Sam woke her when it was still morning and dark calling from the airport where he was about to board British Airways for London. ‘I’ll be there a few days, then I’ll come on to Geneva. I need to see you, Lizzie. We’ve wasted enough time. I think you should just go in this morning and resign. Come back with me. I need you. You’ll love it. There will be plenty for you to do.’ He rushed the words. She could hear the noise of the airport behind him and could hear his excitement.
‘I can’t make a decision like that right now, you crazy man,’ she said. ‘Go catch your plane and I’ll see you soon.’
‘I love you, Lizzie. I need you. Stop hedging and just agree. You’ll see it will be wonderful.’
She could feel his excitement. It was good to be loved and wanted.
‘Go catch your plane. I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t think about it. Do it, girl. I need you. Got to run. See you soon—with your suitcase packed!’
‘Don’t pressure me, Sam. Go catch your plane.’
‘I’m warning you, girl. This time I mean business. Bye. Take care of yourself. Got to go.’
The line went dead. She could picture him running for the gate smiling and sure of himself, not frightened of anything. All that strength and sureness. Would it spill over her? Would that keep her safe? Was that what she needed? Someone else to keep her safe? No, she did not need anyone she would do it herself. But then maybe to have someone else too? Think about it later. In the morning darkness, her alarm sounded, and she rolled out of bed, and another day was beginning.
The big boss called, ‘Hi, Lizzie. Come in. Come in. Sit down.’
Now, what?
‘Chechnya. We need a report urgently. OK for you to go Thursday? Here’s your brief, and you’ll get more from the guys on the desk this morning. No need to tell you to be careful—they’re making a real mess in Grozny. You’re not to go into the city itself—or what’s left of it. Just get close and let us know what, if anything, local groups can do. We’ve got all the big stuff in hand on the borders for the refugees. It’s all in there,’ he pointed to the file he’d put in front of Lizzie.
‘I can’t go, Thursday,’ she said. ‘Can’t I go next week?’
‘Next week? Have been reading the papers? Even Thursday is a bit late.’
‘But this war has been on again, off again for decades, centuries almost. Won’t it wait a week?’
‘Lizzie, the logistics guy has just got back, and he’s a mess. Says he’s never been so scared in his life. He’s not used to that sort of thing and we’re not sure his report is accurate. We need more information to be sure that we’re sending what’s needed and we need to know who can help these people—inside the borders. Come on, Lizzie. Just do it.’
This was the second time this morning that she had heard those words: “Just do it”. So a bloke was scared, and they were sending her. Hmm.
‘Oh shit, all right. Thursday.’
‘Language, Lizzie, language,’ grinned this bloody bureaucrat who had just destroyed any chance of her spending real time with Sam. He’d arrive and she wouldn’t be here. Shit. Shit. Shit. She grumped her way back to her office, threw the file on her desk and stood looking out at the black lace of the trees against what was now a gloomy sky. She knew Sam would be pissed off because he would be disappointed, and she wondered if… would he be really angry. She just wasn’t sure. ‘I’ll try to telephone him—or hope he calls me. He will call, I’m sure. Then, at least, he’ll know. Maybe he won’t come at all.’
‘Talking to yourself, Lizzie?’
She turned to see her secretary standing in the doorway, grinning.
‘First sign of madness, they say,’ she continued. ‘You look miserable. What do you mean “maybe he won’t come”, love? Of course he’ll come.’
‘Yes, but I won’t be here,’ explained Lizzie. ‘It’s Chechnya on Thursday. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Chechnya? Another war? What do these boys think you are?’
‘C’mon, we all know I don’t usually mind. It’s just that Sam rang this morning. He’s on his way to London and said he’d come over for a couple of days. It’s a shit that I won’t be here.’
‘You know, sister, it’s time you took that man seriously. You’ve done the adventure bit around here. You’ve told the stories that can make a difference. You’ve done more than your share. It’s enough now. Marry him. Or at least go and live with him. He’s crazy about you, and he would look after you. You could do with a bit of nurturing, my lady. Think what it would be like. He’d spoil you and love you, and from what I see, he has too much sense to think he can control you!’
‘But I’m happy as I am with no risk, no doubts. Life is simple and happy for me here. I like being on my own. I really do.’
‘Lizzie, for a woman who takes a lot of chances, you are sometimes a real coward. What do you mean your life has no risks? You are always in risky places. Get real woman. This is a good man. Take the chance on him. Give him a go. Don’t marry him if you’re not sure but take the step. Trust what he says. You know you’re OK on your own but it might be better than OK with him.’
‘You’re a romantic,’ grinned Lizzie.
‘Read your own poster,’ retorted her friend. The poster was old, dog-eared and spotty now. Lizzie looked at Amelia Earhart, all soft, feminine in shades of pink and brown with her aviator’s goggles and a leather hat.
When an adventure is offered, you don’t refuse it. All very well Amelia but you probably landed in the drink.
That night, Sam telephoned from London. ‘You’re not serious?’ he groaned when she broke the news about leaving for Chechnya on Thursday. ‘Can’t you put it off?’
‘I tried, Sam, but it can’t be done. I have to leave Thursday morning. I’m really sorry. I’m disappointed too.’
He sighed. ‘It’s OK, Lizzie. I know you wouldn’t do it deliberately. Well, I shall just have to come over on Wednesday night. How about a date for dinner, and I’ll stay and see you off at the airport, next morning?’
‘Oh, Sam, that would be fantastic. Can you manage it? What about all your meetings?’
‘I’ll be there, girl. I’ll just need to re-schedule a few things. Who knows? I may even be able to come over again for a few days when you get back from this next hellhole you’re visiting.’
‘Do you think you could? I’ll tell them I’m taking the days off and they can’t send me off again, straight away. I’ll do the report in the plane. It would be wonderful.’
‘OK. It’s a deal. I’ll see you Wednesday night, wave you off with a white lace handkerchief and be there to greet you on your return. Is it a deal?’
‘It’s a deal. You’re marvellous. Shall we stay in Geneva, or shall I book somewhere out of town?’
‘Out of town, my girl, and you do not, I repeat, do not, tell your office where you are going. I want to talk to you (among other things) on Wednesday night, and I want you all to myself for a few days when you get back. So make sure you get back in one piece. Hell! When I think about it, why are you going to Chechnya anyway? They’re bombing the shit out of that place. You can’t be going into Grozny. Can you?’
‘No. I’m ordered to go no nearer than the outskirts. I might not even get that far, who knows?’
‘It’s time I took you in hand, young woman. I’ll just have to carry you off and hold you hostage in some sewing circle or ladies tea-group. Chechnya, for Pete’s sake. I’m in love with a lunatic.’
‘Are you? With me? Are you really in love, do you think?’
‘Yes, woman. I am in love. I’ll show you how much when I see you Wednesday. And book us in somewhere romantic and sexy. Nothing simple or politically correct. Find us a bit of decadent luxury. OK?’
‘It’s a deal. I’ll let you know where on Wednesday.’
By the time Lizzie met him at the airport, she was all packed and ready to leave the next morning with her desk at the office cleared so the evening was free. Sam came into the arrivals area looking tanned and fit. It would seem that Thailand agreed with him.
He kissed her and gave her a hug. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said and Lizzie felt her eyes fill with tears because it was good to be wanted and loved. She felt him scrutinising her face. ‘You’re tired before you set off on this latest escapade,’ he said. ‘Can’t you get out of it?’
‘’Fraid not,’ answered Lizzie, ‘but I’m OK really. I’ve just had a rather difficult week—and I’m disappointed too, you know. It takes it out of me, a bit.’
She wondered if he would say any more, but he just put his arm around her shoulder, picked up his suit bag and headed for the door. ‘So where are we eating, my lady?’ he asked when they were settled in the car.
‘Are you in a carnivorous mood? Do you fancy fish? Or a fondue? You say and I’ll choose the restaurant,’ replied Lizzie
‘Well, I’ve been eating British fish and chips for a couple of days. What about a good old Swiss fondue?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Lizzie. ‘So, we’ll go to the local. It’s always reliable, and I love the place. I’ll park the car, and we can walk down. Do you want to wash up or change first?’
‘If I get you back to that apartment, my girl, we will not go out to eat. Blast the hours here. No lunch after 2 pm and no dinner after 10 pm. Bloody uncivilised, I call it. So, let’s eat first and then you may lure me into your clutches, into that little love nest of yours.’
They left the car and wandered down the street, holding hands like a pair of adolescents. Lizzie was greeted with a smile when they entered the corner restaurant. There were never tourists here, only lots of regulars, some of whom nodded too, while she and Sam took off their coats and scarves and hung them near the heavy curtain that kept the draught out while the door opened and shut.
It was always a little like entering Dr Who’s time machine when you were between the door and the curtain, but it was warm and snug inside. In the first section was a bar and tables with people relaxing over the small glasses used for wine when you were not having a meal. On most tables, there were pewter carafes, half a litre, a litre, depending on the number of drinkers—and the drinkers’ capacity. Lizzie and Sam were shown into the fondue area. Because of the strong cheesy smell, most restaurants kept a separate section for fondue eaters. Their table was in the corner, with two pew-like benches, so it was rather like a cosy cubicle. Almost every inch of every wall was covered with old, wooden skis, brass and copper pots, farming implements, snowshoes and an assortment of odds and ends that looked more like instruments of torture than anything else. But everything was mellow with the soft patina of age and only the occasional glint of copper or brass broke the uniform glow.
The fondues were wonderful. Bubbling cheese and wine with herbs or mushrooms and long forks to dip the cubes of crusty bread and twist them around before making the distance from pot to mouth without dripping cheese. As the pot was emptied, a crispy, crunchy coating was always left on the base known as “the nun’s portion”, and it was scratched up and shared as the final delight. If one did not want simple cheese fondue there was bubbling cheese, wine and tomato eaten with hot potatoes boiled in their jackets and brought to the table, wrapped in red-and-white checked cloths in shallow baskets. Fendant was the preferred drink, grown on incredibly neat vines in incredibly neat terraces overlooking Lac Leman. Lizzie always loved the difference between the upright, prim, trim Swiss vines and the flamboyance of the French ones and the “let-it-all-hang-out” Italian versions.
Sam and Lizzie were both hungry so the food tasted better than ever. Conversation was easy between them, as Sam talked about his house and garden, his stuff at the office, the particular problems of working in an Asian culture and the joy and beauty that made those difficulties all worthwhile. He was animated and, again, Lizzie thought he was thriving on the newness and the challenges. He had also made sure he was up to date about the war in Chechnya so he could talk to her about the coming mission and what she hoped to achieve. He didn’t ask again about her not going, just told her, ‘Be careful, Lizzie I need you to come back—and preferably in one piece.’
Over the last of their wine, they sat, replete and relaxed, and he took both her hands in his, across the table. ‘So, what about it, Lizzie?’
She looked down at their fingers intertwined on the cloth and didn’t know how to answer.
‘Lizzie, you know what I mean. What about coming out there with me? It would be a different sort of adventure. Just send your resignation, you’ve got so many holidays owing you could walk out now and still fulfil your contract.’
Still, she was silent.
‘Lizzie, I love you, and I want to be with you. Please?’
‘Would we have to get married, Sam? I mean, even if I did it, couldn’t we just go on as we are?’
‘You can come in any guise you like, Lizzie. Just come with me.’
‘What would I do, Sam?’ she asked.
‘You don’t have to do anything. Or you could write that book you’re always talking about. Or you can sit in the sun and let me look after you instead of you looking after other people all the time.’
‘You mean, not have a job?’ Lizzie was startled.
‘You could find work if you want it. I know you could,’ he reassured her.
‘But Sam, my apartment,’ she said, ‘I love my apartment. I’m so safe here. I like my independence. I like my freedom.’
He grinned and sang softly, ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.’
She smiled. They often listened to the old Kris Kristofferson tape while they were driving, sometimes singing along with it at the tops of their voices.
‘That’s my girl,’ Sam said. ‘It would be wonderful, Lizzie. You’d love it. You’d be safe with me but you’d still be you doing whatever you want to do. Just doing it from Asia instead of Europe.’
He paid the bill, they said their goodbyes to the waiters and strolled slowly back to the apartment, picking up his suit bag from the car on the way. That night, he was a gentle, tender lover, and Lizzie was relaxed, almost passive, letting herself be caressed and brought to pleasure. She finally slept curled into his back, at peace with him and with herself
Next morning, he took her to the airport, bought her last renverse for a while, kissed her lovingly and watched her go through to the departures lounge. She liked the way he didn’t hang around. It was always better to just go through and get organised, she thought. She was flying to Moscow where she was to meet up with her interpreter, get some sort of travel documents and fly to Mineralnye Vody. Moscow was bleak, but Lizzie always found Moscow bleak. This time, it was under snow, but even the frosting couldn’t hide the harshness, the dourness of the city. Poverty was always more obvious, more visible every time she came back, and there seemed to be even more beggars, many women, and more desperation in the air. The changes of regime were not improving the lot of many of these people.
The last time Lizzie had been here, she had been attending a meeting and was staying at the hotel attached to the Russian Patriarchate. That had been summer, the city was stifling and airless and the meeting long. Lizzie’s attention had wandered as she listened to the expressionless monotone of the interpretation. The only word she knew in Russian was Spasibo—“thank you”. The people were anxious to please and Lizzie’s heart went out to them as they struggled to find their way in the new order. Many of them greeted her as she came in and out or wandered, finding her way around the endless corridors.
When the meeting finally finished, she scuttled back to her tiny room, stripped off all her clothes and flung herself down on the bed with its thin blanket inside the sheet bag with its funny hole in one side. When Lizzie first saw one of these bags, she had almost tied herself in knots and torn the sheeting because she had thought she was somehow supposed to sleep inside it. After the meeting that time, she had been relaxed, glad that she was flying home the next day, when the telephone had rung. She had answered it but could only make out some of the words. She told friends later that it had sounded like Peter Sellers this time “doing a Russian”. She had stood listening, naked, and eventually had realised that this man, obviously, wanted to come up to her room and see her. Quickly, she had told him she would meet him in the lobby. As she dressed, she had wondered what it could be about, and she had been slightly irritated that her brief rest was being disturbed. When she arrived in the lobby, a man quickly approached her, grabbed both her hands and pulled her down onto a very slippery, very bulgy, very green leather couch. He had been talking rapidly in broken English. Lizzie smiled and nodded until she had realised what was going on.
‘You have cold brain and hot heart, cold brain and hot heart. I see. I know. I watch you all time. Cold brain. Hot heart. Me too. I see. I know. I love you.’
‘What?’ said Lizzie.
The formula had been repeated, but by then Lizzie was backing away along the couch trying to get her hands away from his grip. He followed her. ‘Cold brain.’ Thump on his forehead. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack on his chest. ‘I see. I know. I love you. Cold brain.’ Thump. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack.
Good grief, Lizzie had thought. If he does that to me I’ll either be unconscious or lose my other boob.
She had been, by this time, right at the end of the slippery, green couch leaning as far back as possible so she was more or less pinioned between the fat leather arm and his two thin fierce hands. He kept repeating, ‘Cold brain.’ Thump. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack. ‘I see. I know. I love you.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Lizzie. ‘Spasibo.’
He had clearly taken this for encouragement and had her almost horizontal over the arm of the couch so she felt as though she was in an old Doris Day and Carey Grant movie until, with a shove and a twist, Lizzie had gotten herself free. She had almost slipped to the floor in the process, vaguely aware of black-clothed figures, passing back and forth in the lobby, but no one had seemed to notice the foreign woman being made love to by this whacking, crazy man.
‘Now, you come me. You come me,’ he was insisting.
‘Where?’ said Lizzie as she found her feet.
‘We go Moscow.’
‘We are in Moscow,’ she had said. Shit, he really was crazy.
‘We go Moscow now. You come me. Now. I take you.’
Like hell, mate. ‘Spasibo, Spasibo. But I have much work to do. Much work,’ Lizzie had tried to be polite.
‘Me wait. Me wait. All time. Me wait.’
‘No, Spasibo. Spasibo. But goodbye. Goodbye.’
She had wrenched her hands out of his grip and headed back to her room, She had stayed there until it had been time to go to the airport and, later, she had realised how desperation made people do funny things. He had probably seen her in the meeting, a foreign, middle-aged woman not wearing a wedding ring. Maybe he had thought this might be a chance for him to get out of a way of life that was grinding and soul destroying. Maybe. She had not really known.
This time, she was taken straight from the plane to meet her interpreter, a young man, Gregor, keen to please his bosses and happy to make an international contact. He wore a grey suit and neat shoes for the whole time they were together, even close to the frontline. His only concession to being outside his cubicle office was to put on a thick parka and gloves. Otherwise, mud, snow, rain, he wore the grey suit. He had tickets already booked for them on the flight to Mineralnye Vody and, with a sinking feeling, Lizzie realised that they were flying Aeroflot, not her favourite airline—and this would be a domestic run.
Lizzie had a brief audience with the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, and Gregor received a sheet of paper signed by the Patriarch which apparently gave Lizzie’s name and said in Russian, something like, “We know she is here”.
It was certainly not the official document that Lizzie had been expecting. ‘Will that get us through, Gregor?’ she asked.
‘We have no time to get anything else.’ That was not exactly an answer to her question, but Lizzie had no intention of hanging around Moscow for weeks fighting the tangled web of Russian bureaucracy.
‘OK, let’s go for it,’ she agreed,
The domestic terminal did not cheer her up at all. The snow was slush, the floors inside the halls were awash with mud and the waiting area was freezing cold. When they had finally made it through the gates, they had to enter the plane through the luggage area, dump their bags and climb the stairs to the seating. This was reminiscent of Air Armenia, but Gregor pushed his way quickly to two seats, one next to the window, and defended them against all comers until Lizzie reached him. They waited on the ground for an hour and a half, then there was an announcement.
‘What’s that all about?’ Lizzie asked Gregor.
‘We are not going direct to Mineralnye Vody. We are going first to another place.’
‘What other place?’
‘I did not catch what they said. Anyway, it does not matter. After that we go to Mineralnye Vody.’
‘Any idea how long it will take?’ Lizzie asked, knowing it was a silly question.
‘No, but do not worry, Lizzie. All will be well.’
So she settled back, and eventually they took off, flew for two hours and then landed.
‘So, where are we?’ she asked Gregor.
He shrugged. ‘I am not sure. No matter. All will be well.’
Lizzie was beginning to realise that (a) Gregor had never travelled before, at least never by plane and (b) he was apparently under orders to keep her—and himself—calm.
So be it, she thought. When everyone began to leave the plane, Gregor held back until almost all the passengers had left. Then he disappeared down the back of the passenger area for a while. After a few minutes, he returned. ‘Lizzie, I think it better you stay on the plane. I will bring you something to eat.’
‘Why?’
He said, ‘There will be much security here. You have no proper paper. I think it will be better you stay.’
‘No one else is staying,’ Lizzie pointed out.
‘No. Everyone must leave the plane. It is ordered. But I talk to my friend,’ a gesture to the back of the plane. ‘He agree you stay. Just stretch out and rest. I will return.’
Now why did that have an ominous ring?
Gregor left, and Lizzie made herself as comfortable as she could and settled to try to sleep. It had already been a long, long day. Last night with Sam seemed decades away in another lifetime. She closed her eyes and tried to relax in the cold silence. She was alone for perhaps thirty or forty minutes, then she felt rather than heard a change in the stillness, opened her eyes and looked up to see a soldier standing at the end of the three seats on which she was stretched out. His hands went to his belt as he looked down on her. She heard another movement. He gestured to two other soldiers who came remarkably quickly to join him. He seemed to ask them a question and indicated Lizzie. All three looked around quickly then one moved away to watch the entrance. The first one’s hands started to undo the buckle on his belt. Lizzie was so terrified she really could not move. Anyway, there was no way past them. She was frozen, watching the soldier’s hands. He was grinning. Then, before she had even tried screaming, she heard voices from the lower section. The watcher said something and shook his head. The hands on the buckle were still. The men exchanged comments but by now people were coming up the steps so with a shrug, all three moved back in the plane and disappeared from Lizzie’s view. She was trembling—and not from the cold. She stayed where she was until Gregor came back.
‘All OK?’
She just nodded, still too shaken to speak. What could she say?
Eventually, they landed at Mineralnye Vody and were met by a Russian Orthodox priest and his small, round, black-clad wife. It seemed Lizzie and Gregor were staying the night with couple. The church and its building, including the old couple’s home, and what looked like a communal farm, seemed to spread in all directions, crowded and with bits apparently added haphazardly until the small block of land was covered in wooden buildings.
Gregor and Lizzie were taken to a tiny kitchen where there was hot, thin soup and stale, thick bread waiting for them. They were so hungry that it tasted great. Then Lizzie was shown to a room with a single bed made up against the wall. The wall next to the bed was a gaping hole showing struts and broken plaster and she could look through to the outside walls. On the other side of the room was an icon with a burning red oil lamp suspended in front of it, and there was a shelf with what looked like liturgical paraphernalia. By now, it was quite dark and the only light in the room came from the oil lamp with its red glass throwing diamond shapes to illuminate the icon.
The old lady took Lizzie by the hand and led her through a maze between the buildings until they came to a toilet with a broken washstand. Lizzie turned to say thank you (the inevitable Spasibo) but her hand was hanging loose because the old lady had disappeared into the blackness. Lizzie was quite alone and quite sure that she would spend the rest of her life roaming this maze and may never be found again for decades until someone discovered her skeletal remains in a room that had not been entered by humans since the late 20th century. Was she prone to exaggeration? You bloody bet she was.
However, she made her ablutions, which was a fancy way of saying she used the loo, gave thanks that she had a tissue in her pocket, ran her hands under the trickle of cold water, splashed her face, took a deep breath and decided she might as well attempt the return journey.
Once her eyes grew accustomed to the night, there was some light, and after several wrong turns she, eventually, saw the doorway to her room and recognised the dull red light. Just as she was relaxing and making her way up the three wooden steps, a cat rushed out of the room past her legs. It was all she could do not to scream. Not at the cat, but at the ginormous rat that it held in its mouth. Oh bloody, bloody hell. There were many things that Lizzie could face when she was afraid; but not rats. Ever since she was a little girl, she had hated rats, had been truly afraid of them. Her pulse hammered in her head, her legs went weak, and for a short, ghastly moment, she thought she might faint here in the darkness on the steps. This was not make believe; this was deep fear.
For minutes, she stood holding the frame of the door, unable to move. Then, slowly, she went into the room. How many more would there be? The space between the plaster and the outside walls was probably crawling with them, and her bed was next to the hole. She pulled and pulled, but the bed did not want to move. She was feeling quite frantic when, finally, it responded and, at least, there was a distance of a foot or two between the bed and that gaping piece of blacker blackness. She took off her boots, hoped the icon would offer some protection and cowered under the thin blankets.
It must have been three or four hours later when she realised there was someone in the room. She sat up with her throat too thick to call out then saw the old lady standing beneath the icon with a small bottle of oil, re-filling the lamp. She finished, turned slowly, nodded and slipped out of the room. Unfortunately, Lizzie was wide awake and, once again, conscious of the possibility of rats. Shit, what a night.
The next morning, there was more thin soup and bread, and Lizzie realised that these people were sharing what they had, although it was very little. She had come with US dollars and was expecting to hire a car to take them to Mozdok, just outside the border of Chechnya. She had been told it would be expensive, but assumed that after some negotiating they would find someone to take them. Wrong. The priest and his wife talked loudly to Gregor with much shaking of heads and waving of hands.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Lizzie.
Gregor said, ‘They say it is too dangerous. We must not go by road. There are bandits running wild. Anyone who would take us is not to be trusted.’
‘Is there a chance that they’re exaggerating? Maybe they’re very nervous?’
Gregor spoke again, and the conversation seemed even more forceful. ‘They are very definite. It is too dangerous.’
Lizzie could see that Gregor was convinced by the old couple, and it would be stupid to push the point. ‘But how do we get to Mozdok?’
‘There is a train,’ said Gregor. ‘They will take us to the station and help us with the tickets.’
‘Will there be a problem with the tickets?’
‘Not with the tickets, Lizzie,’ he replied. ‘The problem will be with you. You must not speak. They are nervous about what might happen if you are noticed.’
The old lady must have been following the gist of this because she put her finger to her lips, obviously cautioning Lizzie. Blimey, how often in this job did she have to be invisible?
‘OK. How much is the train? How long does it take?’ Gregor asked the questions.
This time, their hosts were pleased. Lizzie felt like a schoolchild who was “being good”.
‘It will take some hours—maybe three, maybe five. It costs the same as US five cents each.’
So Lizzie was not expecting first class travel, which was just as well. They were taken to the station and waited while the tickets were bought and inspected. By now, Lizzie was wearing a long skirt over thick tights tucked into her boots, and she had a warm jumper under a big long coat, some woollen gloves and a scarf tied around her head. She was carrying one small bag—and her camera bag.
The old lady approached and took the camera bag, shaking her head. Lizzie got the message. She put spare film and batteries into her pockets and hooked the camera over her arm under the coat. The old lady still seemed anxious but Lizzie made it clear she had to take the camera. Then they were led to the platform, and Lizzie was touched when the old lady gave her a hug and patted the side of her face tenderly. She understood without Gregor’s help the blessing for her safe journey.
The old couple left, and Lizzie and Gregor waited in silence. This was to be the first of several railway stations where they would see people sitting, waiting or just seeming abandoned with a collection of bags and belongings. There were two women, perhaps mother and daughter, sitting on piles of plastic bags stuffed with personal belongings. It seemed they had been there overnight, perhaps longer. They were absolutely still and silent, and once again, Lizzie saw that look of women gazing into space at something Lizzie could not see. The older woman let tears run down her cheeks. They were holding hands.
When at last the train arrived, Gregor found them seats in a carriage made of old wooden benches with stiff backs facing each other, and Lizzie was able to observe some of their fellow passengers. Most were women with a sense of shared sorrow as they headed back towards the conflict zone in search of friends or family or just because that was home. There was a pretty, young woman (maybe early twenties) and on her face was a fading yellow bruise. She cowered in a corner scat. When the conductor asked for her ticket, she was trembling as she searched for a piece of paper, presumably authorising her travel.
Later, an older woman sat opposite her, they began to talk, and as the young woman was quietly crying and still trembling, the older woman sat for a long time with the young one’s hand clasped in both of hers.
Two others, Valya and Tanja, introduced themselves, and Gregor dealt with Lizzie’s silence somehow. They were travelling together on the train from Mineralnye Vody. They had met in Mozdok some weeks earlier when they were both registering as refugees. Tanja was tense, making an effort to maintain control of her emotions while Valya seemed more at ease, yet it was she who gradually broke into tears. When Valya finally did cry, Tanja slipped her hand under her friend’s arm and held her, but looked away and kept her own face emotionless. Valya lived in Grozny with her son, daughter and her husband who had been a member of the Evangelical Church and did not believe in taking up arms but he was killed in a bombing attack. She had had her own house with three rooms and a kitchen.
She explained that when her husband was killed, a friend had said, ‘Why are you still here? You must go. It is dangerous.’ So she left, with her two children. They moved with Russian soldiers in an empty truck then Chechen forces took them to Mozdok. They were probably forces opposed to the Chechen leader, but she neither knew nor cared. She left her home on Monday. She heard that on Tuesday it was bombed and destroyed. There were places to register then they must either go to friends or they were assisted to travel to other places in Russia. These were places the women described as “impossible to live” mostly former collective villages which had “died” where there was no work and the houses were uninhabitable.
So Valya was still moving. She had moved from one friend to another. She was on the train going to find yet another friend to ask if she and her children could stay for a few days. ‘I have to be strong for my children. I have to think about them. I don’t want to leave them psychologically hurt. I must try to find strength. I must find friends. I must take care of us.’
Tanja had a son but no husband. She had lived on the outskirts of Grozny. Her son left with relatives but she stayed until there was lots of bombing and she finally left with Russian troops. She had nowhere else to go, so, recently, when she had heard that her house was still standing she had decided to find out if there was any way to go back.
About the war? ‘Both sides are not right! Many people have died. That is not the end of it. Many people have not been buried, and there will be illness. Many bodies are just there with no burying. People try to cover the bodies—burying them in the gardens but it is difficult. There will be much illness with bodies scarcely under the ground.’
Tanja was worried about friends and neighbours who might still be in Chechnya. She had many Chechen friends. Chechen or not, that did not matter as she received help from both groups.
Along the way, Lizzie saw railway carriages affording temporary accommodation for refugees and, yet again, was amazed at the strength of people evident in small signs of people trying to make them “home”. A red skirt was being used as a curtain in one dilapidated carriage, and blue and yellow ribbons hung in another window. A goods train went by with trucks carrying temporary housing, painted the blue that Lizzie had often seen on shutters and doors of Russian houses.
It was late in the afternoon when they arrived in town close to the border with Chechnya. It was the site of military headquarters for the Russian forces and the first stopping point for refugees coming out of Chechnya. The refugees received 20,000 rubbles (the cost of a kilo of butter) and a voucher for one meal. Many people continued their journeys to find relatives or friends in other places but some were taken in by local families who received no assistance, and resources were quickly strained. Here, Lizzie’s contact was another priest and his family, but it took a while before she and Gregor could find the church and another hour to follow the directions to the house. The streets were grey and poor with few signs of individuality about the houses which shuffled together in the dust and grime. It seemed a strong contrast, the drabness of the town and the exotic, brilliant colours and gold in the churches. Perhaps people’s souls always searched for something bright and beautiful.
Father Alexander, his wife Tatiana, their two sons and three daughters lived in a tiny house that was warm and cosy with cooking smells when Lizzie and Gregor arrived. They were welcomed and made to sit at the crowded table on two more chairs found somewhere outside and shared more soup and a delicious carrot salad. It seemed Lizzie was to have the spare bed and Gregor got the couch. A true feminist might have objected, but Lizzie just looked sympathetically at Gregor and headed for bed.
For the next two days, they visited and spoke to the people in the little town, where many refugees were transiting and some were stuck with nowhere to go except the spare railway carriages. Gregor helped as she listened to them tell their stories. Elisaveta was 82 years old. She had been taken in by a local family. She said, ’I was married to a Greek but I am Russian. I lived and worked in Grozny for 60 years until 1964 when I retired. My husband died in 1976, and I became alone. But I was so used to living in Grozny, I had my flat and my garden, that I did not move anywhere. I had very good relations with my Chechen neighbours. I did not receive any salary for pensioners, so I sat with the Chechen children of my neighbours and I sewed for them. The children loved me, and I loved them. When it all started, I had no place to go so I stayed but most of the Chechens went to the countryside, and I was alone in my building. But there is no building now. One bomb came through one window and out another window when I was in my bed…I did not move. I was so afraid. Then five military came into my room. They said, “It is fire, grandmother. It is necessary to run—you have to be quick!” They took the sheet from the bed and put me in the sheet. There was something from the bomb in my arm so they put me in an armoured car. I was so afraid because that car was full of terrible weapons but they took me to hospital. Now I do not know where to go.’
Many people were afraid. There were stories of soldiers being drunk, running wild and shooting in the streets, and Lizzie heard gunfire in the early hours. When Lizzie and Gregor visited the railway carriage accommodation, they saw up to five or six people sharing each small compartment. Some were alone. Others clung to children or parents. A very old man and a twelve-year-old girl each were staying alone, with no idea of where else to go. The girl said she was scared. The old man seemed bewildered. A family of grandmother, mother and girl-child was waiting “until we can go home” because they had heard that their house had been bombed but not completely destroyed, so meanwhile, they lived without gas, electricity or food.
One family group consisted of grandmother, mother, eight-year-old son and twin boys aged four years, and they all had to share one compartment. They had lived on the run for nearly a month and spoke to Lizzie about the impact of the war on the children: ‘They are not children anymore. They are like little animals. At night, they are frightened and shake under their blankets, and they don’t want to hear Russian stories for children—all they ask is for stories about the war. Yesterday was the first time they sang a children’s song and I saw them smile.’
One old lady was alone, packing her belongings into plastic bags, and she seemed very confused about what was happening around her. She kept repeating, ‘I am Armenian. I am Armenian. I am Armenian.’
Later, Lizzie saw her sitting by herself at a bus shelter clutching her bags, quietly crying.
After two days, Lizzie asked for help to get a car into Chechnya itself and realised that now that he was actually so close to the conflict area, Gregor was definitely nervous. After all, he was a Russian going into a battle zone where even his compatriots in the army did not want to be. The Moscow Times had been reporting that up to fifty percent of the ill-equipped and often unpaid soldiers were deserting, and the roads were full of mothers searching for their sons who had been reported “missing”. Lizzie would see the women trudging along the streets, asking passing soldiers if they knew their sons. Many of the women had nothing with them except their handbags over their arms, but in the bleak, cold days, they kept searching.
However, Lizzie could not stay outside the border if she were to see what was happening in Chechnya itself, so she needed a car and a driver. When he realised she was going to persist, Gregor turned again to Father Alex and there was more attempting to dissuade her, but again, Lizzie insisted.
Then, late on the night before she wanted to leave, Father Alex brought a man to see her. ‘He has a van,’ said Gregor. ‘He will take us, but it will be expensive.’ There was some haggling but the man agreed to pick them up the next day at the crack of dawn. Lizzie was not really sure he would turn up but at five o’clock he was there. He was a Chechen who had fled Grozny so he knew the way although he was not happy to be going back into the conflict zone. Lizzie realised that he must be desperate for the US dollars she would pay him.
‘Tell him half now and the other half from Father Alex when we get back,’ she said to Gregor. It would be too dangerous to travel with all their dollars. The man scowled. Lizzie smiled, trying to be understanding until it was agreed they would go as close to Grozny as possible,
It was a long difficult drive as roads were almost impassable for civilian vehicles, and there were frequent military roadblocks where papers and documents were checked. Along the way, they picked up several groups from the constant flow of women travelling in the area. Again, most clutched handbags with nothing else as they just stood by the side of the road getting lifts wherever possible. They picked up two women along the road before they came to the border of Chechnya who said their sons were Russian soldiers who had known each other for years. They had both received telegrams telling them that their sons had deserted, but when they investigated, they heard the boys had been sent to Chechnya, and they were afraid the boys were dead or injured. Each time Lizzie’s van passed soldiers, the two women asked for it to stop so they could get out to ask if anyone had heard of their boys. Lizzie left them standing together just before the Chechen border.
As it approached the border, the van was stopped for a moment. In front of the van, a tank was pulled off the road, and as they paused, Lizzie saw a soldier (not a young man) who had walked away from the tank. He was cleaning a knife or bayonet, and there were tears streaming down his face.
Once they were inside Chechnya, they arrived at the headquarters of the Chechen opposition where a hundred or more people were waiting inside and outside a building. Lizzie and Gregor pushed their way into a crowded office and cornered an official who said, ‘This war has touched everyone. Local people understand what it is to be a refugee so they offer their help freely.’
He continued, ‘There are many women trying to go back to Grozny to find their homes. They keep trying but it is not organised. It is not possible now.’
Two women broke in angrily, ‘Our troubles are because of Russian soldiers. They set fire to our houses. They come to the cellars and make us take off our earrings, our rings, anything gold or silver. They take it all. We receive only trouble from the soldiers of everyone. We need financial help. There is not enough medicine. We, two, we are Russian and Chechen woman. We don’t see any point of it at all.’ One repeated, ‘I don’t see it!’
As things calmed down, Lizzie and Gregor climbed back into the van and continued towards Grozny approximately another hundred kilometres. Roads were churned-up mud and only the skill of the driver kept the van upright and moving, past convoys of Russian vehicles, including armoured cars and tanks, all heavily loaded with equipment.
Gregor and the driver were anxious when Lizzie quickly hung out of the window to get some photos—anxious that the soldiers would see her and stop to ask questions. They picked up four Chechen women who were trying to get back to Grozny to see what was left of their homes. They all complained bitterly about the lack of humanitarian aid and said that what aid was coming into the region was not reaching “the people who need it”. They spoke of people who were supposed to be distributing: ‘They keep it for themselves. Sometimes they sell it. Sometimes it goes only to their friends.’
Some hours later, when they approached the edge of Grozny, the sound of shelling increased and became constant. Lizzie saw a crowd around the steps of a building in the centre of town, so she left the van, grabbed Gregor to go with her and moved to talk to them. As she picked her way through the deep mud, a car with six men, all heavily armed, stopped. She could see she was being scrutinised and tried to look as inoffensive as possible but one man got out and spotted her camera, then spoke to the others, and it was clear that they were not happy. Rapidly, Lizzie and Gregor were ordered to continue on the road and report to “headquarters” with a young man told to go with them in the van to direct them and the car following behind as extra insurance that they did as they were told. They arrived at a heavily guarded compound with a high fence, their papers were taken, and they were told to wait. Several soldiers came at intervals, questioning their identity and purpose.
The shelling was very loud and sounded quite close, but Gregor said it was two kilometres away in Grozny. As they waited and the shelling continued and armed soldiers went in and out, Lizzie saw an old lady across the road sweeping her garden path, gathering all the debris and tidying outside what was left of her house. In the middle of all the chaos, that woman would ensure the patch of her world under her control was neat and tidy. A small child sat still and quiet, watching Lizzie, who noticed that the little girl was wearing a pair of large military boots. She had a scarf about her head and her hands were pushed deep into the pockets of her jacket. Her face was devoid of expression as she just sat alone and watched in the noise of the shelling.
Eventually, Lizzie and Gregor were ordered into the compound, and the driver was told to stay by the van although he was not allowed to sit in it. They left him, recognising his relief but knowing he would be very cold. There were many soldiers inside the fenced area, not all in full uniform, but well clothed with many wearing vests adorned with the ubiquitous grenades. Weapons seemed modern and in good condition. Lizzie was told that this was the headquarters of one of the commanders, a leader of the Chechen military forces. She and Gregor were taken into a room, with no windows and with two heavy chairs and a couch covered in carpets.
While they had been waiting outside, one of their questioners had been a stocky, powerfully built man with pale, pale blue eyes. This was noticeable in a country where brown eyes looked at them everywhere. He was in uniform with a Kalashnikov—at least Lizzie assumed that’s what it was as she never could identify guns with any certainty. He had looked very closely at Lizzie and then smiled as he spoke to Gregor who then interpreted.
‘He says he knows you.’
‘What? How? Where from?’
There was another exchange. ‘He says he met you in a bar in Grozny,’ Gregor grinned.
‘Then I suspect he is mistaken, Gregor. I have never been in this part of the world before in my life.’
‘You do not meet soldiers in bars, Lizzie?’
‘Gregor, wipe that smirk off your face and tell this very nice gentleman that, no, I have not met him in any bar.’
It had helped to relieve the tension as Gregor, Blue Eyes and the driver of the van obviously continued speculating at Lizzie’s expense.
Now, it was Blue Eyes standing with his hands on his gun as they waited in the windowless room. An interior door opened, and two men carried in a television set, placed it on a side table and left. Lizzie, Gregor and Blue Eyes waited again until the same door opened, and in came the man Lizzie, who had watched too many bad movies, immediately titled Mr Warlord. He was well over six feet tall, in impeccable fatigues with brass gleaming all over it. His head was shaved, he wore a gold necklace, several gold rings and, of course, the requisite grenades. To complete the picture, he was wearing shades—heavy dark sunglasses—in this poorly lit room.
Blue Eyes introduced “the General”. Before Lizzie could catch her breath, the General was followed into the room by “Madame Lash”, the stereotype of every sadomasochistic fantasy Lizzie had n/ever seen. She was dressed entirely in black leather: black leather jacket, black leather miniskirt, black leather boots that came over her knees. Her dark hair was pulled back so tightly that it dragged her mouth into a very straight line. Her eyes were outlined in heavy, dramatic black makeup, and she had a video camera over her shoulder. Lizzie looked at all three: Mr Warlord, Blue Eyes and Madame Lash and could have giggled because this was Monty Python Goes To War, but she contained her hysteria when she realised that poor Gregor was absolutely terrified. It was up to her to break the ice, she supposed.
Mr Warlord looked in her direction. Reverend Mother, in all those lessons on etiquette, you never did teach me how to greet a warlord. Do I curtsy or salute?
She stuck her hand out and said, ‘Hello, I’m Lizzie.’ Not the most brilliant opening but what the hell, it was all she could think to say. Mr Warlord looked down from his great height and slowly, ever so slowly lifted his hand to shake hers. Then, also slowly, he was very conscious of his dignity, this warlord he sat on the carpet covered couch and motioned to Lizzie and Gregor to take the two wooden chairs. Blue Eyes sat on another wooden chair with his gun, ever so casually, pointing at Lizzie. Madame Lash started the video camera and it too, was pointing at Lizzie, whose ever-fertile imagination jumped to a conclusion.
‘Hostages,’ she shrieked silently to herself. Bloody hell, we’re being taken hostage. They will send back our ears or fingers. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Gregor had obviously thought of something equally theatrical. It was a scene that fostered theatrics. He started to gobble, ‘What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?’ Clearly, this was no time for strict honesty.
‘Tell the general’, said Lizzie, ‘that I am honoured to meet him because I have heard so much about his courage and his care for the people.’
Gregor snapped onto automatic pilot and began relaying the message so Lizzie continued, ‘Tell him I am here to take a message from him back to the outside world, to the United Nations and to the leaders of all the great religions.’ Nothing venture, she figured. Just in case he really was thinking of hostages, she would give him a reason for letting her go. Apart from Gregor’s voice, the only noise in the room was the video camera. Blue Eyes and Mr Warlord were absolutely immobile, and when Gregor stopped, the silence seemed to last forever.
Lizzie broke it again, taking out her pen and pad. ‘Does he have a message for the world?’
Well, it seemed he did have a message. For an hour or more, he talked, Gregor interpreted, Lizzie wrote, Blue Eyes watched and Madame Lash filmed. Was there any film in that bloody camera? Somewhere in the process or in Mr Warlord’s mind the message became a load of rubbish, incoherent gobbledegook. Once Lizzie interrupted with a question but the frozen reaction was so hostile that she quickly apologised. This was clearly an audience, not an interview. One part of Lizzie’s mind kept threatening to make her laugh out loud, but, probably fortunately, her instinct for survival kept it controlled and her face serious and, she hoped, suitable impressed with this bullshit.
Finally, the stream dried up. Mr Warlord stood and stretched. Blue Eyes stood too, but the gun was still looking Lizzie’s way. Gregor was desperate to say their good byes and was offering thanks as obsequiously as possible.
Then Lizzie thought, In for a penny, in for a pound… And she said to Gregor, ‘Will you ask if I may take a photo?’
‘No, Lizzie. We go now; quickly.’
‘Gregor, ask if I may take a photo,’ she insisted.
Mr Warlord seemed quite chuffed, as Lizzie had guessed he would be. She motioned to the light and the door and walked ahead. He posed, really posed in the day light. When she pointed, he lifted the shades and wore them on his shaved dome. Then, for a giggle and the family album, Lizzie set the camera and handed it to Gregor. ‘Take one of me with him,’ she said.
Blue Eyes was watching closely, and Lizzie was pretty sure he was brighter than his boss. She stood solemnly beside Mr Warlord, and Gregor clicked the camera. Now, Blue Eyes had had enough. He spoke to Gregor quite roughly and pointed to the gate with the barrel of his gun.
‘He says we must go now and we must go quickly, Lizzie. We must not stop anywhere, but go straight to the border. If we are too slow, we may not reach it. I think he is threatening us, Lizzie.’
‘OK, we’re done. Let’s go, Gregor.’
They scuttled out past the watching soldier, climbed into the van where the driver was being watched by two guards and set off for home. The shelling continued, and at one point, Russian forces were attacking a local airport. Evening was approaching, and again there were numerous Russian convoys on the road but these trucks were empty. It was perhaps not surprising that when they made it out of Chechnya, well after dark, the driver wanted more than the negotiated amount. On the way back, he and Gregor had been talking to each other, looking at Lizzie and signalling “loco”. They had both been very unhappy when she made them stop to talk to some of the Russian soldiers and to take a look at the massive weapons they were firing. Once they were safe, she felt their fear had turned to anger, anger at Lizzie. She paid him the extra money.
Early the next morning, she and Gregor visited the Russian army camp and saw the military in appalling conditions. The hospital tent set up as a surgery was splattered with mud. There were bloody cloths and swabs spilling over the sides of buckets. The men, even in their uniforms, were huddled together, obviously freezing. There was nothing very glorious about any of it. They were to lunch with Father Alex and his family, take their train back, spend one more night with the rats and the icon, then fly to Moscow, stay one night and fly home.
Lizzie was tired; there had been too much sadness again. Gregor was being quite surly. She felt this was probably just reaction from his first time in a conflict zone, but he was behaving like an adolescent who had lost face. When they arrived at Father Alex’s house, she was surprised to find that they were eating lunch in a room she had not seen, quite a formal dining room. On either side of the table were long seats covered with beautiful tapestry cushions. There was a lace cloth, and Father Alex had the most ginormous bottle of something in his hands. It turned out to be locally brewed, rotgut vodka that was more “proof” than would be legal in any country or any laboratory for that matter.
Lizzie’s heart sank. She hated vodka, and anyway, she was still the cheapest drunk in the world, especially when it came to spirits. Before lunch was served, the glasses were filled and a toast made “for peace”. Everyone downed their drinks in one go, and Lizzie felt bound to follow suit before turning her glass over to indicate she would not have any more. Some hope. It was turned right way up amidst lots of laughing and loud talk.
‘To Russia.’
Here goes nothing. Lizzie tried to toss it back with some sort of style, meaning without choking and spluttering.
‘To brothers and sisters in Chechnya.’
This time, she pleaded with Gregor, ‘Gregor, please explain that I cannot drink so much vodka?’
‘It will be an insult, Lizzie,’ he said. Was there a glint of enjoyment in this boyo’s eyes as he pointed to her glass? Could this be some sort of revenge?
After this third toast, Lizzie was getting fairly desperate for food, and fortunately, Tatiana began serving a stew and more of the delicious carrot salad. Unfortunately, Father Alex was on his feet again, ‘To Mother Tatiana.’ Bloody hell, four straight vodkas. Number five was coming. ‘To Father Alex.’ Then, ‘To Lizzie,’ made six. By now, she was definitely unwell. She was sweating, and she knew the spins were on their way. ‘To our sons.’
‘Please, Gregor, I really can’t. I think I will die.’
The Russian version of her plea brought laughter and another bottle of vodka. Sure enough, the room began to move. Lizzie was cold and she was burning up. ‘Oh hell,’ she groaned. ‘I’m gone.’ She pushed in the general direction of one of Father Alex’s sons who was sitting next to her, and then she fell on top of him in total misery. The room went round and round and round.
I’m going to die, she thought. Or did she say it? She didn’t know. ’Leave me here, I’m going to die.’ And the room went round and round. Let me sleep or let me die. Oh hell, I feel dreadful. She may have been talking or she may have been dreaming. Her mouth was not working properly. What had happened to her lips? Where had they had gone? Then she felt a churning in her stomach. And in her bowels.
‘Get me to the toilet. Please Gregor, get me to the toilet. Quickly.’
Did he hear her? Did he understand? It was urgent. Very urgent. She could feel her stomach retching. And the room went round and round. Then she knew she was out in fresh air, still sweating but freezing as she fell up the rough step and recognised a toilet. The next minutes were not pretty.
Someone was calling her name. She became aware of it. Someone was banging on a door somewhere. She couldn’t move. She was going to stay here forever. The calling continued. So did the banging. It was somewhere very close. Something about a train.
What train? You mean the train back to the rats? I’m not going. I shall stay here. It is enough now. I do not feel very well, you understand. I do not like that train and I do not want to sleep with the rats. Not ever again. No. No train. No rats. I am going to stay here, thank you. Spasibo.
There was a lot of light coming into where she sat. Who are you? Mother Tatiana? Why are you making me stand up? I do not want to walk outside. No, thank you. Actually, Mother Tatiana, I don’t think I am very well. And what is that foul smell? Oh no, I have vomited. It’s on my clothes. Oh shit, how embarrassing. Oh, Mother Tatiana I am sorry, so sorry. I do not feel good. In fact, I feel like shit. I smell. These two young men are walking me along the street between them. Am I walking? I cannot feel the ground, Ugh. That smell. It’s going to make me sick. Let go my arms. I am going to be sick again. See. See. I told you to let me go. I don’t care about the train. I do not ever want to get on that train again. It’s too sad. Too sad, do you hear? All those people, all crying, all frightened. Too sad. No more. No more. I told you, it is enough now. Make it better, Lizzie, make it better. Can’t. Too sad too much sadness. Goodbye, Father Alex. Goodbye, Mother Tatiana. Sorry. So sorry. Nice boys. Good to help me. Sorry I was sick on you. Smells bad. Smells very bad. I smell bad. How embarrassing. I am so embarrassed. So sorry. Gregor, are you there? I must sit here? Yes, sit here. I think I’m going to sleep now, Gregor. Dreadful smell.
When she woke, she was acutely aware of the smell and had slept long enough to realise how badly she had behaved. ‘Oh Gregor, I am so sorry. Whatever must they think of me? Oh hell,’ she groaned.
‘Is OK, Lizzie. Is OK.’ He took her hands in one of his and began wiping her face with a wet hanky with the other hand.
She submitted like a child, holding her face up to be cleaned.
‘Is OK, Lizzie. Everyone understand. Is OK now.’
She began to cry. She felt so tired, so embarrassed and suddenly so sad, so dreadfully sad. Gregor wiped her tears, gave her the wet hanky to blow her nose, put her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Is OK, Lizzie. You do a good job. Now sleep until we arrive.’
She had only a dim awareness of the train stopping and Gregor finding some sort of taxi to take them back to the church compound. She did realise that when she was helped out of her coat and boots and put under blankets that there was something she had to do. She could not go to sleep. She had to do something. Then she heard Gregor’s voice. ‘We must move the bed away from wall.’ That was it. Bless you Gregor. No rats. Bless you.
By morning, her clothes had been sponged, and she was able to face the world most shamefacedly. ‘Gregor, I just don’t know how to apologise.’
‘Do not worry, Lizzie. You needed good vodka. It helped you after the sadness. Everyone react differently. You were strong. You needed vodka to let you be sad.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever, ever touch vodka again, Gregor.’
‘No,’ he grinned before adding seriously, ‘But you must find something to help with all the sadness. It is not OK to keep it all inside. Sometimes, Lizzie, you can be sad or scared. It is OK. Father Alex and Mother Tatiana knew that. Sometimes is OK to be sad and scared. Trust yourself Lizzie.’
He gave her a quick hug, and they set off for the airport and the flight back to Moscow. Lizzie had recovered sufficiently to finish most of her report during the long hours of flight and delays, but by the time she walked out through customs at Geneva, she was totally despondent. She was also incredibly tired and she was afraid she could get teary very easily. Probably, the effect of all that bloody vodka.
Maybe/Maybe Not
She came out past customs, looked around, and there was Sam with a big bouquet of beautiful, yellow roses. She stood still, and he walked to her and just put his arms around her, and she did start to cry. For absolutely no reason at all. He just held her and patted her back. Then, as Gregor had done, he wiped her eyes and gave her his hanky to blow her nose. Twice in two days, Lizzie. Or how many days? How long since she had been on that train, smelling of vomit and feeling overwhelmed by the sadness of it all? Another world.
Sam tucked her into the car and slid behind the wheel, ‘Now, my love, I am in charge. OK?’
‘Sounds good to me, Sam,’ she said as she relaxed back and closed her eyes.
‘You are going home to bed but before you collapse, there is dinner ready and waiting. In the morning, you will pack your prettiest, sexiest things and we are going away. Did you book anywhere? If not, your humble servant will do so.’
‘Yes. I did. I booked us into the Grand Hôtel des Bains at Yverdon. Is that OK?’ she asked.
‘You are not just clever and beautiful—although I’ve seen you looking better than you do at the moment—you are also efficient. And I love you.’
‘Oh,’ she said and started to cry all over again.
Sam was as good as his word. There was a light, elegant warm chicken salad, a fresh baguette, grapes and cold white wine organised while Lizzie took a shower and washed her hair. Then he let her talk while they ate, asking a few questions here and there, but really just listening. When she had eaten and she could feel the tears coming again, he took her by the hand and put her into bed, lay beside her, holding her until she slept.
It was nearly ten the next morning when she blinked herself awake and smiled to see her beautiful rose and turquoise silk carpet on the wall just catching a sunlight. She stretched lazily beneath the fresh linen and the light warmth of the duvet. Then she remembered something of the last few days and could feel a creeping emptiness.
‘Good morning, Boozy Face,’ said Sam from the doorway. ‘If you really are awake, you can move that gorgeous but lazy body of yours. I’ve unpacked the charming and interestingly perfumed load of rags you brought home, so now you need to put some frillies together and let me take you away from all “Zis”.’ The day was good again, and Lizzie was soon ready to lock the apartment, put their bags in the car and head to Ruth’s for coffee, croissants and drive by the office so Lizzie could drop off the report.
They drove easily to Yverdon, taking the lake road where possible. It was one of Geneva’s opalescent winter days, all sheeny and full of lustrous glow without any sharpness or brilliance.
The Grand Hôtel des Bains was one of Lizzie’s favourite places, an old hotel that lived up to its name. The grounds were not large but were impeccably maintained; the foyer was enormous with a double, curved, marble staircase sweeping up to the dining room from either side. A porter quietly took their bags and led them to the lift and their room. Lizzie had booked a double room, but they were shown into a suite where there was a huge bouquet of roses and an ice bucket with champagne. The carpets were deep and soft, and there were two fluffy white towelling dressing gowns laid out on the bed. Lizzie looked at Sam, who grinned as he tipped the porter and closed the door.
He eyed her and said, ‘You are not the only one who can organise lovely places. Of course, it was easier for me—one telephone call and voila. Like it?’
‘Like it? Like all this decadence and disgusting, capitalistic luxury? I love it. I love it.’
She fell back on the bed, bouncing slightly in sheer delight. He joined her, and the champagne waited a while.
When she was sitting up in bed wrapped in the fluffy dressing gown, Sam brought two glasses and said, ‘I think this deserves a toast.’
‘Oh no,’ squawked Lizzie. ‘No more toasts. I can’t. I can’t.’
‘Then you can’t have the champagne, Madame. What did those Ruskies have that I haven’t got?’
‘Rotgut vodka. That’s what they had. But I’d love some champers, so, go ahead, propose your toast,’ she said.
He gave her the glass, kissed her shoulder under the towelling dressing gown, looked serious and said, ‘To Lizzie and Sam and Thailand and Happy Ever Afters. Will you drink to that Lizzie?’
She looked at him, thought of his loving and caring and said, ‘I’ll drink to something like that, Sam.’
‘That’s good enough for now. I’ll talk details to you later. That’s a promise,’ he said.
‘Or a threat?’ countered Lizzie.
‘Drink your champagne, woman. And don’t get stroppy. I like you better when you are tearful and weak like those old-fashioned genteel drones in the movies.’
‘Well, don’t expect that too often,’ said Lizzie.
‘I do declare, the lady’s feeling more herself,’ he grinned. ‘Shall we bathe when we have finished this bottle of fancy stuff? Or shall we try the bed again?’
‘Oh, sir, I think we should bathe,’ Lizzie said, trying to ape Scarlet O’Hara and failing completely. ‘But first, I’ll have another drink—but, only one more. I have had a nasty lesson about the perils of alcohol, and I’m not going to behave like that again, for a while.’
They lazed back on the pillows, sipping the cold champagne, and Lizzie enjoyed the deep gold of the roses on the mahogany table in the centre of the adjoining room. They were framed by the connecting door, soft green wallpaper and the dark forest shade of the lush carpet. Without meaning to, she drifted off to sleep, propped against Sam’s shoulder and the soft pillows. She woke later to find she had been covered with the light duvet, and Sam was sitting quietly watching her.
‘Goodness, how long did I sleep?’ she asked.
‘About two hours,’ he replied.
‘My dear man, I’m sorry. It must have been the champagne.’
‘The exercise may have helped,’ he said with a grin. ‘Stay where you are for a while. I’ll just go down and organise a table for dinner. I didn’t want to leave in case you woke up and wondered where I’d gone.’
‘Thank you, Sam. You are very good to me.’
‘I try to be. I’d like to take care of you properly…but I promise not to overdo it,’ he added from the doorway.
Lizzie relaxed and found she was smiling. It was so good to feel safe enough to go to sleep with him and to wake up smiling.
She remembered one other sleep like that in Samoa just after she had finished chemotherapy. She was visiting a village that was straight out of a story book, each house a roof supported by posts, open to the breeze from the sea, the beach of gleaming white sand and coral, the water soft and gentle until it reached the reef where foam topped waves crashed and banged as they tried to get into the calmness. Lizzie had met Helen, a woman with the strong, impressive beauty of many of the islanders, at a conference in Melbourne. They had not made friends quickly. Helen later explained that she found Australians in general very racist, and Lizzie then understood something of the reason why this chief who was also a government minister in the Samoan Parliament held herself aloof. But they did become friends. When Lizzie was at her lowest, Helen and other Islander friends had sent messages of love and care, and Helen had added in a letter, Lizzie, if you need somewhere to just be, somewhere to be cared for, come to us. The village is peaceful and we would care for you, no matter what the outcome. In our place both life and death are natural and can be beautiful.
When Lizzie was recovering and the house was being sold away from her, she did visit the village at the end of a meeting in Apia. She had been tired and dispirited. Helen left her to wander, swim and talk to the children who brought Lizzie bits of coral. In front of Helen’s home, which was at the edge of the sand, there was a fresh water spring so that after swimming, Lizzie could splash away the salt. She ate fresh raw, white fish marinated in coconut milk with onions and tomatoes. A young man brought her a coconut, topped open so she could drink easily and eat the soft, clear flesh. Then some of the other village women came to sit cross-legged in the shade and the breeze. They wore brightly flowered cotton wraps, and Lizzie had been presented with one to wear over her bathers and a flower was put behind her ear. As they talked, Lizzie could feel herself growing drowsy. One woman spread a mat. These people were famous throughout the Pacific for their weaving because some mats were as fine as linen and draped superbly. The women motioned to Lizzie to stretch out and rest, and it was hours later when she awoke to find them sitting in a circle all around her as if mounting guard or protecting her. She was covered with a cloth of sea green with huge yellow flowers and they had been the colours of Samoa for her ever since that healing sleep.
Sam seemed to be healing for her too, and it was nice, for a while, to let someone do the looking after, the nurturing. When he returned, they put on their bathers and their dressing gowns and, barefoot, they padded along to the lift which took them down to the baths. They entered through a small room entirely tiled in white, with a clear fountain surrounded by tiles painted with curving vines and fleur-de-lis. On a shelf were piles of warm, soft towels. They showered quickly then stepped into the shallow passage of water that took them out through a heavy plastic opening so that by the time they were in the cold, open air, they were covered by the warm, scented water of the bath. The contrast of the temperatures was, literally, breath taking. In the distant were snow-capped mountains, and the day was pearl grey against the black figures of the watching winter trees. Yet, they could swim and watch the sky, even, sometimes, feel the rain or snow on their faces. They swam together slowly; only twenty minutes at a time was recommended.
When Lizzie lazed on the underwater seat near the jets that massaged her back, Sam came in front of her, putting his arms either side so she was caught in the circle of him. He kissed her softly on the lips and then slid down to kiss her neck, shoulders and patted the “bump” that registered no physical sensation for Lizzie.
‘Hello, Booby,’ he said. ‘I’m quite fond of this little one, you know, Lizzie. She makes you less invincible, more vulnerable, not quite so “everything must be perfect”, madam, in control.’
Lizzie was remembering a nurse who had said, ‘Bye. Bye, Booby.’
‘Why do you like me vulnerable, Sam?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you like me strong?’
‘I like you all ways, Lizzie,’ he said seriously, ‘but there is something appealing about vulnerability. You know, makes me feel like a caveman. Yaargs!’
She was ducked under the water, and they came up together laughing and spluttering. He added seriously, ‘We all feel vulnerable sometimes, Lizzie, and it would be good to be able to share that feeling.’
They swam again before dinner, each time stripping off, wrapping themselves in the warm towels and dressing gowns and wandering back to the suite. Sam had organised for a fire to be lit, and they lay together watching the flames until it was time to dress. Lizzie slowly washed and dried her hair, repaired her Chechnya damaged nails and put on a plain, long, white dress that was one of her favourites. Usually, she wore it with a blazer, for work dinners, but tonight she used a turquoise silk wrap she had bought in Delhi. She loved the sensuous touch of it on her bare shoulders. She seldom wore jewellery other than simple gold earrings. When she was ready, she swirled in front of Sam, laughing and looking for his approval, but he frowned and said, ‘It’s not quite right.’ She was disappointed and more than little surprised at his response and stood still watching as he went to his case.
He took out a small grey velvet bag and said, ‘I think this is what you need.’ As he opened it, a strand of creamy, matched pearls slipped through his fingers and he came to Lizzie, turned her around and said, ‘Lift your hair.’ She did so, and he clipped them around her neck. ‘Now take a look at yourself, my girl,’ he said. ‘How do they look?’
Lizzie was silent. She knew they were extremely beautiful pearls and it was an expensive gift, and she was more than a little confused as to what was implied if she accepted them.
‘Don’t you like them?’ Sam asked. He was sounding disappointed now.
‘Oh Sam, what’s not to like? They’re glorious, and I think every woman feels beautiful in pearls. It’s just that I’m not sure.’ Her voice trailed away as she tried to sort out her feelings.
‘They are a gift. Just a gift. No strings attached. I just wanted to give you something and I remembered you saying you loved pearls.’
‘Everyone loves pearls, Sam. Of course, I love them. But I never meant that you…’ Again, she didn’t know what she wanted to say.
‘Then, that’s settled. Now you look perfect. Come and let me show you off in that very elegant dining room up those very elegant staircases. We’ll talk some more tomorrow. Are you hungry?’
So Lizzie wore the pearls and put off thinking about them until the next morning. They breakfasted in front of the fire, swam again and returned to the fire. They read the International Herald Tribune, taking turns swapping pages and did the crossword together.
Then Sam said, ‘OK, Lizzie, how about it?’
‘How about what?’ countered Lizzie.
‘You know what. How about coming to Thailand with me?’
‘Sam, that would mean giving up my job, giving up my apartment, giving up my independence. It’s a lot. I just don’t know if I can.’
‘You can, easily, Lizzie. The question is do you want to be with me? Do you want to do it?’
‘Sam, if I answer honestly; do I want to give up my job and everything? The answer is no. Do I want to be with you? Yes, I think I’d like that, I think I would. But it’s tough, Sam, it’s tough.’
‘Lizzie, we are not youngsters. Why not do it now? You’ve known me for a long time. You’ll love Bangkok. Let’s share the next adventure together.’
‘Sam, I don’t really know much about you, about your past or anything much other than the potted life histories we’ve exchanged. You don’t know what I can be like when I feel threatened.’
‘You would not be threatened, Lizzie. You will still be you—just you with me. There is nothing much more to know about me. You know me. You know how I feel about you. I love you, Lizzie. I want you with me.’
‘But what would I do?’ she asked.
‘You could relax, take it easy, get used to Asia. You’ll pick up freelance writing jobs. You can write your novel.’
‘Oh Sam, millions of divorcees write novels. Very few of them get published.’
‘You’ll find work.’
‘But, I don’t think I’d find another job like mine, again. At my age, if I drop out of the loop, I may never get back into it again. And what would I do financially?’
‘What do you mean? At your age? We may not be youngsters but we are not exactly over the hill, woman. Of course, with your CV, you’ll get work. We’ll live together. We’ll be fine financially,’ said Sam.
‘But, I don’t know, what if it didn’t work out? What if you decided to kick me out? What would I do if I couldn’t get work?’
‘Lizzie, I’m not going to kick you out. I want you. You might decide to kick me out but please don’t plan it.’
‘I can’t just stop working, Sam,’ she explained.
‘Lizzie, can you take a chance on me?’
‘Sam, did you hear me? I can’t do it. I am too scared.’
‘Come on, girl, where’s your spirit of adventure? You’re always taking chances. Take one on me. Come to Asia.’
‘Sam, it’s just not realistic. I admit that, particularly at the moment, I’d love to just throw everything to the wind, but I can’t. I have to protect myself.’
‘Lizzie, what would be so scary about us, as a partnership, together?’
‘I have to think about practical things. I’d have no job, no place to live; I could end up completely dependent. What sort of partnership would that be? Oh, shit, Sam it’s just all too complicated. Can’t we go on as we are? We’ll see each other pretty often with both of us travelling. We can take our holidays together.’
‘I want more than holidays,’ he said.
‘Is there any chance you could transfer back to Europe?’ Lizzie asked.
‘No, I don’t want to transfer back. I understand you don’t want to leave here too but it could be great for us both, Lizzie.’
‘All my instinct says “no”, Sam.’
‘Your instinct is based on fear, on what’s happened to you before. This is me. I’m not going to hurt you; I love you, Lizzie.’
‘Oh help. It’s all too difficult. Can’t we think about it for a while?’
‘We’ve been thinking about it for months. You know we have, Lizzie. Really, my darling girl, why not just do it?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’
‘I’ll look after you, Lizzie.’
‘But what if you don’t, Sam? What if I can’t look after myself after then? Where would I be? I would be in shit, in shit, is where I would be.’
‘You would not be giving anything up, Lizzie. Just another adventure…together.’
She looked at him and thought of all the caring and nurturing, all the easiness of being looked after and loved. It was seductive to know she was wanted and loved. But she loved her job—most of the time. She loved her apartment, her independence, her freedom.
Yes, I know “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”.
Was she just being a coward? Was she too scared to take a chance on being happy with a man, again? Oh bugger, why did she have to make this choice?
‘Because I love you and I think you love me.’
‘Yes, Sam. I guess I know you do.’
‘I won’t hurt you, Lizzie. Trust me.’
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, warning bells rang out at the old “trust me” line. But this was Sam. Couldn’t she trust him?
‘Where’s the line between trust and gullibility, girl?’ a voice from the past insisted.
She didn’t know. She didn’t know. Would she be just another gullible woman? Was she a coward? Why hadn’t she gone with Ahmed? Could this be a great adventure, living with Sam? Was she game enough to believe him? Could she give up her job, her security and trust him? Would Gwennie do it? Would Nanna do it? She knew those were stupid questions because she knew the answer either of those women would have given.
‘Oh hell, why not?’
So she did.
So she did.