Invented Lives

by Andrea Goldsmith

  He looked horrified. ‘You’ve been here … how long?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘So what have you been using to do your work?’

  She explained that she used the pens and inks and stationery she had found in her work space, supplemented with materials she brought from home.

  Neil shook his head in disbelief. ‘You should’ve been taken to the stationery cupboard on your very first day. Come with me.’

  Down the end of the office next to the kitchenette was a cupboard with double doors. There was a lock, but no key. Galina passed this cupboard regularly, but had assumed it had nothing to do with her work. Now Neil opened the doors to reveal broad shelves rising to a height of about two metres, each shelf stacked with stationery. There was paper of all sizes and thicknesses; envelopes small and large; manila folders and suspension files; thick, thin and medium-weight cardboard; pens, inks, pencils; poster paints, trays of water colours, brushes; rubbers, sticking tape, glue; staplers and staples, paperclips and butterfly clips, and more Letraset than she had ever seen in one place before. It was a spectacular sight.

  ‘This,’ Neil said, ‘is a stationery cupboard.’

  ‘It looks like a stationery shop,’ Galina said.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Neil was smiling. ‘But we don’t have to pay.’

  He explained that these materials were for the use of Merridale staff. ‘You take what you want.’

  ‘You mean you take what you need?’

  ‘What you want, what you need …’ He shrugged, and smiled again. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference.’

  The cupboard was full of materials she needed and more materials she wanted. ‘You are saying I can take anything?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But surely someone will check?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Anything?’

  Again he nodded. ‘Let me help you.’ He reached for an empty carton and started piling items into it.

  She was uncomfortable, she was worried, it was this business of helping yourself, and Neil must have noticed, for he told her to make a selection of paper and go back to her desk; he would follow with the rest. A few minutes later he put the loaded box on her desk, and emptied it item by item.

  Spread in front of her was the new stationery. But still she worried, wanted to shield the booty — how else to think of it? At the same time, why would Neil, who, after all, had taken items from the cupboard for himself, want to get her into trouble? Trust: such a Western value and regarded as a virtue in this country. Never would it be for her.

  Again, Neil saw how anxious she was, and again he reassured her: she should have been introduced to the stationery cupboard on her very first day. He co-opted the other Merridale artists for confirmation. They all nodded and smiled and offered encouraging comments, and finally she concluded they simply could not all be in league against her.

  The stationery cupboard was, she decided, one of the wonders of Australia, perhaps of the entire Western world. How she wished she could share it with her mother. A cupboard from which you could take what you wanted, the supplies of which were constantly replenished. It reminded her of an old Russian fairytale in which a bowl of food never emptied, no matter how much was eaten.

  For twenty-five years she had lived in a society where you took what you could get; you took because you were always in need, you took because tomorrow things might be worse. When she arrived in Australia, she took the clothes, she took the shoes and food, she took the cinema and concert tickets, she took the two-for-one deals at cafés and shops, she took because tomorrow conditions might worsen. And when they did not, when the food spoiled in the fridge and the milk turned sour, when the clothes hung unworn and the entertainments became too plentiful, she learned to restrain herself. But it felt unnatural to refuse such abundance.

  Sally, one of the artists at Merridale’s, was a very big woman; privately, Galina thought of her as fat. One day, Sally confessed she never had the feeling of fullness, that the only way she could stop eating was to make herself stop when her plate was empty, or after a small second helping, or when her companions had finished their meals: she made herself stop before she was satisfied. This was how Galina felt about Australia’s abundance.

  While Neil removed trees and replaced them with low-slung bushes, Galina spent the afternoon shading — dots on this wall, cross-hatching on that, zigzags on the roof — each type of shading selected from a special catalogue of marks. The work required little thought, yet it occupied her entire attention. It was nearly six o’clock when she again found herself in the street. The cool change had not arrived.

  She arrived home slick with perspiration. Her sandals had chafed, and there was a blister on her smallest toe. She stripped to her underwear, and grabbed a jug of cold water from the fridge; she did not bother with a glass as no one else would be drinking from it. Wisps of hair had escaped the plait; her neck itched, and she swiped and scratched, then leaned over the sink and emptied the rest of the jug over her head.

  She straightened up and let the water run down her neck and over her shoulders. Within seconds her bra was soaked: if only she were as porous to Australian life. The day had brought no unforeseen difficulties; the only unexpected happening, her introduction to the stationery cupboard, should have brought only delight. Yet she felt miserable and, as hard as it was to admit, lonely. No denying it any longer: she was lonely.

  She wondered if she had been too tough on herself, that the independence she had demanded had been self-defeating. Or perhaps it was more dire than this: that she would never adjust fully to life here, that she was simply too Russian for Australia.

  She opened a folder lying at the back of her worktable. There was the Australian man’s card, this Andrew Morrow who was the reason she was now living in a country the very existence of which had never entered her mind before he had bumped into her.

  Too Russian? So use it, she told herself, be a Russian. Work out what you need and take it.

  Andrew Morrow’s card was in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other. Theirs had been an accidental meeting two years ago. He might not remember her, and even if he did, he had a life here — family, friends, girlfriend, perhaps even a wife. What need would he have for a lonely Russian treading the slippery slopes of immigration?

  She replaced the phone in the cradle and stood staring through the window at her patch of garden. What was the worst that could happen if she were to call him? The very worst? That having been reminded of who she was, he told her to fuck off? (Australians were champion swearers.) Compared with her experience of the past couple of years, this would be tantamount to swatting a fly.

  She picked up the receiver again, and dialled his number.

  5

  UNSTUCK BUT NOT UNDONE

  Andrew Morrow put down the phone. It was the Russian girl, Galina Kogan. After all this time. The phone had rung, he had let it pass to the answering machine, he heard his abrupt, uninviting message followed by a drawn-out silence, and in that moment something alerted him, something insisted he take the call. He jumped up, his cup crashed to the floor, he lunged for the phone. And there she was, Galina Kogan, hesitant and apologetic, reminding him who she was — as if he could have forgotten after her starring role in his thoughts and imaginings these past couple of years. She was here, in Melbourne, the real Galina Kogan, and living just a short distance away.

  The phone call had been mercifully brief. They arranged to meet the following Saturday for an expedition to the Queen Victoria Market; he would pick her up at nine and they would travel on the tram together. Saturday, just four days away: too short a time to contrive a reason for cancelling, too long to prevent his nerves from hitting fever pitch.

  He rolled himself a cigarette and went up to the roof. Under the radiant sky, with Goddy pattering beside him, he paced and smoked and replayed the phone call. Had he said anyt
hing inept? For that matter, had he said anything of consequence? He wondered how long she’d been in Australia, and why she was contacting him now. He suspected she was lonely, that she didn’t specifically want him, she just needed someone, anyone, for company. As to what he might want from her, in real life, he had no idea: within a few weeks of their first and only meeting, it had ceased to be relevant.

  Only four days to prepare. Ninety-six hours to work himself into a state of terror. His heart was racing, his mind was a riot, he was already in a state of terror. All the conversations he had imagined now seemed empty, and any new ones he quickly dismissed as puerile or gobbledegook. He tried to calm himself. With so much to see at the market there would be little need for talk; it would be like going to the movies. But they would not be sitting in the dark, they would not be silent, and it would be nothing like the movies. What on earth had he done?

  Galina hung up the phone. What on earth had she done? She should have waited, as she had numerous times before, waited for the loneliness to ease. Be a Russian, she had told herself, seek out what you need. What about Russian resilience? She should have gone for a walk, she should have forced herself to work, she should have telephoned Zara or one of the Soviet Jews. Or she could have sought solace at the cathedral — the Catholic or the Anglican, it made no difference; all churches, she had discovered, were havens for the lonely. Surrounded by the glorious windows and the silent statues, she could have settled in a pew and waited for the loneliness to slip into solitude. But she hadn’t gone to the cathedral and she hadn’t worked, she’d been impatient and foolish. She held nothing against Andrew; she was happy to see him, but not as a solution to her weakness.

  There were four days to prepare for the visit to the market. Andrew said they could buy food and later make themselves a meal — either at his place or hers, he did not specify. Galina had heard about this market, and expected she would enjoy the expedition, despite the circumstances that had brought it about. But as a novice cook, she would not enjoy cooking with a stranger. Yet when Andrew suggested they prepare a meal together, she had not hesitated. This, she decided, was a measure of her desperation. What on earth had she done?

  Two years had passed since her mother had died, two years since Andrew Morrow had toppled her in the street, yet Galina thought she had retained a clear image of him; but at exactly nine o’clock the following Saturday morning she opened the door to a stranger. In her memory his hair had been white-blond and closely cropped, but this man’s hair was golden and fell past his shoulders in lush, Jesus-like waves. And the body, bulked out by the sheepskin jacket he had worn in Leningrad, was now slender, even thin, and he was just a couple of centimetres taller than she was, and not the two-metre man of her memory. He was wearing jeans and a sky-blue, tie-dyed T-shirt, and he was unrecognisable.

  He stood outside her door, arms dangling in the awkward space of an Australian greeting. Russians were lavish kissers, and in Italy you shook hands, but here the men seemed at a loss to know how to greet a woman. In exasperation, she held out her hand. He grasped it — gratefully, she thought.

  She slipped on her jacket, grabbed her shopping bag, and they walked to the tram stop along the main road bordering the cemetery. The weather was mild with a cool breeze; cottony clouds bulged white and motionless in the astonishing blue of the Australian sky. She buttoned her jacket and wondered if Andrew, with his bare arms, was cold. He seemed nervous — although what he, at home in his own city and in charge of this expedition, had to be nervous about, she could not guess. As they walked, he asked the usual predictable questions: how long she had been in Australia, how long she was planning to stay. A year, she answered to the first, and forever to the second, even while hoping for the questions she most wanted: ‘Why did you come?’ and ‘How are you faring?’

  She was grateful for the arrival of a tram. She took a window seat — she nearly always managed a window seat on these Melbourne trams — and gazed through the glass at the passing scenery. They travelled in silence; if she’d been less aware of Andrew, she could have pretended she was alone.

  And then they were at the market. It was huge, it was astonishing, it was marvellous. Filled with people and surprises, it was how she imagined a carnival might be.

  ‘If I was not seeing this with my own eyes, I would not believe it,’ she said. ‘You must show me everything.’

  Her dark eyes were sparkling, her whole face was alive; she was a joy to watch. Andrew wondered at this unguarded delight of hers. Was it attributable to her Russianness and a direct result of her former deprivation? Might it be typical of any migrant? Or was it specific to her, Galina Kogan? That she could be from London, Nepal, Palermo, or Palm Springs and she would still display such exuberance. Whatever the explanation, it was captivating — she was captivating.

  He started their tour in the fruit-and-vegetable section. They entered the area and Galina immediately stopped, right in the middle of the main walkway. Quickly, he guided her away from the stream of shoppers to one end of the open-sided shed so she could observe undisturbed.

  The air was cool, and plump with summer fruits; pigeons flapped beneath the roof beams, and sparrows darted from one side of the shed to the other; people laden with bags and shopping trolleys jostled together in the aisles. There was the clarion call of stall-holders spruiking their bargains, of parents shouting at straying children, and bursts of laughter trumpeting above the general noise. Galina stood at the end of the shed, transfixed by the extraordinary sight. So many times in the past year she had been struck by the plenitude in Australia, but nothing could compare with this. There must have been a hundred stalls in the section, each piled high with fresh, unbruised produce. It was heavenly: the colours, the appetising smells, the good cheer.

  As they walked the aisles, she noticed Italian and Greek names on the placards above the stalls, and quite a few Asian ones, too. Perhaps these were the Vietnamese boat people she had heard so much about; she was on the verge of asking Andrew about this when she noticed a Russian name above one of the vegetable stalls. The elderly vendor was talking with an equally elderly customer, and she lingered over some potatoes in order to listen. It was not Russian she was hearing but Yiddish, a language she did not herself speak but quite a number of Soviet Jews did. She was tempted to try some Russian on them, but though she was sure they’d understand, her nerves failed her.

  Sometimes the crowd was so dense, she and Andrew couldn’t move — not that she cared, there was so much to see. One stall sold only berries, another potatoes, a third displayed several different varieties of mushrooms. She bought some dark-brown ones: she would make Russian comfort food for their meal, a buckwheat kasha with mushrooms, which should offset cooking with a stranger. And Andrew bought an avocado — for their lunch, he said (how many meals did he intend they eat together?) — before guiding her into the delicatessen hall.

  This area was even more fabulous than the fruit-and-vegetable section: an entire building of delicatessens. If only her mother were here. The smell was luscious with cheeses and sausages, smoked meats and pickles. They started down the first aisle. Standing outside one of the stalls was a woman with a plate of cheese. The cheese had been cut into small cubes and she was offering them to passers-by. Some people helped themselves, others declined, and no one was giving her any money. When she and Andrew drew near, the plate was held out to them.

  ‘Go on,’ Andrew said. ‘Take a piece.’ And when she hesitated, he added, ‘These are samples. They’re free.’

  While she stood there dithering, other people were helping themselves, so she did too, although moved away quickly. The cheese was delicious, and she wondered if you were allowed to go back for more; but with another woman just up ahead offering little biscuits covered with a pink cream, she decided not to risk it. The pink cream was a caviar dip, Andrew said. Again she hesitated, and again Andrew said she should help herself, that these were samples. The pink cream was e
ven more delicious than the cheese.

  There were many more vendors in the deli section who were giving away their food. Andrew occasionally tasted something, but she took everything on offer, even while perplexed at such largesse: didn’t these people want to make the best profits? At least with the two-for-one deals at cafés and shops, the owners were earning some money; these deli people were getting nothing.

  She noticed that most of the stall-holders in this section were Italian. ‘So it is true,’ she said to Andrew, ‘Italians are the main immigrant group here.’

  Galina’s words caught Andrew by surprise. He’d gone out early to buy the Saturday papers to find topics of conversation; he’d been particularly pleased to find an article about the USSR under Gorbachev. ‘What’s your take on the current situation in the USSR?’ he had imagined asking, an excellent open-ended question that would keep her talking with only an occasional prompt required from him. But now she was asking about Italians and immigration.

  He swung the shopping bag over his shoulder, shoved his sweaty hands into his pockets, and gathered some words together. He told her there were many Italian immigrants, particularly in Melbourne, but they were probably outnumbered by Greeks. Melbourne, he said, was the third-largest Greek city in the world. It sounded like a boast, which was not his intention at all.

  ‘We’ve a large Chinese community too, they’ve been here since the gold rush, and of course there’s the new Vietnamese population. And Jews, they came after the war.’ He looked around. ‘A lot of Jews used to have stalls here at the market. I expect they still do.’

  Had he guessed she was Jewish? But how could he? Russians would recognise Kogan as a Jewish name, but he wouldn’t. Should she tell him she was Jewish? And quickly dismissed the thought: there was absolutely no reason why he needed to know.

  They stopped at a deli that specialised in salted and smoked meats. Hanging from hooks were sausages that looked very much like sosiski. She made a mental note of the location of the stall: she’d return by herself to investigate these sosiski lookalikes. For now, she bought some bacon for the kasha, and at another stall, Andrew bought a loaf of bread. He then led her into the seafood area.