security situation is worse all the time. I’m just glad we’re at least in a building which is secure.’
‘But is it?’ I say, looking over at Estelle. ‘Because, you know, I’d hate to worry you, Harvey, but the very first time I went to your building, I just walked straight in without ringing any bell.’
I’m surprised that I dare to say this but what do I have to lose? I look over at Maya and her smile is both grim and amused. Estelle knocks ash from the end of her cigarette, her finger banging up and down. Rob comes back to the table and puts his hand on my shoulder. I jump at his touch. He bends down and speaks in a low voice. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Sasha has been arrested.’
‘Why? Why has he been arrested?’
‘I don’t know. It isn’t clear. But it seems a bit of a coincidence that it should happen at the time of this referendum.’
‘Let me come with you.’ I find myself clinging to his hand.
‘No. It won’t help. Don’t worry. Please don’t worry.’
Maya and Harvey can’t believe Rob is going. ‘You won’t be able to do anything tonight,’ they say. ‘Surely you’re not going to leave Eva alone on her birthday?’ But Rob is insistent and I tell him to go. I think of a book I’ve been reading about Soviet prisons – the people kept for months in holes in the ground, the electric sticks, whips and meat-grinders. I never thought anyone we knew would get arrested. I watch Rob as he walks away, shuffling between the tables.
‘And, you know, John Flame always says that he worked at Berkeley in the sixties but that’s when my father was there and he can’t remember him,’ Estelle says. ‘I think Manfred’s right. Drugs – that’s the only explanation.’
‘That’s not true. It’s not true.’ My voice is too loud. ‘How can you judge someone in such a cheap way? Just because he doesn’t want to live like other people – just because he doesn’t want to live in a world of lies and triviality – just because … then you think he’s a criminal.’ The electric organ music tinkles on, and the sound of other voices rumbles around us, but our table is silent.
Maya leans over and puts her hand on my arm. ‘Eva, dear, would you mind going to get my shawl for me? I left it with the doorman. Here’s the ticket.’
I stand up unsteadily, and walk away through the tables, my face smarting. It feels like everyone is watching me. The perspectives of the room seem oddly distorted, as though I’m looking at it in a convex mirror. The glass doors, the metal window frames, are elongated and bowed. I arrive at the bottom of the marble and stainless steel stairs and ask the doorman for my coat.
I hear the swing door open behind me. ‘Eva, are you all right? Why don’t you sit down a moment?’
‘I don’t need to sit down.’
‘Eva, dear, there’s no need to shout.’
The doorman hands me my coat and I start to put it on. Maya reaches for my arm. ‘Eva, I’m worried about you. You’re losing your way.’
‘On the contrary, I’m finding it. You know, very soon Jack and I are going to go away from here. That’s what we’ve decided.’ As I say that, I’m filled with lightness, a sense of relief. Words so concise, so absolute. Such luxury to find life narrowed down to a single purpose. I can just walk out of this situation and leave everything behind. Wounds heal, the grass grows back. On Monday I’ll board the train with Jack, I’ll shed my life as a snake sheds its skin. And then I’ll be in his world – a rented room, enough money for bread and milk, shortbread biscuits, a vase of catkins. We’ll go to Leningrad and then the South of France, and on the way we’ll stop in Paris and find a doctor who can give Jack pills. It’s really as simple as that.
‘Eva, you’re crazy. There can’t be any future in it. You know that.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But if it’s a failure it’ll be a brave one.’
Maya’s eyes are stretched open, her mouth slack. ‘Eva, please stay. Please. You must come back with me.’ I turn away from her and hurry up the marble stairs. For a moment I look down and see her below me, her hands stretched up to me, her face crumpled. I wonder now why she didn’t go to Mexico with my father. She was in love with him, so why did she go away to Rome six months before he left? I don’t know, but my suspicion is that her nerve failed her. And what I do know is that I’m not going to finish up like her. In my mind it’s already Monday and I’m on the train with Jack. He and I are sitting side by side, feeling the rhythm of the train, watching at the window as the tower blocks of Moscow fade into the past.
*
The child stands in the corner of the kitchen, by the shelves built into the old fireplace. The carpet in the front hall has been rolled up, the dining-room table pushed back against the wall. Two armchairs have been lifted up the stairs into the back bedroom. Boxes of glasses are stacked in the back corridor. The child wanders towards the door. A hand closes on her arm.
Just stay here, dear. There’s a good girl. Your mother is busy.
Mrs Reynolds and her friend Mrs Gooden have come to help for the party. They wear white aprons, the strings lost in the folds of their waists. Mrs Reynolds’s face shines with sweat. At the kitchen sink Mrs Gooden is up to her elbows in soapy water. They talk about the cold. That’s what everyone talks about at the moment. Minus ten, it was, last night. Some of the creeks on the marsh are frozen, even though they’re saltwater. Mrs Gooden has only ever known one freeze like this before and that was when she was a girl. The room smells of pastry, cloves and ginger. Mrs Reynolds grates the zest from lemons. On the table, cut flowers are laid out, their stems weeping on to newspaper.
The child moves back to the fireplace shelves. They’re crowded with bottles containing herbs and spices. The child starts to put the bottles upside down, balancing each one on its lid. Later she’ll show the bottles to her father, he likes things upside down. He came back from London earlier in the day. Yesterday was the start of his exhibition and the telephone has been ringing all day. She wants to see her father now but she’s not allowed to disturb him. He’s very tired and busy as well. He must rest or he’ll get ill again like last time, when he had to go into hospital with pneumonia. As the child balances another bottle her mother comes into the kitchen. Come on now, Eva, time for bed.
The child pushes the upside-down bottles together so that they stand in a line.
What are you doing with those bottles? Stop it. Stop it immediately. Her mother snatches a bottle from her. Come on now. Time for bed.
The child turns another bottle upside down. No. I’m not going. I’m staying here.
Eva. Do what I’m telling you right now.
Come now, Mrs Reynolds says to the child’s mother. Don’t upset yourself. Eva, you stay down here with me for five more minutes and I’ll find a treat for you. Then I’ll take you up and help you get in bed, how about that?
The child escapes from her mother into Mrs Reynolds’s apron. She’s steered into the back kitchen. The window there is thick with ice. Mrs Reynolds opens the chest freezer. In the corner of the room, lying on the ironing board, is a long skirt made of heavy silk. A wide straw hat lies on top of it, and a pale chiffon scarf which falls down over the side of the board. On the floor are shoes with pointed toes, stitched with flowers. The child walks towards those shoes but Mrs Reynolds catches hold of her, gives her a red ice lolly, and helps her peel off the paper.
The child sits on the kitchen table, shivering, her tongue sticking on the lolly. Mrs Reynolds rolls up the sleeves of the child’s jumper and the white T-shirt she wears underneath. The child decides that she’s going to stay downstairs for the party. In her dressing-up box she’s got all sorts of good costumes. She could be a princess, or a fairy, but she prefers her red devil costume with the forked stick and horns on a piece of elastic. Soon she’ll go upstairs and put that on.
Mrs Reynolds is standing next to the sink sieving icing sugar on to mince pies. Occasionally she turns and mutters something to Mrs Gooden, who is washing up. They think the child doesn’t understand but she does. She picks out a word and makes it into a rhyme for them. Problem-goblin-toppling-hobbling. And she tells them about the place in Mexico where she might go with her father, but only for the weekend. Mrs Reynolds and Mrs Gooden stand together, their heads close, whispering. The child swings her feet against the back of a kitchen chair, kicking at it. Left foot, right foot, left foot. A trickle of red from the lolly runs down over her hand and on to her wrist. Problem-goblin-toppling-hobbling. Her feet bang against the back of the chair in time with the words, their sound filling her head.
Garlic-obsessions-rabbit-processions-garbage-lessons.
Eva, dear, do stop that noise, please.
The red lolly drips down on to the white sleeve of her T-shirt. Right, left, right. Her foot bangs against the chair. Garlic-obsessions-rabbit-processions-garbage-lesson-manic-depression. The toe of her shoe catches on the back of the chair. Mrs Reynolds’s sieve stops still above the mince pies. Mrs Gooden turns to look at the child, and her eyes move upwards as though she’s frightened the ceiling might fall on her. The child looks at the red lolly dripping on her sleeve. She kicks at the chair, but gently now. Left, right, left. Garlic-obsessions-rabbit-processions-garbage-lesson. Manic-depression. On her white T-shirt, the red stain spreads and spreads.