I heard the banging in the kitchen and dressed quickly. It was Wednesday, I reminded myself. I needed some weekly structure to hold on to. I felt guilty if Natalya got here when I was still in bed, and I dressed quickly. She would know. I could tell she knew. I picked up my book and wandered into the kitchen, as if I’d been up for hours.
‘Natalya Ivanovna, dobroe utro.’ I said ‘good morning’ because I still couldn’t make out the sounds of ‘hello’, let alone make it into words.
Natalya turned her beautiful face towards me and flicked on her thinnest smile. ‘Marta,’ she said, and nodded.
It was my Russian name, too close to Martha for anyone to make further changes. I wasn’t going to argue with Natalya, or anyone else, about it.
‘Kofe,’ I said, but I pointed at the jar of coffee, in case. It was running low, but I needed coffee rather than tea this morning. Natalya loudly snatched the sweeper from the corner and sashayed through to the front room. Kit was using my chest to store his bedclothes, tipping them in on the weekdays when Natalya was here. Natalya probably had looked in there and knew exactly what was going on. I was supposed to stay around, keep an eye on her, but I hadn’t yet been able to be up in time.
‘Lots of couples sleep separately,’ I’d said, and Kit shrugged.
‘I suppose. It will just go on a file somewhere.’ He looked resigned.
I wondered if I had a file yet.
I picked a mismatched cup and saucer from the shelf. Most of the things in the kitchen were hand-me-downs from ex-colleagues, chipped and loved. I was on strict orders to grab any new ones I saw, and Natalya was going to teach me to shop. I was too scared to arrange this with her.
‘Is it that hard?’ I’d asked.
‘Wait and see,’ said Kit. ‘You have no idea.’
I took my coffee to the window, listening to Natalya’s continual muttering as she swept the next room. I smiled, thinking that, when I learned Russian, I could spy on her for a change.
The wood below the window looked inviting in the sun, casting hard shadows on the scrubby grass. There were small patches of bare earth. The night before, Kit had pointed out where the flowers had all been torn up.
‘Teenage hooligans,’ said Kit. ‘They spend all day drinking vodka in the forest.’
The militiaman on the door was supposed to keep them out of our building, but some of them lived here. There were important Russian families in with us foreigners. The guard was only there really to take notes on our Russian visitors, and to scare them off whenever possible.
I refilled my cup and took my book into the front room. Kit had left his scarf on the back of a chair. It was the one he’d been wearing last night when he came back smelling of papirosy and an aftershave that wasn’t his. I folded it and placed it on the record player.
Natalya sniffed, smoothed down her apron, and went back to the kitchen. In her early twenties, she was slim, as if she hadn’t succumbed to the pastry and bread diet of older Russian woman. I sat in the armchair and looked at the poster again. The kind of bastards who would kill dogs. The only Russian I had met was Natalya. She was grumpy, but not in a way that made me think she was untrustworthy around small animals. It could just be that she disliked that I couldn’t speak Russian, so she talked to herself instead.
I looked at the chest. The tin money box Kit always placed on top was how it should be, the gaudy rocket pointing towards the ceiling.
The kitchen door slammed closed, and Natalya closed all the other doors to the hallway too.
‘Proshchay,’ she said, as she closed the door to the front room.
‘Spasibo!’ I shouted, but too late.
Pyotr waved at the guard on the gate and pulled up to let us out. We stood together as he drove away to park.
‘What do you think he does while he’s waiting?’ I asked.
‘He probably drinks. That’s generally how they fill in spare time.’ Kit looked at the building numbers. ‘This one.’
I was relieved that numbers were the same in Russian. The alphabet was so odd, familiar letters making unfamiliar sounds, that I relied on numbers more than ever. We walked to the entrance, and an elderly lady turned away from us as we passed, pushing a mop and bucket. We took the lift to the eighth floor, the stink of vinegar overwhelming.
‘At least our lift only smells of cabbage,’ mumbled Kit. ‘Someone must have dropped a whole bottle.’
Charlie opened the door. There was the sound of whining nearby, then a slap and a wail.
‘Sorry about this,’ said Charlie. ‘Bobby is playing up. Let me get you a drink. Wine OK?’
He led us into a front room slightly smaller than our own, filled at one end with two sofas, underneath which toys had been crammed, a tiny television and a round table next to the balcony. There were two chairs and two stools of different heights. Elton John was on in the background.
‘So, the tallest person goes on the shortest stool.’ He manfully grabbed Kit by the shoulder. ‘Martha, who is tallest?’ There was nothing in it, but I disliked how he manhandled Kit.
‘Christopher, just.’
Charlie looked put out and slapped Kit rather too hard on the back.
‘Right, then. I’ll get the wine.’
I grimaced at Kit, but he looked confused. I’d misjudged that. He wasn’t in competition with Charlie. He actually liked him. Kit lit a cigarette and followed Charlie to the kitchen.
Alison came in looking even more tired than at the restaurant. She slumped onto a chair.
‘It’s been a long day.’ She tried to smile. ‘It’s nice to have visitors, though. Have a seat, Martha. No, have a proper chair.’
She pointed to the one opposite her, and I felt pushed away.
‘How old is your son?’
‘Bobby is four.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘This flat is far too small for three people, but we’re not allowed anything bigger. We have to make up our bed on the sofas every night. I can’t wait to get out of this sodding place.’
‘The flat or the country?’
‘The country. It’s so hard. The kid, the flat, there’s no way to replace anything or get anything new. I just want a proper bed and some new clothes. God, I hate it.’
Her eyelids flickered. I wasn’t sure if she was going to cry.
‘Christopher tells me that a lot of people go to Helsinki to shop.’
She spoke slowly, ‘But I have Bobby. And Bobby . . . well, we can’t eat out any more because he won’t have sauces. And then they say, well, it’s cooked in a sauce, you can’t have it without a sauce. And then if we get something else it will be wrong. The sausages are the wrong colour or smell, or – oh God.’ She put her face in her hands.
I could hear Kit and Charlie chatting in the kitchen, the remnants of sobbing through the plywood wall behind me, and I felt like hiding too. The cigarette smoke filling the small flat began to sting my eyes, and Alison stayed quite still. I didn’t want to pull her out of, maybe, the first peace she’d had all day. But the longer the silence went on, the more uncomfortable I felt. I looked out of the window at dozens of other blocks, all the same as this one.
‘Alison!’ Charlie shouted. ‘Are we going to eat, then?’ More quietly, I could hear him say, ‘She burns everything given half a chance.’ Kit laughed gently, but I cringed.
Alison lifted her face from her hands and I could see her composing it to still tiredness.
‘Don’t go,’ I whispered. ‘He’s in the kitchen, make him serve it.’
She glared at me, pushed her chair back and walked away. I’d overstepped already. I was as bad as him, telling her what she should do.
Charlie and Kit came back through with their glasses and one for me.
‘So,’ said Charlie, sitting on the tallest stool, his knee touching mine, ‘tell me about yourself, Martha.’
‘Oh, I’m just a housewife now.’
‘Christopher says you were at Cambridge. What were you reading?’
‘Classics.’
‘Clever girl.’ He moved a little closer.
I looked to Kit for help, but he was gazing out of the window. ‘I’ll just see if Alison needs a hand.’ I pushed my chair back and felt his hand brush against my leg.
Alison had filled two plates with a kind of pie.
‘Looks good,’ I said. ‘I’ll take these in.’
There was still a distant sob coming from behind the closed door of the bedroom. I put the two plates in front of the stools.
‘Ladies first,’ said Charlie, as he moved the plates in front of the chairs.
In the hall, I stood between both rooms, cursing Christopher for bringing me here to these unhappy and lecherous people. I smiled, realising that using his full name when I was cross was probably as close to a normal married couple that we would get. I looked into the kitchen.
‘I’m finished,’ said Alison. ‘Just sit down.’
I returned to the table and took my place between Kit and Charlie. Charlie’s knee slid back into place against mine as he poured the wine.
‘This is kulebiaka,’ he said, as if he’d cooked it. ‘Alison likes to try out the local recipes.’
Alison looked at him, then started eating.
‘So, you and Kit work together,’ I said, unsure of how to break the awkwardness.
‘Yes, but we’ve been here for eighteen months. Old hands now,’ said Charlie.
‘And does Bobby go to nursery?’
‘No,’ said Alison. ‘Bobby does not go to nursery. Bobby stays at home with his mother because that’s what women are for.’ She looked at no one while she spoke, cutting and overcutting the pastry to crumbs.
‘Well, not everyone is destined to be a Classics scholar.’ Charlie winked at me. He turned to Alison. ‘And you are the one who said you didn’t want him mixing with the bloody Americans.’
Alison stared at him. I looked at Kit, who made a minute shake of his head.
‘Where do you take Bobby?’ I asked. ‘Are there parks and entertainments?’
Again, Alison didn’t answer.
Charlie chuckled. ‘Bobby is quite headstrong. It’s tricky to leave the house if you’re not doing something that interests him.’
‘What interests him?’
‘The woods. He doesn’t like to hold hands, and it’s hard for Alison with all the busy roads.’
‘So, you stay here?’
‘Yes, we stay here.’ Alison still hadn’t looked at anyone.
‘I got them a television,’ said Charlie.
‘How marvellous,’ I said, and then I worried that I hadn’t conveyed any sarcasm and that Alison would think I meant it. ‘I need to explore the area. I could take Bobby out with me.’
Her head jolted up. ‘Yes. Yes, please.’
‘OK. I can do it tomorrow.’
‘Yes, yes. Tomorrow.’ She looked at me, as if trying to work out what the catch was. I smiled.
Charlie seemed to be waiting for her to change her mind. ‘Are you sure that works?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’ She flapped her hand at him.
I said, ‘Noon?’
‘Noon.’ Alison closed her eyes and a small smile flickered on her lips. The record ended and the stylus lifted itself off, and back to the rest.
‘High noon it is, then,’ said Charlie.
He looked at Kit and raised his eyebrows. I anticipated some attempt to talk me out of this. Kit looked back at him, and when Charlie lowered his head and Kit’s expression changed, I realised that he fancied Charlie. I looked away. I was drinking too much wine. Alison was examining my face, as if she knew something too.
‘Do you go to the Metropol often to eat?’ I asked her.
‘Hardly ever.’
‘Is it hard to get a babysitter?’
‘Charlie has a constant string of secretaries who seem willing.’
Everything about this man made me feel sick. I had to get the subject away from him, but he had tentacles everywhere. His knee was beginning to hurt my own, like a bruise. He filled my glass again. He looked at Alison, who kept her head down, then back at Kit, who nodded at another unspoken comment. It reminded me of the Metropol. A different subject at last.
‘Did you see the woman in the purple hat when we were at the Metropol? I wondered if she was English.’
Alison nodded. ‘That’s Eva Mann.’
Charlie let his cutlery fall to the plate. ‘OK, that’s enough about work.’
What did it have to do with work, I wondered. And Mann? My mind had automatically gone to the booklet author, and Eva was similar to E. V.
‘Let’s put some more music on,’ said Charlie.
He lit another cigarette, and I watched him flick through maybe twenty albums before he pulled out Never a Dull Moment.
‘Can’t go wrong with Rod Stewart,’ he said.
I said nothing, but flicked my eyes to see Alison’s reaction. Her eyebrows were raised and it caught me as so comical that I laughed.
‘You don’t like him?’ asked Charlie.
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I’m more into Cat Stevens.’
He went back to his stock. ‘Simon and Garfunkel?’
I waved my hand in a ‘sort of’ motion.
‘Andy Williams?’
‘No.’
‘Credence Clearwater Revival?’
‘They’re OK.’
Charlie clearly thought that was as good as it would get, and put on Green River. He sat back down, looking shaken.
‘Maybe your tastes are getting old,’ said Alison. ‘The young people aren’t as impressed as they used to be.’ It was the first real smile I’d seen from her. ‘Martha is too young for your records.’ ‘They are all classics,’ Charlie mumbled.
‘Charlie has his brother ship over the most popular albums at great expense so he can keep his finger on the pulse. Like the classic, 20 Dynamic Hits.’
‘Well, we have this on now, which Martha does like, so that’s fine.’
Alison was on a roll. ‘And 20 Fantastic Hits has The Osmonds and Chelsea Football Club.’
‘It was a successful compilation which got to number one for five weeks,’ said Charlie.
Alison laughed.
‘Christopher has only got classical music,’ I said. ‘I think I prefer that.’
‘You can’t go out of date with classical,’ Kit said. He sounded apologetic.
Charlie put his cigarette out and pushed his chair back. ‘Shall we go out onto the balcony for a cigar? The ladies can tidy up.’
They went out and pulled the door closed behind them.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I played the part Charlie had written for me.’
Alison moved to his stool and filled my glass and her own. ‘You’re not what I was expecting either. The wives here are generally one type, quiet and keeping their head down. It’s like they all went on a course.’
‘Why haven’t you looked into the kindergartens? Don’t the embassies run something like that?’
‘I have looked at it, but it’s Anglo-American, and full of American children. Ghastly. He’d pick up all sorts there. But it’s all been a bit much recently. Maybe I need to think again.’
‘Well, I’ll come around tomorrow and we’ll see how it goes.’
‘You’ll really come? Bobby is a handful. That’s the polite way of saying it.’
‘I’ll live. I want to have a walk around, and this is a good excuse. In the morning, I have my first Russian lesson. Do you speak Russian?’
‘I don’t see any Russians.’ Alison drained her glass.
‘Shall I help you get this washing up done?’
‘No.’ She yawned and rested her head on her hand.
There was a burst of laughter from outside on the balcony. Charlie had an appreciative audience once more.
When I looked back to Alison her eyes were closed. I looked out to the balcony. I could hear the murmur of Kit’s voice as he leaned back, his face to the sky. Charlie was looking directly at me, not smiling, just staring. Charlie was going to be a problem.