As she walked off she could hear them echoing ‘fuck off, fuck off’, and felt uneasy at hearing their childish voices rising behind her.
The train was ancient and dirty, but Mina was grateful to be on her way again. She watched the neglected city turn into countryside, and field after field of corn and sunflower drone by. She sneaked glances at the other five occupants of her compartment, wishing they would speak a bit slower. But their conversation was too quick for Mina to understand, and soon it was replaced by sleep.
Mina pulled out a magazine from her bag and kept it open on her lap. Her back was wet and her thighs were hot against each other. Her newly plucked bikini-line itched like hell, making her squirm in her seat, and then finally manage a great, half-discreet scratch under the magazine. Pale and skinny indeed, she thought as she dug her nails into her crotch feeling ripples of relief down her spine.
The train stopped and Mina looked out at the village; just a few low houses, tilting at random angles, some kids and dogs playing in the middle of the dirt road.
An uninvited thought of her mother came. So unexpectedly that at once Mina didn’t know what to make of the fact, the fact sure to be pointed out to her, that she had not seen her mother for five years. Perhaps it wasn’t that strange, she knew other people who rarely saw their parents. Am fost tare ocupată cu viaţa mea, she repeated again.
Mina’s mum, Elena, had called her on a Saturday a few weeks ago to tell her the news. Mina had been having lunch with a friend and didn’t pick up. On her way home she listened to the message and called Elena back, immediately feeling the guilt.
Lili was dead, Mina assured herself as the train started to move again. And what was done was done. The thing to do now, Mina thought, was focus on making it through the funeral, making it through a month in this place. Then she would go home and deal with Alice.
The woman opposite was awake now, her son, or perhaps grandson, curled up with his head in her spacious lap. She was eating sunflower seeds and spitting out the black little shells in her hand.
She looked straight at Mina examining her like a museum piece. Her hair was long and very dark, veined in grey and tied right at the nape of her thick neck.
‘Seceta,’ she said pointing with her chin. She spoke clearly, with a slow and articulate consideration that made Mina feel self-conscious.
Mina nodded.
‘Look, no water.’
Mina looked out at the field passing close to the tracks.
‘Dead,’ the woman told her.
Outside hundreds of sunflowers bowed. All that should have been golden was brown; all that should have stretched towards the sun stooped in wilted defeat. They looked like a silent army of the beggar children Mina had seen at the station in Bucharest.
The woman ran a hand over the boy’s hair; she smiled down at his sleepy murmur and then returned to her seeds and the view.
When night finally fell and the yellow halogen lights came on in the carriage, Mina leaned over and asked the other question she had practised in her head.
‘Scuzaţi-mă, doamna, dar care este urmatoarea staţie?’
The woman looked out.
‘Next is Lacul Mare and after that Bogdan.’
Mina pulled down her suitcase, said thank you, and went to wait by the steel doors. When the train stopped she took the three steep steps onto the platform.
It was a warm black night, with the scent of burning wood and faded memory lurking below the stoop of the train house roof.
She walked through the hollow ticket hall, cracked porcelain tiles beneath her feet, and could see the large doorframe leading out onto the street. The frame stood vacant in the painted wall of the hall like a missing tooth. Rusty hinges told Mina that there must once have been a door. Through its absence she could see the headlights of a car draw nearer. She took out her mobile, hoping it would work, and wondering where the hell her mum was.
Mina stepped out onto the street. Three or four scabby dogs lay against the wall behind her, eyeing her with what could have been either curiosity or hunger.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood as the dogs rose from haunches to feet and ambled forwards.
‘Mina!’
Mina turned and saw her mum approach, clapping and stomping at the advancing mutts. They stopped with low whines. Elena wrapped her arms around her daughter.
‘You’ve lost weight. How was the journey?’
They walked to the car: a dusty Dacia, dented and resigned looking. Mina could tell her mum was still scared of driving; during all her years in London she had never once sat in the driver’s seat, but when she’d moved back here necessity had forced her to drive more and more frequently.
‘Do you recognise anything?’ Elena asked in English.
‘It’s dark.’
‘It’s been a long time … Too bad you should come back only because of … of these sad things,’ Elena said.
Last time Mina had seen her had been in a new Chinese restaurant in Richmond. When Mina had tried to take Alice there a few weeks ago it had been closed and the windows covered in brown paper. But with Elena, years ago, they had examined the dim sum menu under the golden ceiling decorations.
They had been shopping, and Elena was dealing with the disappointment of having to buy a size-twelve suit. Now, five years later, she looked like she’d shrunk back to a narrow ten. Her hair was cut short and, Mina knew, dyed a dark mahogany.
Elena stopped in front of a green iron gate and, on cue, Mina got out, opened the gate and stepped aside as her mum pulled into the yard.
Somewhere up ahead a dog was barking. There was a light in the kitchen window and over the flat roof Mina could make out the branches of the old bitter-cherry tree stretching out and up into the night. Elena stood with a hand on the small of Mina’s back. The touch felt hot.
‘I’ve left it to its own devices.’ She gestured around the front yard, which in the night looked full. Mina walked up to the cement border and looked out, as to sea, over the clusters of flowers.
‘Well, I’ve neglected it. Haven’t had the time for gardening, but now you’re here …’
Mina followed her mum up to the house, wondering why her presence should make a difference. By the front door Elena pointed to the dog, chained to one side and barking wildly.
‘This is Molly. She’ll calm down once she gets used to you.’
Inside the kitchen Mina stopped and marvelled at how nothing had changed. Eighteen years had passed but the gas hob and table, set for two, and ancient wood-burning stove all stood their ground. Even the rug was the same, and Mina could see, under the table, the dark patch where she had lit a fire a long time ago.
Elena took her suitcase. ‘I’ll put this in the yellow room for you, you remember?’
On the hob were several pots and Mina opened a lid and peeked at the chicken soup inside, swirls of parsley on the surface and a large carrot poking out like a log.
Elena returned. ‘Wash your hands and eat. Haide.’
When Mina was little Lili used to let her help make chicken soup. They would both go out into the backyard and pull out onions, carrots and potatoes, Lili waiting with a smile as Mina struggled with her onion. Then Mina got to pick a handful of parsley all by herself. Finally Mina watched as Lili caught one of the old hens and held it tightly under one arm with a blade in the other hand.
‘I’m gonna do it, Mina-Lina-Catarina. You gonna watch?’
And Mina would cover her eyes and run away, returning a few hours later to the kitchen and a plate of hot soup.
‘Did you kill it?’ she’d ask, tearfully gazing at her bowl.
‘No, no, strange thing, Mina-Lina-Catarina, when you left the poor thing just died in my arms.’ Lili would smile, and Mina would eat.
Mina felt a wave of exhaustion and let her spoon drop from her hand. Elena reached out and touched her.
‘You tired?’
‘I think I’m just going to go to sleep. The soup was lovely, thanks.’
Elena got up and led the way. Though the house was much like the kitchen, unchanged, Mina had the feeling she’d get lost if left on her own.
‘We just got back the hot water.’
Next to the bathroom was Mina’s room. Elena had opened her suitcase and hung up her black dress. This used to be her grandmother’s room before it was turned into a spare with yellow walls. The main light didn’t work, and only a dim lamp on the bedside table lit the room.
On the bed lay an old-fashioned nightgown, pink, lacy and full-length. ‘Sexy,’ Mina held it up.
‘You’ll be the belle of the ball, my love,’ Elena said in English and sat down with a sigh. Outside the dog was still barking. The night, drifting in through the opened window, was settling in the corners of the room and gathering like smoke against the ceiling.
‘I’m happy you’re back, Mina. Happy.’
Mina sat down and didn’t look at her mum. Her tired mum, with the corners of her mouth drooping even more than she remembered.
‘I’m happy too.’
‘It’s taken you too long, angel. Too long.’
That was Mina’s cue.
‘Mama. Am fost tare ocupată cu viaţa mea.’
‘This is your home too, Mina. This is part of your life.’
‘Yes, but I have been busy with my life. My life in London …’
It sounded weak in English.
Her mother’s shoulder grazed hers as Elena breathed in and out.
‘You still smoke?’ Mina asked.
‘Oh angel, I’ll never stop now. You?’
‘Nah.’
The lamp on the bedside table flickered and Mina suddenly asked, ‘Where did Lili die?’
‘What?’
‘In which room? Did she die here?’
Elena stood up with a strained look. She smoothed the sides of her dress and took a step into the arch of the doorway.
‘Why? She just died … She is dead. It wasn’t in this room, don’t worry.’
Mina raised her eyebrows.
‘How’s your friend, Alice?’
‘Yeah, fine. She’s fine. Look mum, I’m going to get ready for bed.’
***
The following morning Mina awoke with her mum leaning over her. She was wearing the black House of Fraser suit that she had bought in Richmond during her last visit to London. Her hair was up and her face round and pale, the blusher like a slap on each cheek. She whispered gently as to a sleeping child.
‘Mina, it’s six, I have to go meet the priest. Can you make it to the church by yourself or do you want me to pick you up here at nine?’
Mina stretched and sat up. The morning was cool and bright, and after the hot and black night it came as a gift.
‘I’ll be fine, I’ll just ask someone. It’s just down the road, right?’
‘I’ll have my phone with me.’
Elena handed her a piece of paper with her mobile number, the name and address of the church, and the address of their house – ‘Bogdan, Romania’ – written in brackets.
Mina laughed. ‘Thanks mum, in case I take a wrong turn and end up in Bulgaria?’
‘Be at the church by nine thirty. Nine thirty.’
Elena kissed Mina on the cheek and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. Alone again, Mina waited until she heard her mum leave the house and then got up.
The tables in the living room and kitchen had been set with crisp white tablecloths. Two piles of plates, her mum’s best china, a few rows of crystal glasses and a bunch of silver spoons all waited prettily for the mourners. Nothing stirred, nothing welcomed. Mina poured herself a glass of water and, leaning on the low enamel sink, gulped it down. The water tasted different here, sweeter.
Back in the yellow room she lay down again and fell asleep.
When she awoke, Molly was barking, pulling her chain across the yard. It was hotter now, the ease of the morning gone. Mina stretched; she had barely moved in her sleep and her neck was sore. She went over to the window and stood looking out through the green mosquito net that was stapled to the frame.
When her gaze fell on the clock ticking on the bedside table, she was jolted into action, and almost screamed in shock. She threw off the nightgown, pulled on the dress and shoes, grabbed her bag and rushed out.
As she locked the door Mina ran her fingers through her hair trying to catch a final glimpse of herself in the glass panels.
By the front gate the stone lips of an old well pursed. Mina stopped by it and hovered on the edge of memory. It came like a taste in her mouth, rising from her throat and for a moment clouding her eyes. It was the heavy aroma of white tobacco flowers. It was summer, a long time ago. All the summers of long ago, Mina would stand on her tippy-toes staring down the well at the play of light on the cool surface below. They were one of the first families to get running water, to the eternal jealousy of Doamna Ionescu, their neighbour, and though there was no need for it anymore, the well remained at the front of the garden. Every year Mina had to look further and further down to find the surface. Lili had told her the earth was sucking the water back down again. She’d sneak up behind Mina and pinch her sides, making her jump. ‘Ai,’ she’d say laughing, ‘ai, ai, don’t you fall in girl, or you’ll be falling forever. Don’t you know this well is magic?’ She’d sit down with Mina, their backs against the rough stones, looking out over the roses and marigolds and flowering sage bushes.
Mina sat down. She looked out over the weeds, shadowless in the high sun. It was past eleven now. The ceremony would soon be over; there was no point. Her mum would be back with friends and family for the wake. The house would be full of strangers remembering Mina as a child and wanting to know how she was doing. Wanting to hear of her success. The success she had built over the years in her stories to her mum, and which her mum had proudly rendered to everyone else.
Mina leaned her head back and gave a great laugh. She laughed, unable to stop, until her eyes were filled with tears. Lili, her aunt, her second mum, the one she had loved deeply and loyally from childhood to adulthood, was to be buried in only a matter of minutes. Mina had come all the way back for a funeral she was missing.
A month ago Mina had told her mum of a promotion. She had told her of a glass-walled office and a sulky but efficient PA, devoted to Mina’s every wish. A few days later Mina had received an envelope. Inside was a cheap-looking postcard with a photograph of yellow flowers on the front and on the back written in Romanian, in a strained, illegible hand, were a few lines. With the postcard came a note from her mother:
Congratulations from Lili. She writes: ‘All my love to you, my Mina-Lina-Catarina. You have done well far away. I miss you every day and hope to see you.’
She’d died the following week, peaceful in the knowledge that Mina-Lina-Catarina was doing well for herself.
At the heart of Bogdan was its cemetery. Sprawling and mostly neglected, it was an equal distance from the fields to the north and east as to the train track to the south and the woods to the west. By the main entrance, on either side, there had once been a group of ancient chestnuts huddled together, their thick trunks black and hollow, but they were cut down to make room for more graves. Now the cemetery lay flat, not a tree in sight, only the two churches rising above the tombstones.
The smaller, Catholic, church, which Mina was heading towards, had been built by two Bohemian brothers in the late nineteenth century. The larger, Greek Orthodox, one was much older and from a distance it looked like a miniature cathedral. These were two of the few churches not demolished during the many years of communism, and they even attracted a handful of tourists during the summer months. At one point all four exterior walls of the Orthodox building had been covered in bright paintings, in an attempt to mimic the famous monasteries of the north. Now only the southern fresco was still clear, while the other three were speckled with bursts of colour and the occasional head or arm. One time, someone had added to the floating head of Christ a female torso, complet
e with a huge pair of tits. The nipples had been joined by a chain of rude words written in neat block letters. It had caused great outrage, and Doamna Ionescu had embarked on a campaign to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice.
Mina remembered walking through the quiet cemetery with Lili, in between the hollow chestnuts, feeling magic. Now, all she could feel was a hot liquid fuss in her belly. She was two hours late.
She stopped in front of the great wooden door and listened to the muffled voices inside. ‘I can’t fucking believe this,’ she whispered to herself.
Doubt gripped Mina, but as she turned to leave the door opened with a smack of cold air. The priest’s voice, now loud and deep, echoed brilliantly and uninterrupted. The sunshine from outside lit the stained glass windows high above, but didn’t reach the pews or the faces that now turned to her. Mina walked to the front row, guessing her mother would be there. With every step her heels gave hollow clonks. She sank down, feeling slightly nauseous.
Next to her, Elena stared dead ahead. She didn’t even blink as her daughter sat down, offering an embarrassed smile. She hunched, swallowed by her suit, in the belly of the church, seemingly unaware of anyone else.
It was a small church, and only ten wooden pews lined the centre, but the hollow above them seemed eternal to Mina, the painted ceiling lost in gloom. Next to them, across the centre aisle, Doamna Ionescu’s beady little eyes held Mina in steady judgement. At first Mina wasn’t sure – this woman looked more like Doamna Ionescu’s mother, frail and wispy – but as the eyes narrowed and the lips curled into a thin smirk there could be no doubt. This was an old Doamna Ionescu.
It surprised Mina that she should be here. To her knowledge, the last time Doamna Ionescu and Lili had spoken was over thirty years ago.
Lili had been caught standing by their gate, where Doamna Ionescu swore she saw her ‘casually chatting to some gypsy’. She was returning home and spotted Lili tossing her head in laughter while the man ran his fingers through his black hair. Doamna Ionescu spent the rest of the week retelling the story in various states of outrage.
The Whip Hand Page 7
