43

How can we act as if we didn’t know what went on?

KHRUSHCHEV

They say she laughed all the time, as a baby and then as a child. My mother: Elene Jashi, Stasia’s granddaughter, Christine’s great-niece, Kitty’s niece, and the daughter of Kostya and Nana. Mother to Daria and me. The woman who resembled no one, not even herself. The woman who for no apparent reason would decide to atone for her greatest mistake through her children.

They say she was very quick, as a child, quick to think, to want, to demand. She came into the world in the year of bewilderment, in the year of newly revived hopes, in this vast empire that now no longer exists. Her father took a leave of absence from his top-secret mission and spent a few weeks, enraptured and euphoric, at the side of his exhausted wife and laughing daughter. The casual calmness with which Christine and Stasia greeted Elene’s birth seemed to Nana much healthier and more desirable than the excessive solicitude of her own family: she would retreat to her darkened room when the visits from her aunts and mother, with their top child-rearing tips, became too much for her. She felt she was in good hands here, and against all the advice of her relatives and girlfriends, Nana decided not to go and join Kostya for the time being.

When Christine heard of the Little Big Man’s death, she fetched her old gramophone from the attic and played Norma so loudly it could be heard all over the house. She stood at the window looking out at the garden and listening to the music. Her expression remained a mystery: it betrayed nothing, neither pain nor alarm that the curse of the chocolate had proved true. Her sister had been right all along!

From that day on, she started buying opera recordings, obsessively, as if she had decided to amass a rare and valuable record collection. No sum was too high for her. Less than a year later, by which time my mother was refusing to start walking, Christine owned an impressive collection ranging from Purcell to Puccini. In the evenings, the whole house succumbed to the soprano and bass voices from the gramophone: the warmer it was outside, the faster the voices would swallow up the area around the house and its unruly garden, reaching the narrow cobbled streets of this part of town and touching the tops of the towers of the old, empty church.

Christine listened, spellbound, and refused to turn the music down, until in the end all those living in the house found themselves forced to tolerate her operas as the constant background music to their daily lives.

The unruliness began with the advent of freedom in the family house in Tbilisi. With Elene’s birth. With her first sounds.

The plants sensed it, and sprouted like mad in the garden. Bit by bit, they also invaded the house. Even items of furniture started to emit curious noises, and all kinds of birds held their parliaments in the attic. Butterflies and crickets sought out the house, stray cats strolled around it, squirrels and martens were found.

The house sighed. It was bursting at the seams, taking off the tight corset that had held it in for years. It began to live. Noisily, expansively, palpably, and visibly.

The older inhabitants of the house didn’t seem bothered by this degeneration; quite the opposite, in fact. The spiders and butterflies were welcomed; the plaster that occasionally came off the ceiling remained where it fell; the plants were no longer pruned; even the frogs that had set up home in the fountain were left in peace. The dust that gathered everywhere was not wiped away. Stasia even bought herself a hand-reared grey parrot, and christened him Goya. No one cleared up the crockery and lampshades, either, as they fell victim to Goya’s aerobatics.

The only person annoyed by the rapidly progressing dilapidation was Nana, who tackled it with every means at her disposal. She ran around after the noisy bird, cleaned and scrubbed every day, and secretly hid any records she found lying about in order to avoid constant exposure to Christine’s music. All her energy went into making the house look well-cared-for; she chased after vermin, shooed away cats, and put poison in the fountain for the frogs. She cried down the phone to Kostya, complaining about his mother’s eccentricity and Christine’s provocative passivity. He ought to speak to them; they wouldn’t be a good example to the child. Elene would grow up amid chaos, and nothing good could come of it. Given the disorder in the house and the two sisters’ neglect, Nana decided not to go back to university; she would put her doctorate on hold for the time being and devote herself entirely to being a mother.

My grandfather accepted these developments from afar, since they could not be influenced, but it was a burden Nana struggled with her entire life. Although Kostya was always quick to send money whenever Nana complained, so that rooms could be freshly wallpapered, pipes repaired, and a swing seat acquired for the garden, and although she even employed a gardener to come once a week to curtail the wild proliferation of the plants, the house contrived nonetheless to gradually transform itself into a fairy-tale dwelling, as if it had only just realised its true destiny and now intended to enjoy it to the full.

It meant that my mother was able to spend her childhood in an enchanted realm. As soon as her mother handed her over to her grandmother and great-aunt — which she did most reluctantly, as their educational methods were far from reliable — Elene’s world was transformed into a place without constraints, where she was allowed to play with the parrot, wallow in dirt, smash the crockery, climb and romp about, eat sweet things, pull Christine’s hair, and make faces with Stasia. In this enchanted world, with these two old women, it seemed to her that anything was possible, anything was conceivable, anything was doable. Here, nothing stood in her way; and there was no one who could have been made happier by this state of affairs than a growing girl to whom all doors were open.

At the Party Congress in the year 1956, in a secret speech that nonetheless became famous, the First Secretary of the Central Committee, Nikita Khrushchev, sharply criticised the Generalissimus and publicly used the word ‘crimes’ in reference to his predecessor’s brutal purges. He spoke of ‘mass extermination’ and ‘execution without trial’; he also spoke of his own responsibility, and asked, ‘How can we act as if we didn’t know what went on?’ We are told there was an eerie silence; almost all those present, including the First Secretary, had participated in these arrests and executions with impressive dedication. Yet it was so unheard-of for someone even to name what had really gone on that doing so called into question all the rules, structures, and internal agreements that had applied until that moment. Until then, the silence and taboos surrounding certain political practices in the USSR had signified stability for the country. Now, after these words, no one knew what was to come.

When the speech found its way into the public domain, students began to demonstrate on the streets of Tbilisi. People were shocked; they felt aggrieved. Their national identity was being called into question; their great countryman, who over the course of decades had pacified the boundless Russian Empire, was being declared a criminal. Even people whose parents and grandparents had fallen victim to this countryman of theirs could not endure the truth, though they must have been aware of it for years. It was absolutely outrageous, the things that Ukrainian lout was coming out with. People stormed onto the streets and boulevards, surrounded the university, blocked crossroads, rebelled against the truth. Because the victims had long since become perpetrators; the perpetrators, victims.

The system continued to exact its toll. People were afraid of memories, of insights, knowing these might drag them into a bottomless pit, twist their own lives out of all recognition, and all of this could cause self-loathing to swell to immeasurable proportions. Besides, where was all this wretched truth-telling heading?

When the security forces rallied to oppose the students — the same security forces who a few years earlier had fought to oppose this truth — it became clear that the truth would be a hollow one, without serious consequences. Perhaps a few restrictions would be eased, a few bullet holes revealed through which it might be possible to see one’s life from a different perspective: but who actually wanted to do that? What could you do with this view of things, other than subordinate yourself to this truth until it buried you beneath it?

The indescribable always builds a defensive wall around the describable, Brilka.

The Central Committee had started to announce an audacious turnaround, which was to go down in history as the ‘Khrushchev Thaw’. I believe that this point in the history of the Soviet Union was a singular moment, one that would never come again — and, just as singularly, nobody took advantage of it. People opted for the old way of doing things. They could have bolstered Khrushchev’s ego, let him play the hero and liberator a while longer; they should have expected those in power to show remorse and penitence for longer, and perhaps it really would have brought about viable reform. Reform that would have actually taken root, not the ridiculous prohibitions that masqueraded as reform.

Press censorship was eased, previously banned books were printed, the powers of security officials were curtailed, torture was outlawed, music that prior to this had not been heard anywhere was played, the silent were granted a voice. Gulags were closed, political prisoners released, hundreds of thousands of people acquitted. New residential zones were built; many people moved out of the seedy kommunalkas and got their own bathrooms, toilets, kitchens, things that had been an inconceivable luxury until then. People acquired a little privacy. And they showed gratitude for the little morsels of freedom they were thrown.

But the steps towards freedom were strictly numbered. For power always proves sweeter than revenge. And the further the 20th Party Congress retreated into the mists of the past, the sweeter the temptation became to demonstrate that power again, to let it shine once more.

When the wave of uprisings reached Eastern Europe and Hungarian students took to the streets in collective rebellion and a public expression of anger, the authorities reverted to the old ways, and blood began to flow all over again.

The Party feared a loss of control. The priority now was to take things firmly in hand. Threats were made, the army sent in, and all those who had believed in reform and run out onto the street were swiftly brought to heel. And ‘peace’ returned to this vast empire once more.

Nana and Elene travelled to the ‘cold sea’ in the north — this was how Nana would always describe any sea that wasn’t the Black one. She had never been here before; it was the first time she had visited Kostya’s world. She arrived at her husband’s apartment, which, she discovered, was in an attractive old building and sparsely but tastefully furnished. She enjoyed the long walks along the promenade, the view of the harbour late in the evening. She marvelled at the raspberry and blueberry bushes that lined the country roads when they took Kostya’s Volga and drove out of the city to spend the weekend at one of his friends’ dachas or enjoy the heat of a Russian sauna. She enjoyed the classical concerts in Kislovodsk, where they spent a long weekend taking the health-giving waters.

She enjoyed the opportunities and prestige that came with her husband’s high rank, as well as his undivided attention, his presents, the quiet evenings — rare, but all the more precious for it — spent together in the apartment, the breakfasts and dinners they ate together. She enjoyed the care he bestowed on Elene, his delight in her, for Kostya proved a besotted father, bursting with pride in his lively, chubby-cheeked daughter, and full of loving feelings for her. Nana kept asking herself whether these evenings with just the three of them, these long walks beside the sea, constituted happiness; whether this was what love felt like.

She took great pains to be a good wife, and to rein in her secret resentment of Stasia’s and Christine’s unworldliness. She did this out of respect for her husband; and she wanted to be a good mother to Elene, one who set clearly defined boundaries and rules, and paid her enough attention. Although she found it difficult, she even tried to show an interest in her husband’s work.

But something had come over her since Elene’s birth, something melancholy and leaden that seemed entirely out of character for her. Since becoming a member of this family and living with her idiosyncratic mother-in-law and her sister, she had been afflicted by this strange heaviness, and she didn’t like it. She barely recognised herself.

Kostya was certainly a good husband; at least, that was what everyone around her said. He never insisted on things, had even bowed to her will and let her stay in their homeland, had not summoned her to join him in this foreign place, although he would have been well within his rights to do so. He enabled her to have a good life, he was attentive, gallant, he was a wonderful father — and yet there were days, when Kostya was at work at the port authority or busy on one of the freighters, when she felt as if she were paralysed, oddly apathetic, as if this family had drained all her resistance, as if between the two peculiar, unworldly sisters she had voluntarily surrendered responsibility for her own life. Sometimes her endeavours seemed to her to be futile: her pursuit of order, clarity, her yearning for clear structures.

‘You never talk about the past, Kostya. Why not? Nor do your mother and your aunt. I know so little about you all. I found a box of old photos in the attic recently. You don’t even have a proper family album. It’s strange.’

They were walking along the beach on a quiet afternoon. Kostya smiled at Elene, who was drawing shapes in the wet sand and so totally engrossed in what she was doing that their conversation passed her by.

‘She is very pretty. A colleague we met at lunch yesterday kept saying so. Don’t you think so, too? That Elene is a remarkably pretty child?’ he asked, instead of responding to her question.

‘You see, you always change the subject, all of you. It’s like a family tradition.’

‘What is it you want to know? Just ask me.’ Kostya was irritated.

‘Are you actually happy? I don’t even know if you’re happy, for example. With me.’

‘You don’t ask something like that, Nana. You can just tell.’

‘But you’re always so … hmm … self-controlled.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘That sounds rather naive. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Well, then it’s naive; my God, I don’t know that. I don’t know what that is.’

‘You see? The problem you accuse others of having is the problem you have with yourself. You’re the discontented one. I don’t stop you from doing anything, I don’t restrict you, do I? Do I?’

‘No.’

‘So ask yourself why that is. We have an adorable daughter, we have a good life, we —’

‘Yes, I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.’

Just at that moment, Elene, who had drawn a round face with a wide mouth and two dots for eyes and had added a mass of curls, cried out ecstatically: ‘Kitty!’

Both Kostya and Nana abruptly fell silent. They went over to their daughter, who was pointing at her artwork, full of excitement and pride, looking up at her parents expectantly, waiting for their approval.

‘Where has she got that from?’ Kostya looked at his wife, who shook her head in bewilderment. ‘She must have got it from someone. Did you talk about her — at home, I mean? You know that’s not good. And my mother should know it best of all. In any case, I’ve asked you all repeatedly to make sure that this subject —’

‘I have never talked to her about your sister.’

‘She can’t just have made it up, can she?’

‘Elene, my darling …’ Nana bent down to her daughter. ‘Who is that? Tell Mama again. Who is that in your picture?’

And Elene, very pleased with herself, repeated the same name over and over again: ‘Kitty. Kitty. Kitty.’

That night, the couple lay in their heavy oak bed without speaking. Kostya had turned to face the wall, and Nana kept her eyes closed in the hope that she would be able to shake off all her questions and confusion. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any more; she sat up in bed and turned on a little bedside lamp.

‘Where is she? You know where she is.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do. You got her out of the country. Tell me.’

‘I don’t know, and now please stop asking, I don’t want you to talk about this subject in front of my daughter. Do you understand me?’ There was an iciness in his voice, something Nana had never heard from him before, that brooked no contradiction.

‘What did she do? What did she do to you?’

‘Stop it, I said!’

He shouted so loudly that Nana flinched and put her hands over her ears. Her husband had never shouted at her like that. Nana started to feel frightened. She was frightened of the man who shared her bed, who had fathered a child with her in the dark one night, and who, in all the nights of love that followed, had never made a single sound. She was afraid of the silence that surrounded her, and of her own ever-increasing sense of powerlessness.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Nana asked quietly, after a pause. She got up, went round, and perched on his side of the bed.

‘I don’t like to look back.’

‘But Kostya, you can’t live like that.’

‘You have to. There’s no point in doing anything else.’

Nana, confused and out of her depth, flung her arms around her husband’s neck, hoping to soften him with her tenderness. He relented, let her kiss him and hold him tight, then finally lay on top of his soft wife, who had become a little plumper, rounder, more yielding, since the birth of her daughter; who smelled of raisins and fresh bread; whose hair hung down to her waist. His wife, lying beneath him, still young, radiant, full of life, and now full of questions, too. He pulled up her nightdress; his other hand reached out to the chest beside the bed, and he turned off the bedside lamp, as he always did when he was about to make love to her.

‘Leave the light on,’ whispered Nana — and received a very clear, loud ‘No’ in reply. She did not object. He moved his hand up her body, caressing her belly, her breasts, her neck; as always when they slept together, he seemed rather distant, rather brisk, rather absent. Before, she had accepted this sort of intimacy as something normal, natural; she had believed that this was how it was supposed to be. After all, she had nothing to compare it with. But Nana was intuitive enough to realise, as time went by, that making love had to be about more than just her husband’s quick movements, which were almost like an assault; more than this act that always followed the same pattern; more than just wordlessness.

She pushed him off and climbed on top of him, gently removed his hand from her back and began to kiss his taut, strong body from head to foot. She felt her way, exploring every inch of his skin, every tiny mark, every slight curve, every little imperfection, every mole and every hollow. She hoped that lust would draw out his secrets; that this sensation, which suddenly overcame her more strongly than ever before, would soften him, too. She so wanted these answers from him; she so wanted, this night, truly to get to know him, truly to see him, to be able to see deeper and deeper inside him. She wanted this so much, for him at last to forget his iron discipline, his reticence and self-control, and for them to embark together in search of the unknown, to forge new paths. He must be able to break free of himself for once, to reveal what he was hiding; he must be able, at least once, to forget himself in her arms!

She struggled on, searching for the spots that would make him more accessible to her. And for a while she seemed to be on the right track: he did not resist her. He let himself be explored, breathed heavily; he closed his eyes, grabbed at her, unthinking. She conquered her shame — an unspoken thing, but one that set such firm boundaries — and raised herself up over his body. Something inside was telling her that he was familiar with this kind of passion, this lack of restraint. And at the same time the realisation frightened her, because she sensed how little this lack of inhibition had to do with her. Kostya, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, was revealing his lust to his wife; but she was just the proxy for another, and Nana wished she had never gone down this path, because now there was no going back, now there was nowhere to hide from the realisation of this night — the thing she had so cruelly and unerringly revealed to herself, which was that her husband’s love did not belong to her.

Nana understood then that, deep within himself, he was incapable of forgetting, that he clung desperately to every single memory of his past, and this was precisely the reason he was constantly demanding that it be forgotten. It would take a while longer for her to discover that he was restless, restlessly seeking a point between the sea and the horizon where a meeting of past and present might be possible; and that the impossibility of ever reaching it drove him into the soft arms of countless beautiful, perfumed women.

After that night in the port city, it would no longer matter to her very much.

She would feel a sense of regret, a slight, stabbing pain, but she would no longer be capable of getting seriously upset about it, or doing anything to stop it. By then she would already have accepted indifference towards certain things as a permanent part of her life. And soon she would construct a carapace around herself, in the literal, physical sense: because on her return to her homeland from the ‘cold sea’, Nana began to put on weight — little by little, almost unnoticeably — until her circumference was such that it could wall in all her feelings.

Thanks to Amy’s influential friends, Kitty succeeded in obtaining a residence permit, and then a valid work permit, more quickly than expected. Her audience at the jazz club was steadily growing, and Amy ran a tireless propaganda campaign on her protégée’s behalf. Other clubs put in requests for this socialist insider tip. Soon Kitty was earning enough money to pay Amy some rent — well below what she could have asked for the flat, but it salved Kitty’s wounded pride. After the arid Prague years, these were the years when Kitty’s music blossomed. She composed and sang, let Amy put her lyrics into English, and eventually she even signed a contract with her benefactor. From then on, Amy was Kitty’s manager, and keen to ensure that she would soon have her own record deal. Amy never tired of telling her fellow countrymen how great it was to help a talented, freedom-loving refugee from the enemy camp and provide her with the right opportunities. She put her organisational talent to work, and planned Kitty’s career meticulously.

Kitty herself was simply happy have such good fortune, and so many well-disposed people around her, to be able to make music and even earn money doing it. She expected no more of her future, and viewed Amy’s ambitious efforts to make her a star with scepticism. However, she realised with regret that she missed the voice terribly, for their phone calls had become less frequent: she was no longer dependent on him to help her. They spoke only about essentials; he assured her that her family was well, told her about the general political situation in her homeland, and — as usual — nothing about himself.

Amy had grown accustomed to these phone calls; she asked no questions when Kitty retired to her room to hold a conversation in her mother tongue. At first it had bothered her, partly because Kitty wouldn’t give her any explanation for these calls, but she had now come to accept these conversations as an integral part of Kitty’s past, which was in any case off limits. In the meantime, Amy had often heard Kitty tell varying and contradictory anecdotes, and had realised how Kitty protected herself. She never spoke of the real reasons for her flight, and, if she talked about her family, it was only very sporadically. Besides, after these phone calls, Kitty was usually in a good mood and immediately started composing, which, after all, also benefited Amy.

On this particular evening, Kitty was sitting expectantly beside the phone. He never missed an appointment, and she loved that about him — his reliability. She had made herself a gin and tonic, and was waiting for the soft, soothing, so familiar voice. Sometimes she would picture his face; she imagined a tall, confident man with delicate features and thick, wavy hair. This voice deserved to have a body that matched.

‘I’m so pleased you’ve called!’ She wished she could address him informally, by name. ‘Seven o’clock on the dot. I love your punctuality.’

‘I’m pleased to hear your voice, too.’

She sensed slight embarrassment at the other end of the line.

‘Will you go on calling me?’

‘But I am calling you.’

‘Even if you don’t have to any more?’

‘If you like.’

‘I do like. I worry that you’ll stop.’

‘I will always call you, for as long as you need me.’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I don’t know. You’re … important to me.’

‘Thank you very much. I thought I should give you a few tips concerning your new work permit …’

‘I don’t want to talk about that now. May I ask you something?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Are you here? In the same city?’

‘What gives you that idea?’

‘You’re here.’

‘You know that, unfortunately, I can’t —’

‘It’s all right. Do you like conkers? I saw some today. I love them. They remind me of home, of my childhood. Andro and I … We always used to collect them, when we were children.’

‘Yes, I like them.’

‘What else do you like?’

‘I like music. I like your music, too.’

‘You haven’t heard my music.’

‘Yes, I have.’

Kitty thought for a while. Of course he was here, in London. They shared the same sky, the same streets, the same stations and faces. They shared the same rain and the same sun. It was a comforting thought. Perhaps he sat in her audience at the club, although she couldn’t really imagine this genteel man in those surroundings.

‘I would so like to know why you’re doing all this. And what you’re called.’

‘You can call me whatever you like, I’ve already told you that. I’ll gladly accept whatever name you give me.’

‘I can’t do it. There’s no name that seems to fit … to be good enough.’ She heard him laugh: he seldom laughed.

‘Is everything all right, Kitty?’ he asked, his voice composed once more.

‘I don’t know. I’m confused.’

‘What is it that’s causing you confusion?’

‘I love that about you, too. Your way of expressing yourself — like that: What is it that’s causing you confusion. It’s charming. You seem to me to be a daydreamer, and I’ve always had a great affinity for them.’

‘I’m honoured.’

‘I think I’m in love.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful.’ There was no pleasure in his voice. He sounded very serious.

‘No, it’s not. I feel so foolish, so stupid. And I mustn’t allow it.’

‘Why not? Are there adverse circumstances?’

He’s sure to be smiling to himself now, thought Kitty. She didn’t want to pursue the subject, although she felt a deep longing to talk to him about it.

‘I’d give so much to see your face right now,’ she said.

Again the disconcerted silence at the other end of the line.

‘Do what you think is right, and don’t think about the adverse circumstances. Almost all adverse circumstances, or what we think of as such, seem but a trifle in retrospect, don’t you agree?’

That somnambulant afternoon, with Billie Holiday in the background, Kitty had left Fred’s studio with a clear No. As soon as she started thinking about copper-haired Fred, she came up against her own frontiers. She was trapped inside herself. That afternoon, she had run out because she didn’t want to cross any more frontiers. Having crossed national frontiers, she capitulated before all others. She feared the consequences of her No, and feared the consequences of a conceivable Yes even more. She feared leaving the world that had been presented to her as the only right one, which was divided into men and women. She feared losing Amy’s patronage.

That afternoon, Kitty had decided to settle and not keep moving on, knowing full well that the woman on whom she had just turned her back was not a person who planned to settle anywhere. Knowing full well that this woman was a libertine, an entertainer, a tightrope walker.

She had returned to the care of her perfect patron, for whom Kitty’s career had become a raison d’être. And Kitty was not prepared to deprive her of that.

Two weeks after her visit to Fred’s studio, she found her benefactor slumped over the back of the sofa in her spacious, cluttered reception room, chest heaving, sobbing dramatically. When she cautiously enquired as to the reason for Amy’s tears, Amy told her Fred was going to America and didn’t know when she would be coming back. She had accepted an invitation from a Boston textile manufacturer to help him buy artworks and design a new gallery, where she would also be able to exhibit her paintings. She had given up her studio, and had left Amy one of her scrawls on a napkin promising to be in touch soon; perhaps by then, thanks to her new source of income, she would be in a position to invite her to the Hamptons for a weekend in the summer. She had added a postscript in which she sent greetings to ‘your timid little protégée, who unfortunately thinks so little of herself’. Amy flung the napkin melodramatically at Kitty’s feet.

Fred’s absence was to last two years, and despite the grief it caused — openly expressed by Amy, borne in secret by Kitty — it allowed the two women she left behind to come into their own. As if Fred Lieblich had sensed this, or even desired it; as if she had left the arena to the women she loved.

Kitty had left failure behind her in the East, Amy proclaimed, and now the West would start to make amends. She got her to record her first album in English, You And I. Her accent was her trademark, Amy said; under no circumstances should she try to lose it. The single was played on the English airwaves. And Kitty was invited to give radio interviews, always accompanied by Amy, her manager. She received offers from clubs that were far more upmarket than her jazz club. Amy began to think about a first public concert. Kitty diligently recounted her tragic past to journalists, different versions cobbled together for her by Amy; the more tragic the story, Amy said, the better the prospect that she would soon become a naturalised citizen.

The age of rockabilly was in full swing, Elvis and fiery rock’n’roll were on the horizon, and Kitty, who was never associated with any musical style or genre, gradually became — thanks to Amy — a face that people registered, with her eastern ‘purity’, the polyphony of her homeland, her music that always emphasised the power of melody.

Kitty: whose trail you set out to follow, Brilka, searching for yourself and at the same time refusing to become yourself, for fear that you wouldn’t be able to shake off all the ghosts that pursue us as we seek a new beginning for your story, which would also become part of mine.