Invented Lives

by Andrea Goldsmith

  A moment later and Leonard’s frown had disappeared, he was smiling. ‘South America?’ he said. She heard the intrigue in his voice. And then more firmly, ‘South America. What an interesting suggestion. Long ago, I read a suite of poems — wait, I’ll find it,’ and he dashed into his study, returning with a thin book. It was called The Heights of Macchu Picchu. They sat at the kitchen table and looked at the book together. The original Spanish was on one page and an English translation on the facing page. Sylvie had never heard of the poet Pablo Neruda, nor this place Macchu Picchu.

  Leonard told her that Neruda was Chile’s greatest poet. ‘Political poems, nature poems, love poems. Wonderful love poems, unrivalled by any other modern poet. Including Rilke.’

  Her husband knew about Rilke? This poet she thought she’d discovered herself?

  ‘And Macchu Picchu?’

  ‘I’ve seen pictures of it,’ Leonard said. ‘It’s an ancient Inca citadel built high in the Andes, surrounded by stunning, rugged peaks. It’s in ruins now, and perhaps because of this, it looks to me more like a great sacred site than a fortress. Ever since reading Neruda’s poem, I’ve wanted to see it.’

  ‘So let’s do it,’ Sylvie said. ‘Let’s go there.’

  He was smiling at her, lovingly, nakedly.

  ‘I prefer you without the moustache,’ she said. ‘I see you more clearly now.’

  His smile disappeared. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  The weight of those words was inescapable. She was deliberating on what to say, when he spoke again.

  ‘Do you forgive me, Sylvie? Can you ever forgive me?’

  She didn’t forgive him, but that was not the right answer, or perhaps Leonard’s was the wrong question. In the long silence that followed, she tried to work out exactly what she did feel. Forgiveness didn’t seem particularly relevant to what had happened to them. And how useful would it be anyway? Forgiveness by itself would change nothing. And if Leonard had told her at the beginning that he had these tendencies, told the young, sheltered nineteen-year-old she was, she probably wouldn’t have married him. And what a great loss that would have been. He had been a loving and attentive husband, he’d been an involved father, he’d been a good provider. She had loved him for more than thirty years, and she still loved him.

  At last she answered. ‘I accept you, Leonard.’

  He did not move. The room was silent. The second hand of the kitchen clock jerked through the seconds. She saw the tears well up. Never before had she seen her husband cry; men like Leonard didn’t cry. She left her chair and moved around to the back of his. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him. She felt him shudder, she heard his deep sigh.

  ‘Tell me about Rilke,’ she said.

  Across town, Galina and Andrew were admiring the window display of the Readings bookshop in Carlton. Arranged in tiered rows were the new releases, together with the Christmas titles. In the middle of the display was a copy of When Melbourne Meets Leningrad.

  ‘What a splendid sight,’ Andrew said.

  Her first book, published and for sale in a shop; it was hard to believe, despite what her eyes were telling her. And it did look splendid, even to her hyper-critical gaze. Not only its central position in the window, but its eye-catching cover. She had wanted a painterly, impressionistic design, but the publishers had overruled her. And seeing her book among all these other books, she realised the publishers had been right. The cover’s style now struck her, not without humour, as a fine tribute to Soviet Realism. The illustration depicted a Soviet girl in her Pioneer uniform framed by the Church on the Spilled Blood, holding the hand of an Australian boy standing in front of a Melbourne tram; the colours were bright, the lines were sharp. Soviet Realism taking pride of place in a Melbourne shop window, and she smiled: it wouldn’t have happened without her.

  Andrew produced a camera. ‘Posterity calls,’ he said.

  Galina wanted a photo of her book on display, but she didn’t want to make a show of herself. Andrew must have seen her hesitate, because he leaned in close and spoke directly in her ear. ‘This is a special occasion,’ he said. ‘A unique occasion. It’s your book, your day, and we need to mark it for all eternity.’

  He was right, and it was what she wanted. She hesitated a moment longer, then let him have his way. He positioned her against the window and took some photos; he asked her to move to the left and took more photos; he moved her to another position and took still more photos. He was taking each picture as if it were a masterpiece, while at the same time interrupting the pedestrian traffic.

  ‘She’s a new author,’ he explained to passers-by. And, pointing to the book in the window, ‘There’s her book. Don’t forget that name. Galina Kogan.’

  It would appear that when it came to her being in the limelight, Andrew managed to overcome his shyness.

  At last he was finished and the camera put away.

  ‘Did you take an entire roll of film?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not quite. But I’m happy to finish it off if you’d like.’

  He was laughing at her, and she joined in. However, when he suggested they go inside the bookshop to see how her book looked on the shelves, she begged off. She’d had enough. ‘Another day,’ she said. And then, as explanation, added, ‘It is good to spread out your joys.’

  He guided her to a nearby café where they toasted the success of her book with cappuccinos and jokes.

  ‘The Soviets might invite you back when your book becomes a runaway success.’

  ‘Success on foreign soil? No, they would not like that at all. This book makes me even more of an enemy in Soviet eyes.’

  ‘So different from Australia.’ Andrew was shaking his head. ‘When someone hits the big time overseas, having been previously ignored in Australia, he suddenly becomes Australia’s favourite son —’

  ‘Or daughter.’

  Andrew nodded, ‘Yes, of course. Son or daughter.’

  Galina recalled Zara telling her about the great Australian cringe. She raised the issue now with Andrew. ‘This is like relying on the acknowledgement and judgement of your betters?’

  Andrew nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘You condemn this?’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s bloody 1988. Our generation of Australians must stand up for itself.’ He paused. ‘All Australians should.’

  As Galina walked home, Andrew’s words resonated, not in the context he meant, but in her own situation. Ever since Mikhail had gate-crashed her life, she had not stood up for herself. He was still living under her roof, he was still eating her meals, he was still expecting her to look after him; he was, in short, still using her to negotiate his Australian life. Initially, all decisions had been beyond her, but with Mikhail’s expanding interests through the Russian club, she had regained something of her old self — though not enough, it seemed, to resume her life properly. It was as if she were becalmed, and while the state was not disagreeable, it was largely ineffectual. But now? She had to stand up for herself. She’d put her own life and her own future on ice for long enough. She needed to act.

  She had long ago fixed on the solution to Mikhail’s housing: Alexei Lebedev from the Russian club. In the three months since their first meeting, Alexei and Mikhail had become firm friends. They met at the club two or three times a week, they’d been on several club outings together, and Mikhail had stayed over at Alexei’s place a number of times. Alexei was lonely, his family home was large, he would welcome Mikhail as a permanent housemate. And at Alexei’s place, Mikhail would have the space he had enjoyed as a member of the Soviet elite, along with all the Western conveniences he so admired.

  When he first visited Alexei’s house, Mikhail had returned home full of admiration for the kitchen machines and household gadgets.

  ‘You live like a peasant,’ he had said to her. ‘No mixmaster, no
Bamix, no air conditioner, no microwave. A peasant,’ he repeated in disgust.

  A long time ago, Sylvie had asked if she were afraid of Mikhail. Galina had not answered, but of course she was. Though what could he do here, in Australia? To her, or to anyone, for that matter? And the answer was clear: nothing, nothing at all. But it seemed that rationality had no authority when it came to her fear. This man had been responsible for his own parents’ death, he had treated his sister abominably, he had thrived during the worst of times. This man now lived in her home, he slept metres from where she slept. She should have told him to leave long ago, but she was afraid of what he could do, a fear well founded on what he had done.

  She recalled a startling moment in Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground when the narrator, in describing his bullying of a work colleague, said he was scaring sparrows for his own amusement. A lot of Soviet officials scared sparrows for their own amusement; it was a way of flaunting their power while proving their loyalty to the Soviet state and its leaders. It wasn’t only what Mikhail had done as a boy to his family; as a member of the Soviet elite he would have scared plenty of sparrows. But he wasn’t in the Soviet Union anymore, he wasn’t in the power elite. He had no power. But for all her reasoning, the fear remained.

  One evening, after a pleasant day spent with Alexei, Mikhail had tried to explain to her how it had been — not to make amends, and certainly not to seek forgiveness or excuse himself. ‘I have no need to make excuses,’ were his opening words. He just wanted her to understand the situation from his point of view.

  He was fifteen when he informed on his father. ‘When you are young, the world is simple. You believe what you are told.’

  Most of all, he believed in Stalin. Stalin could do no wrong. Stalin was truly ‘the best friend to all children’.

  ‘Stalin never met me,’ he said. ‘But I thought he knew me better than my own father.’

  ‘But surely you loved your parents?’ Her tone of voice was anything but neutral.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose I did, but my allegiance to my country and my leader was stronger. That’s how we were taught it should be. That’s how I believed it should be.’

  He wasn’t sorry for what he did, and he felt no guilt. ‘I was doing the right thing.’

  He explained that once you are inside the system, an insider committed to the system, you don’t see it, you don’t question it. ‘It’s your world, your normal world, and it looks after you. I did not need to analyse, I did not need to think.’ He lit a cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully. ‘It’s easy to forget what is inconvenient to remember. Your faith makes you forget, and the rewards for being a good Soviet citizen make you forget. I remember nothing about the night my father was taken away.’

  Lidiya, in contrast, had remembered every single moment — like a series of snapshots played in slow motion, she used to say.

  Mikhail sucked on his cigarette, vigorously, as was his way. Between drags, he said that if circumstances had been even slightly changed, if this or that or something else had happened, he might have acted differently as a fifteen-year-old. ‘But I think it unlikely. Your mother and I were opposites. I loved Stalin, I loved the Soviet system. And the Soviet Union was very good to me. It’s not hard to love what treats you well.’

  He regretted very little, but he was sorry he hadn’t done more for Lidiya. ‘It’s too late to tell your mother, so I’m telling you instead. I’m sorry. I wish I’d done more for her.’

  Lidiya would have scoffed at his apologies. Apologies, she would say, are no good to her now. Apologies don’t undo the damage he did; apologies don’t make all the pains disappear. If Mikhail had apologised forty years ago, or thirty or even twenty years ago, it might have been different; but he loses nothing by apologising now, he risks nothing. Her mother would reject his apologies, would regard them as empty. People like him would say anything to get what they want, she’d say. They’d lie, they’d distort, they’d cheat. And what he wants now is an easy old age in a country that is utterly foreign to him. And he needs you, his niece, and he’ll say anything to bring you onside.

  Her mother would probably be right, but somehow Lidiya’s judgement didn’t hold as much weight in the Australian context. In fact, it occurred to Galina as she walked home after coffee with Andrew, that all these old animosities don’t transport well at all. It’s as if they lose muscle during the long journey.

  She unlocked the door and entered the saddlery. The smell of Mikhail’s cigarettes hit her; she suspected the smoke had seeped into the furniture, into the bed coverings. When he was gone, as surely he would be soon, she would have to wash everything. Actually, there was much she wanted to throw out, and she felt herself smile: how very un-Soviet to throw out anything that retained a skerrick of usefulness.

  She poured herself a glass of water and went out to the courtyard. Mikhail was playing cards at the Russian club — not with Alexei, who was babysitting his grandchildren, but with some other fellows he’d met. She’d sent him off this morning with a sandwich lunch, so she didn’t expect him home until mid-afternoon. Time enough to work up her courage.

  She must stand up for herself. Mikhail must go.

  When her uncle first turned up in Australia, she wanted revenge for the suffering he had caused her mother and grandparents. The desire for revenge had now gone. Revenge didn’t reverse the earlier wrongs; it changed nothing about those old hurts, nor did it bring justice. No matter what she might do to Mikhail, the losses would still be her losses, the pain her pain. But neither did it seem fair that he got off scot-free. And she wondered if evading punishment was another privilege of the privileged class. Bad, powerful men rarely got their comeuppance.

  Whatever happened, she must take her life back.

  Next week was the anniversary of her mother’s death — three years from the day in 1985 when her old life ended. And since then she had created so much new life: new country, new friends, new work. How much longer would she forfeit her life for this old man, this old Soviet who never gave any thought to anyone other than himself?

  She sat on the edge of the planter box. Her tomato plants were growing nicely; she loved tomatoes almost as much as passionfruit and bananas. These small pleasures of her new life. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves, and she raised her face to the blue Australian sky. She had let him suck the courage from her, but she must build it again.

  And suddenly it burst upon her: Mikhail was in her debt. Mikhail owed her. Mikhail owed her for the deaths of the grandparents she never knew; he owed her for the neglect of her mother, and for all the deprivations that ordinary Soviet citizens like her suffered while he lived his life of caviar and ermine. Mikhail was in her debt. And he was adding to the debt right now; he was taking her shelter and her food, her English language and her Australian know-how.

  It was time to make him stop. It was time for him to leave. It was time for her to take her life back.

  She considered various strategies, but in the end, with her courage still faltering, she opted for the Soviet way. Mikhail would leave: she would arrange it. She picked up the phone and dialled Alexei’s number. The phone rang and rang. She prayed for him to be home. Finally, he picked up; he was out of breath, he’d run in from the garden. She went straight to the point. She said that Mikhail would like to come and live with Alexei. She said that he was too proud to ask for this himself, but she knew for certain it was what he wanted.

  Alexei was delighted at the prospect, as she knew he would be. His house was empty, he was lonely. But he was worried about Galina. ‘You are Misha’s family. You will be lonely now.’ And she said it was because she was family that she could act in Misha’s best interests. She would manage.

  ‘I want my uncle to be happy,’ she said, with convincing ease.

  ‘You are a good girl,’ said Alexei.

  Together they devised a plan. Most crucially, Misha must never know
about this phone call.

  ‘You are a very good girl,’ Alexei said again. ‘You have made two old men very happy.’

  She had been a good Soviet girl, that was what she’d been. She had called in her debts at no cost to herself.

  17

  UNDER THE AUSTRALIAN SUN

  The country was burning. Every evening, the television news ran footage of fire devouring crops, bushland and dwellings. Galina saw kangaroos in a frantic leaping from the fury; wombats, echidnas and bandicoots were incinerated in the undergrowth. As for the sheep and cows corralled in paddocks, the poor creatures did not stand a chance.

  Her fear of fire was an inherited terror. Her mother had lived through the siege of Leningrad: nine hundred days with the Germans at the gate, no water, no food, no electricity, and death perpetually on the prowl. Lidiya was just thirteen when it began. The cold of those winters was excruciating, she said. People broke up furniture, they broke up buildings, they broke up paintings and pianos to feed the stove; and the cruelty of it was you were never warm. Later it became even more difficult, not simply because of the scarcity of timber, but strength also was in short supply. Starvation, her mother said, shrivels not only the body but also the will.

  And then came the fires you didn’t want. They broke out in the kommunalki, small fires that spread through the dry crackling rooms and passageways. And outside, in a macabre and terrifying light, the constant shelling and incendiary bombs whipped up towering conflagrations all over the city. Leningrad was burning, and there was neither strength nor water to douse the flames. The siege ended, the war finished, Lidiya grew up, she married and bore a child, but her terror of fire died only when she did. There was ample opportunity for her daughter to inherit the fear.

  ‘There are no fires in the High Country at the moment,’ Andrew said as he packed the car. ‘And none en route either. I’ve checked.’