The Next Stop

by Dimitris Politis

  Pausing briefly at the mirror that stood by the front door of the apartment, she glanced at her reflection. Her heart swelled with pride at her image in her first official police uniform, even without all the emblems that would come. She posed with her head high. For once she saw her own face contented and cheerful, almost happy. She didn’t care about her long unsymmetrical nose, nor her washed-out pale blue eyes that, for the first time, seemed to gleam with vitality. She pulled her hair back carefully into a tight ponytail and admired its glossy dark brown colour, as if she liked it for the first time in her life. She put on her policewoman’s hat with great care and off she went with a little skip in her step.

  From the small flat near the central square of Saint Josse, she cautiously climbed the sloping and slippery pavement of Chaussée de Louvain and turned right in front of the blue glass skyscraper that dominated Madou Square. The morning traffic battling the ice had already created serious congestion in the streets around this central artery. But the blare of horns, the roar of engines and the flatulence of the motors magically did not reach her ears at all. She was fully focused on walking, repeating in her mind the words of the oath she must soon take in French, Flemish and German, the three official languages of her country.

  In her mind, she went over every detail of the oath, calculating just when she should stop for a breath and which words to emphasise. She charged headlong and decisive, with long military steps, though carefully, trying to avoid ice traps and pitfalls of slush at her feet. The kerbsides were piled with dirty little mountains of ice from the street clearing. Lost in her thoughts and the words of the oath, she came to the small garden of the granite villa that housed the offices of Saint Josse City Hall. So preoccupied was she with her joyful thoughts that for a fraction of a second, her attention strayed from where she was placing her feet.

  Her next step landed unwittingly on a transparent layer of ice that concealed a segment of broken pavement. Helpless to resist the treacherous slime of the frozen mass she felt her feet flying from under her. The weight of her body pulled her powerfully forward. In frantic terror, she was falling face down with crazy speed onto the dirty concrete. She crashed to the ground, flailing the air with her hands trying to catch hold of something, but there was nothing to catch. Between one moment and the next, she was suddenly flat on her face, motionless in the same spot, arms flung wide.

  A resounding hollow thud echoed grotesquely as the bones of her nose were crushed in violent collision with the solid mass of ice. The panicked bystanders who ran from all directions, shouting and trying to revive her, soon discovered that their efforts were in vain. She lay still and unresponsive.

  ****

  Five days later, Valerie awoke in a bed on the tenth floor of St. Luke’s University Hospital. All she could perceive was a bright blob and some shifting shadows; all she could feel was excruciating pain radiating sharp and ragged from the centre of her forehead and progressing down her fractured nose. She did not understand where she was or how she had got there. Her memory was blank. She tried to turn her head to the side of the bed where she blurrily distinguished a darker shadow. But any slight movement brought a surge of pain. Someone was sitting at her bedside, misty and indistinct. Everything seemed to have double and triple images, as if on an outdated TV with very poor reception. She blinked her eyes, trying to clear her vision.

  “Valerie! Valerie! Come on love, you are so lucky! Can you hear me? Valerie, you hear me?” whispered the person tenderly.

  “A woman. Do I know her?...”

  “The doctors are saying that if you had hit the ground at a little more of an angle, you would have stayed there where you fell! What a scare we had! You are going to be just fine, chérie!” The woman touched the lifeless hand that lay heavy and still by her body. Valerie’s eyes opened and closed several times in an attempt to clear the images around her. Futile effort. Her memory, all her senses were confused. The terrible weakness of vision did not help. She remembered none of what had happened.

  Given over completely to the confusion of pain, drugs and the black maze of lost thoughts, she abandoned the effort and closed her exhausted eyes. In the darkness, she tried to rewind time and orient herself. She should go back to the beginning, so she could bring order to the past and come slowly forward from there.

  Her mind agreed...

  Time unwound and decades fell away. She found herself in a large panelled room with towering ceilings and walls yellowed by time. She was ten years old, sitting at a huge bare wooden table with other silent children, eating silently with bowed heads. All that broke the grim silence was the repeated rattle of cutlery, almost melodic, a strange tune accompanying the meagre dinner, and the monotonous tones of Sister Marie Françoise at the head of the table, reading aloud from The Lives of the Saints. This may have been an economical measure, as the lives of the saints usually ended in a seriously unappetising manner. Nobody ever asked for seconds.

  Claire was there, across the table. Sitting with Willy. Again. Valerie stared down at her plate, pushed the pale green beans around it with her spoon. She hated beans. She hated Claire. And above all she hated Wilhelmina.

  Last autumn she and Claire had sworn to be Best Friends Forever. They were the only girls of the same age and had found each other shortly after Claire came to live at St Martin’s. So far, Valerie’s only friend had been Melanie Noutens, the stout lady who had found her on the steps. She was described as a caretaker but performed many other services at the Foundation: laundress, cleaner, even filled in as nanny to the younger girls. Melanie was strangely moved by this little foundling and begged the supervisor to let her give a name to the mite who had so unexpectedly come into her life that icy morning. She managed to have her baptised as Valerie Noutens after her mother. Valerie had clung to her like a burr, ‘helping’ her with the cleaning from the time she was a toddler. Since she had not been able to create her own family, Melanie tried, in spite of her meagre finances, to see the orphan through to the end of secondary education. Whenever she could, she bought her a book or a toy, and when circumstances permitted, a new pullover or hair ribbon, or got leave from the director to take her to a show or a children's movie. Valerie, on her part, deprived of a family from her third day on earth, formed a strong attachment to this plump stranger. She simply loved her as a mother.

  The child was growing up awkward and shy. She did not quarrel with the other girls, but neither had she formed any friendships; they were all either older or younger. Then Claire arrived with her golden curls and huge eyes that changed colour with the light, a delicate butterfly always on the edge of flight. And Valerie despaired over her own clumsiness. When Claire invited Valerie to be friends, her joy and amazement knew no bounds. They sat together, held hands, giggled over the absurdities of Sister Polycarp, played at cat’s cradle and jacks and did their lessons under the same reading lamp.

  And then in the spring, the slightly older Willy came, in a cloud of exotic glamour. Willy managed to wear her dull grey uniform like a Chanel. She had the gift of seduction, of compelling admiration, even devotion. Even the much older girls sought her company. Within a week she had somehow transformed the established social structure of the girls, girls who came from broken homes, neglect, abandonment. Now the approval of Willy was the one thing they all desired. It was Willy says this, Willy says that, Willy says. The staff was nonplussed, finding her to be a nice enough if puzzling girl. Willy ran the dormitory as she pleased: she was able to persuade the staff that taking a break would be a good idea when she wanted to introduce some naughty games, like somersaulting from one bed to the next, or the pile-up, which were to be played only after dark when the staff was out of range. Pile-up meant piling all the bedding in the dorm on the floor at the foot of one bed, stripping down to knickers and jumping one after the other onto the heap of sheets and blankets. This brought on storms of suppressed sniggering at the touch of all that warm skin. When Valerie climbed on the top of the bed for her turn, right after
Claire, Willy shook her head. “Sorry, one too many. You’re too tall anyway!” So Valerie went away, not wanting to watch everyone else wriggling about in the blankets. She thought of reporting it but decided against it; she had long ago learned the cost of telling tales. She sat alone with her lessons, shutting out the squeals and giggles and shushing from the dorm.

  Willy was Claire’s new Best Friend. Valerie learned her lesson. She would never again offer her wholehearted trust, except to Melanie, who was still there, and understood, and offered what comfort she could.

  Claire and Willy continued to be Best Friends for a few weeks, then shifted to others. Valerie no longer cared. Melanie was still hers. So there.

  Valerie developed into a tall, lean teenager, slim, but strong and muscular. To her own delight and with the enthusiastic encouragement of her teachers, she shone at the martial arts. When she finished her secondary education, Melanie invited her to share her own apartment in the poor district of Saint Josse as long as she cared to. She managed to find a job as a sales assistant in INNO department store of Rue Neuve and began living a rather solitary life away from her few acquaintances and friends.

  One day, her eye fell on a four-column advert in the newspaper, Le Soir, asking young men and women to join and serve in the local police force. Oh, that was it! That was what she was meant to do! So, the very next day, well before the deadline, she sent in her application. With immense effort, she managed to pass all the entrance exams, breezing through all the physical examinations. The examiners were amazed by her superb condition, physical flexibility and the skills in martial arts concealed within the rangy, muscular body.

  Her time passed swiftly, absorbed in her new studies. She had been assigned a new sparring partner, who was so well-matched that she ventured to share a coffee with her now and then, and gradually began to think she might have found a friend. Paola was outgoing, generous and bouncy, quite her opposite, but everything they did together was fun for both. And then in her second year, she came home to find Melanie lying pale and still on the kitchen floor. At the hospital the doctors shook their heads; Melanie lay gasping for breath and unconscious for days. She never recovered from the massive stroke. Still unconscious, two weeks later came a fatal repetition.

  There was a document in her bureau leaving the flat and her humble estate, such as it was, to Valerie. Now that she realised how much Melanie had offered her, she wept and mourned her as her real mother… and father and brother and sister, and aunt and uncle and grandmother and grandfather together. She had been the only human being in the world from whom Valerie ever had any real communication of tenderness and compassion, a communication she had found nowhere else. As her tears fell onto the note pinned to the paper, Valerie swore with all her soul that she would try to do something good with her life to help others, as Melanie had helped the unknown and helpless baby on the icy steps of the orphanage.

  The very next day she had her chance. Paola came with her to the funeral, held her hand through the ceremony and laid her flowers on the grave. “The house is so empty; come back with me,” begged Valerie. While Paola had visited before, it had been Melanie’s house, not Valerie’s. Now it was different.

  Paola glanced around the front room and noted the closed door to Melanie’s bedroom. She sighed. “You’re going to have a hard time clearing out. Let me help.” Of course, the place was full of Melanie: the scent of her clothes, her things, her books, her little knickknacks. Valerie shuddered. “I can’t. It’s like clearing her out of me. She’s left me the flat, did I tell you?”

  Paola’s eyes widened. “Wow. She must have really loved you.”

  Paola stayed with her all night, coaxed her to eat, made coffee, found a bottle of cognac and made her drink some. It did help. There were many tears shed before they finally slept.

  The next day, Paola said, “I’ll have to go home and see what’s going on. My landlord told me he wants my flat for his daughter who’s getting divorced. He tried to get me out by raising the rent sky-high but… ”

  Excitedly, Valerie cut in: “Move in here with me. No rent. We can share expenses.” There. She had said it.

  Paola smiled. “Oh, that would be – a godsend!” So they became roommates, and their friendship closer. Paola persuaded Valerie to go out now and then, meet other friends, and one way or another brought her into a mild social life. Eventually, Valerie felt that Melanie approved, and thanked her spirit. And of course, Paola, and God.

  One wet October evening as she was passing the school reception desk after her classes, Valerie heard someone calling her name. Assuming that she had misheard, she paid no attention. But the voice persisted, shouting her name. The elderly policewoman, who was acting as school receptionist, killing time until she drew her pension, called again:

  “Miss Noutens, Miss Noutens! Please come here for a minute. This lady wants to talk to you.”

  It took her a moment to wrap her mind around the notion that someone was actually asking for her. The lady standing in front of the desk beckoned to her, nodding. Not someone Valerie knew. She took a few uncertain steps towards her.

  “Miss Noutens, please can you spare me a moment?” said the stranger tremulously. She was rather well-dressed and looked pleasant enough. Her voice revealed tension, but not the tremor of age.

  Valerie gazed at her. “Very well. What is it you want of me? Have we met before?”

  The woman was looking around apprehensively, her body language signalling that she did not want to be overheard. The receptionist was closely watching the little scene before her eyes, and certainly listening.

  “No, we’ve never met. My name is Anna De Vichsser,” she murmured. “No, I mean Maryana Alexandrovna-De Vichsser... Please… spare me a few minutes of your time... Is there some place we might talk? It’s rather important...”

  There was something about this woman that appealed to Valerie – and certainly piqued her curiosity. She didn’t even seem to be sure of her own name! She looked at the woman intently and a deep shudder rocked her from the base of her spine to the crown of her head.

  “Perhaps the café-bar next door? May I offer you a coffee?” stammered the stranger urgently.

  What was all this about? Valerie sought some clue to her own mysterious reaction to the pale wrinkled face before her.

  “Please, I won’t keep you long.” The stranger took a deep, shaky breath, words stumbled out of her, almost broken, incomprehensible. “Ten minutes, only ten minutes of your time.”

  “All right. Next door, then.” Valerie was very conscious of the policewoman watching with palpable curiosity. Their conversation had interested her far more than was desirable. Valerie was relieved to disappoint her as they passed through the illuminated exit of the school building.

  A few minutes later, uneasily seated either side of a small table, the two strangers gave their order to an indifferent waiter with a grubby beard: one Coke and one plain tea. For a while, the two women regarded one another without speaking, as if trying to guess one another’s thoughts. A long, embarrassing silence was broken only when the waiter arrived with their order and placed it on the table.

  The older woman finally summoned the courage to speak first, ignoring the tea. “Miss,” she began, “as I said, my name is Maryana Alexandrovna de Vichsser.” She stopped short and took a new deep breath. “I have been searching for you for years, to ask your forgiveness. You – you grew up in St. Martin’s Orphanage, didn’t you? They were quite obstinate about revealing records.”

  “So they should be! How do you come to know so much about me?” snapped Valerie, setting down her glass sharply. “What concern is it of yours? What do you want, money?” She was not at all pleased.

  The other gasped. “Oh, dear God, no! Please let me speak! I must inform you of… of… certain matters that concern you.”

  Valerie moved uncomfortably on her chair. There was something about this woman, about her eyes and long nose that was making her uneasy. “Very well, but
please get to the point.”

  Twisting her hands together, only occasionally raising her eyes, the woman described a cold winter night in 1986, when she abandoned a week-old infant on the steps of the orphanage. As she spoke, Valerie felt her body grow numb. Her ears heard the wavering voice go on and on through the drumming of her heart. That story was familiar; she had heard it from Melanie years ago, how she had been found on those steps and was taken into her mother Melanie’s arms forever.

  The woman had fallen silent, her head leaning heavily on her hands.

  Valerie stared at her for some time unable to react. She could not make a sound. Maryana’s white tea cup had stopped steaming, its contents already cool. In response to the silence, the stranger raised her own eyes, so like Valerie’s, and dared to look back at her, waiting for a word, any word at all.

  Finally, Valerie was able to choke out, “You are saying that you are my birth mother.”

  The woman’s eyes pleaded. “Yes. You are my own child, my daughter.”

  Valerie was caught in a hurricane of emotions. “How can you have the appalling cheek to come and ask forgiveness now? Did you think you could just scrape me off your plate and dump me in the trash, leaving me to survive, belonging nowhere and to no one but the kind woman who found me – and a lifetime later you expect forgiveness?” She pushed back her chair and picked up her jacket. “How dare you? What kind of person are you?”

  The woman made a sound between a sob and a moan. She sat there with silent tears rolling down her withered cheeks. “I couldn’t do anything else,” she whispered at last. “But you judge me so quickly and know nothing of the circumstances.”