Skylark
By
Sheila Simonson
Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon
2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-128-8
ISBN 10: 1-60174-128-6
Skylark
Copyright © 1992, 2012 by Sheila Simonson
Cover design
Copyright © 2012 by Judith B. Glad
Previously published in hardcover by
St. Martin's Press, 1992
Worldwide, 1993
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.
Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
DEDICATION
In loving memory of Louise Smith,
without whom this book would never have got off the ground.
LONDON 1989
I simply take the side of truth against any lie...
--Vaçlav Havel
History is an ocean. Events--the kind that make headlines--are whitecaps. Other forces deep below the surface of awareness, tides and currents, move the mass of water at their will, warming, shaping, destroying. We notice the waves, though.
If the events of 1989 had been presented as fiction, nobody would have believed them. I'm a private person. As a rule, public events pass me by. I tut-tut or give a mild cheer and get on with my own life, but in the spring of 1989, a wave of events slopped over into my private life. I got my feet wet.
Chapter 1.
London, Spring 1989.
Ann Veryan put her tray down by mine and let the strap of her vast purse slide from her shoulder. She hung the bag over the back of her chair and sat down. "Prawn salad?"
"Salmon," I said glumly. "Canned." I should have known better than to choose salmon salad in a London cafeteria, or, in fact, any salad. Salad is one of those words like knickers and napkin and bum that Americans trip over in England.
"Where's Milos?" Ann wore large pink-tinted glasses. She peered around.
"Still talking to his friend, I guess. Yes, there he is." I pointed out the window.
Ann craned. "Well, he'd better hurry if he wants to eat before six. Wasn't that a great production?"
I took a sip from my glass. The wine was French and good, the food English. "I liked Lady Macbeth's dress."
"Lord, yes. Blood red, wasn't it?" Ann's pasta casserole looked marginally more interesting than my canned salmon. She babbled on about the costumes.
We had just attended a matinee of the RSC's Macbeth at the Barbican Centre. The set was interesting and the acting competent, but I thought this Macbeth was a little like Hamlet--having a hard time making up its mind what it wanted to do.
I live in northern California, within a hundred miles of the oldest Shakespeare festival in the country, and I grew up within driving distance of the Stratford, Ontario, festival, not to mention Broadway. Ann, poor thing, had taught Macbeth to high school seniors in Purvey, Georgia, for fifteen years without once seeing the play on stage. I didn't intend to spoil her pleasure with critical carping, so I listened to her and looked out the tall window at the rain-swept plaza.
Red and yellow tulips made a brave show against the gray stonework, but it was nasty out, blowing up a storm. A coachload of determined Japanese tourists were taking pictures of each other. Milos and his friend huddled in the lee of a kiosk. Everyone else had prudently sought shelter.
Ann was marveling over the raked stage and the set--very vertical and claustrophobic. I watched Milos's friend hand him something. It looked like a green plastic bag of the sort Harrods supplied with purchases. Milos gave the man's shoulder a pat as he went off, bent into the storm.
The glass door to the cafeteria opened and shut on a gust of wind, and Milos strode over to us, beaming. "They have tied me to the stake. I cannot fly, but bearlike I must fight the course." He shook himself, spraying water, tossed his raincoat over the extra chair, placed his furled umbrella and the mysterious parcel on the seat, and sat down.
Ann gave him a warm smile. "Wasn't the play wonderful?"
"Aroint thee, witch, the rump-fed runyan cries."
"The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon," Ann shot back without missing a beat.
"Cream-faced loon," Milos repeated. "Even in tragedy, such a playful sense of language."
"How do you remember useful quotes like that, Milos?" I asked, sipping my wine.
"Simple genius." The wind had whipped a healthy color across Milos's high cheekbones and tousled his hair. For a moment he looked almost romantic. Then he smoothed his mustache with one finger, took a slurp of wine, dived into the quiche I had selected for him, and became once more himself--a middle-aged Middle European waiter who served dinner nightly at the Hanover Hotel and studied accounting in the daytime.
Ann and I, who were sharing a flat to cut costs, had attended a booksellers' convention at the Hanover the week before. It was an expensive hotel, and Milos was a good waiter, but romantic? No.
The English do not strike up casual acquaintances, especially not with Americans, whose social class they can't gauge. I had since called on two of my mother's old friends and been welcomed kindly, but Ann knew no one in London except Milos and me, and she didn't know me well. The booking agency for the flat had put us in touch with each other. Ann was lonely and newly divorced--looking for diversion. She had bumped into Milos at a pub on his night off and, on impulse, invited him to join us at the play. She liked him. So did I, but I wondered at his motives. Was he angling for an American wife and passport?
He said, between bites, "In prison I am translating Macbeth into Czech to keep myself from dying of boredom. Prison is very boring." He popped a bit of quiche into his mouth, keeping the fork in his left hand.
European table manners were beginning to look normal to me after ten days away from home. I raised a forkful of salmon with my left hand. The pale pink flesh fell onto my lap. I dabbed. "Were you in prison long?" He'd told us he had been a political prisoner, a dissident.
He shrugged. "Is a year long? I am twenty the first time--that is in '68--and it seems forever. This time--two years ago, you understand--my mind is better fortified. I have memorized Macbeth, and so I amuse myself well enough."
"The mind is its own place," Ann murmured.
"What is that?"
She flushed. "Milton. 'The mind is its own place and of itself can make a heaven of hell or hell of heaven.'"
"Ah, of course. 'Paradise Lost.' You are comparing me to Lucifer."
Ann's eyes widened.
"Devil that I am." Milos laughed. "You ask how I like this production of Macbeth, Ann. The scene at the end with the spears...is that the right word?"
"Lances," I murmured.
"Yes, with the lances coming through the stone wall of the castle. That is very good. Also I like Lady Macbeth's gown."
It was my turn to laugh.
He cocked an eyebrow.
"That was my reaction, too."
He turned back to Ann. "Ah, my poor friend, it is your first time to see the play, and Lark and I are making light of it."
A spot of color showed on Ann's cheek. "I could see that it wasn't perfect. Malcolm fluffed one of his lines, and I didn't like the banquet scene. All the same I thought it was wonderful."
"And s
o it was," Milos said. "A wonderful way to spend a rainy afternoon. Eat, ladies. I must be at work in an hour."
We ate, gathered our belongings together, and left. Outside the complex, Milos swung the green Harrods bag to his left hand and tried to open his large black umbrella one-handed with his right.
"Why don't you let me tuck your sack into my handbag?" Ann asked. "There's plenty of room." There was. Ann's purse was the size of an airline tote and covered in needlepoint. It shouted American Tourist, Snatch Me. Milos eyed it without enthusiasm, but a gust of wind tore at his umbrella, so he shrugged and handed Ann the plastic bag. It was a Harrods bag, and rather battered as if it had been used several times.
"Not very heavy." Ann stowed it and settled her purse on her shoulder. She was wearing one of those pleated plastic rain hats, useful but ugly.
"Just some papers," Milos muttered, wrestling his umbrella into submission.
I tied a scarf over my head. "Shall I hail a taxi?"
"Nonsense." Milos led the way. "The Tube station is not far and the Underground is quicker than a taxi this time of day."
He set a rapid pace. Londoners, even dissident Czech Londoners, walk fast. We dashed along in his wake.
Ann and I had passes, so we jostled through the crowd at the ticket taker's booth while Milos zipped through the automatic turnstile. He waited for us with leashed impatience. The station was crowded with commuters in raincoats and suits. We went with the flow and found the right Circle Line platform. The day before, I had hopped on a train going west when I wanted to go to Victoria from South Kensington. I was in Bayswater before I figured out what I'd done.
There was no question of finding a seat. We squished through the double-width doors and stood together in the middle of the car, held upright by the press of people. The doors shut, and the car lurched into motion.
I kept my eyes on the map of the Underground above the windows. When we flashed through the Mansion House station, I relaxed and let my gaze wander. We were going the right way for South Kensington. Milos would get off at Gloucester Road, one stop farther along.
He was standing beside me, balancing easily as the train swayed. His damp coat gave off a faint smoky smell. I was holding one of those skyhooks, the equivalent of straps, that are intended to help standees keep their balance. It worked fine for me, but Ann was too short to reach the plastic knobs without dislocating her shoulder joint.
She sidled over to the panel that separated the entry area from the seats and clung to the metal edge. Her purse sagged, and the little plastic bonnet dripped. She looked tired. I gave her a smile but was just too far from her to say anything without shouting. At Charing Cross, with access to the main line station, there was a general turmoil as passengers swarmed on and off the car. Milos and I were shoved farther along, away from Ann. She clung to her panel and smiled.
The train rushed and rattled through the dark. The lights of our car lit up patches of sooty stonework. The window gave back a reflection of the packed-in passengers.
A woman facing me was reading the Evening Standard with avid concentration. Something about Princess Di's knees merited a screamer headline and a half-page photo. The woman's briefcase jabbed at my hip. I inched sideways. "Sorry," she said without looking at me.
Londoners say sorry with no inflection at all when they cross in front of you in the theater or jostle you on the street, and sometimes when you jostle them. It isn't even a politeness, because there's no feeling in the expression at all, not even fake feeling. They aren't sorry. They're just letting you know Mum brought them up right.
They also avoid eye-contact. Nobody in that crammed car was looking at anyone else unless they worked in the same office and had gone to the right schools together. Then they murmured. Mostly they didn't say anything. They just stood there, swaying against each other, avoiding each other's eyes by reading their tabloids or the adverts above the windows, or looking down at their feet. Each was enclosed in a sheath of privacy. It was strange and entertaining. When I first arrived in London I invented a game. I stared until someone met my eyes by accident, then I smiled. My victims always looked away at once, as if I had farted.
Neat snippets of poetry were printed on placards among the commercial messages--some ingenious civil servant bringing culture to the masses. A much anthologized poem of my mother's had stared me right in the face on the way in from Heathrow Airport. This car displayed Thomas Hardy's "In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations.'" I read with critical attention.
"Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War's annals will fade into night
Ere their story die."
"Maid" and "wight." Self-consciously archaic diction by the time Hardy was writing. The car swayed. The lights flickered.
Abruptly, the train came to a dead halt in the dark tunnel. The air-conditioner whirred, the electric engine hummed, a few commuters murmured. Someone near me cleared his throat.
Only that morning the Independent, my newspaper of choice, had given extensive space to the inquiry into the King's Cross fire of the year before. Gruesome details floated to the surface of my mind. Charred corpses, corpses dead of smoke inhalation, corpses trampled by other corpses. I am not as a rule claustrophobic, but I began to sweat. I glanced at Ann. She was pale. I grimaced at her, comically, I hoped. She smiled. Beside me, Milos clucked his tongue.
"Did you say something?"
"Perhaps a taxi would have been faster after all. This is the third time I am delayed this week on the Tube. They are having troubles in the electrical system."
"Wonderful."
We lapsed into silence. Apart from one or two hushed murmurs no one said anything. We just stood there sweating in our raingear and waiting. No one looked at anyone else.
I stared at the reflection of our faces in the window and thought what fools human beings were. I was paying our Miss Beale an outrageous sum for half a tiny flat with no shower and a refrigerator the size of a TV set--all in order to stand below tons of English dirt, sweating beside a hundred or so English citizens, none of whom would give me the time of day. Dumb idea. The lady with the briefcase lowered her paper, turned the page, and began reading something about a horse race. I wished I was at a horse race. I was willing to bet Dick Francis didn't ride the tube.
The car shuddered and jolted about three feet forward. Right direction. It groaned to a halt again. Tabloid Tessy read on.
Just as I was bracing myself for the next train to crash into ours, the car gave a series of jolts and squawks and started to move. There was a soft simultaneous sigh of relief from the commuters. They were going to live, after all. The tabloid fancier had turned to the football scores.
At Victoria--white tile on the walls, blue edging--half the passengers got off and twice as many pushed aboard. They were less homogenous than the City commuters--fewer pinstripes, more jeans and sweatshirts, more women with shopping bags, fewer with briefcases, a sprinkling of tourists in bright colors.
We were jammed in cheek by jowl by briefcase. I wriggled around so I was facing the open door and yanked my scarf down. The door stood open, but no one else got on. The people on the platform seemed resigned to waiting for the next train.
"Hot?" Milos and I were now facing each other, eyeball-to-eyeball. "It's stuffy, no?"
"'The mind is its own place,'" I muttered.
His mustache quirked in a grin. "Breathe lightly and think of your so-tall redwoods. How is Ann? Can you see her?"
I peered. She had removed the plastic bonnet and shifted the bag to her left shoulder. She gave me a wan smile.
On the platform the public address system garbled out a warning to stand clear of the doors. They slid shut and the train began to move. I caught my reflection as we entered the tunnel--short black hair standing up in tufts, raincoat collar askew beneath the loud scarf. Strange, the scarf hadn't looked loud when I bought it in San Francisco.
I clung to the skyhook and swayed with the movement of
the train. The lights flickered. The train slowed, sped up again. Just a curve in the roadbed. I breathed.
I decided to distract myself by sorting out the other passengers. They were individuals, after all, not a huge mindless organism.
The lady directly in front of me--beside Milos--had to be an upscale housewife. Hair like Maggie Thatcher's, shopping bags from Harrods and Peter Jones. The small, intense man in the seedy blue suit and black raincoat was an Iranian terrorist who would leave the train at High Street Kensington to throw bombs at the headquarters of Penguin Books. Salman Rushdie, watch out.
That was a bad thought. A shop in Charing Cross Road had been fire-bombed the week before. I tried not to look like the proprietor of a bookstore.
I forced my mind back to the scene before me. The kid in the Oxford gray blazer was a clerk at Lincoln's Inn. The tall woman in gray ultra-suede was a television executive, ferret-face by the door a racetrack tout. I turned the idea over in my mind. If a bookie was a turf accountant in English parlance, what did they call touts?
We bucketed into Sloane Square. Pea-green tiles and little white arches like lattices were set in mosaic for the ages. Symbolizing what? The Chelsea Flower Show, probably. Half a dozen passengers got off including the TV executive and the quondam terrorist. One man squeezed aboard.
Ferret-face was standing in the doorway. The public address announcement crackled out. He didn't move. Nobody said anything to him. He was looking my direction but not at me. I noticed because he was staring so intently--rudely, in English terms. The train waited. The automatic doors would not close, the train would not leave, until ferret-face cleared the door.
Beside me Milos gave a grunt. I saw an arm and shoulder move. A man in a brown pinstripe eeled out of the car. With a final stare--at Milos, I thought--the ferrety tout stepped out onto the platform and the doors slid together. As the train began to move I saw him vanish into the mass of waiting commuters.
"Lark..."
Skylark Page 1
