by Bel Mooney
BEL MOONEY
LOST FOOTSTEPS
For my parents
and
for Dilys and Ron Travers
Contents
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Part Two
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Part Three
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Part Four
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Epilogue
A Note on the Author
Within the limits of the human condition,
what greater hope than the hope that allows an
escape from that condition.
Albert Camus
Prologue
Lit by candles, and by two small mirrored oil lamps, the room is like a cave, warm and red; all flaws of damp and age hidden in the half-light. A child laughs, low and gurgling.
Feet in black-laced shoes spin round: little clumsy feet, round and round and round, stumbling slightly on the spot. His eyes are bound by a woman’s patterned cotton scarf; his straight black hair falls in a lick across it as he laughs in excitement and fear, his familiar world darkened for the game. He is dizzy now, and giggling; then, very suddenly, the hands which have been twirling him are removed and he is still.
‘Now you must count to ten before you start.’
‘One, two, three, four …’
‘Too fast!’
‘One … two … three … four …’
After ten he gropes forward, moving like a sleepwalker, the known transposed, the level slanting beneath his feet. His hands paw the air. But she is not here – or here.
Just a few feet away, in the opposite direction, she is creeping backwards, instinctively exaggerating all movements like a character in a cartoon. When she reaches the low divan she bends, raises the woven blanket which covers it, and crawls beneath, pulling it over her head. Now the little mirrors behind the wall-lamps reflect a tiny, convex world, containing only one living thing – the child who stands hesitantly, arms outstretched.
‘Mama?’
A spring creaks.
He turns towards the sound, where the shrouded lumpy shape shakes with hidden laughter. Tottering forward, he reaches the divan sooner than he expects and half-falls on it, feeling the soft outline of her – then prodding and tickling. He tears off the blindfold and jumps on her, screaming with laughter. ‘Mama – you cheated, you hid!’
Breathless, helpless with laughter, she allows him to tickle her, then at last turns the tables, rolling over so that they both lurch to the floor in a tangle of woven material. She sits astride him, tickling him mercilessly until tears are squeezed from the corners of his eyes and he squeaks, ‘Stop it, please stop!’
‘Yes – but only if you promise to be good. You promise?’
He nods, in mock fear.
She pulls him to his feet, then bends down, smiling and still out of breath, her hands on his shoulders, face a bare two inches from his. ‘Now, Ionica, I think it’s time for your presents.’
Under sagging bookshelves on the wall is a small table set with five orange gladioli in a glass vase, and ten thin yellow tapers, stuck with their own wax to a strip of wood. ‘Now, see if you can count them in English for me, Ion.’
‘One, two, three, five, six, seven, eight, ten.’ He frowns, puzzled at the two candles that are left.
‘What a little boy!’
‘But I’m ten, Mama!’
‘Try again.’
This time he counts correctly.
Three small parcels, wrapped in brown paper, lie on the table. On each one is written a large letter in pencil. I and O and N. In front of them, lying flat, are two white envelopes addressed to ‘Ion Popescu’.
With a ceremonial flourish she sits him down in the chair, and for a few seconds he stares at the display – unwilling to disturb it. But she pushes a card towards him, and he opens it carefully. On cheap, greyish paper, cut roughly at the edges, is a vivid painting of a small boy with black hair, astride a dragon flying over the moon, a kite floating in the air behind him, tiny white sheep in the green field far beneath. He looks at it in astonishment, touching it with a finger.
‘It’s from Radu,’ she says. ‘It must be from Radu and Doina. He painted it himself, Ion.’
‘They always remember,’ he says, standing the card by the tapers and examining it gravely. ‘Radu made it for me. Isn’t he clever! I wish I could paint like that!’
‘You will, Ionica.’
Then he picks up the other card. This one is bought; a line drawing of some rabbits, with the words ‘Joyous Greetings’ in French and in Romanian, in fine script above them. ‘It’s lovely,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Mama.’
Again he pauses before picking up the first present; everything must be prolonged, no moment of anticipation lost through impatience. Very slowly he untucks the ends of the little package, to reveal a plastic paintbox – the size of his hand. ‘I needed some paints, now I can make a picture – as good as Radu’s!’
She nods and pushes the second parcel towards him: this one is an awkward shape. It contains a small motorbike, orange plastic, ridden by a black plastic man. He grins and pushes it around the table, making motorbike noises.
‘It’s not much, but … well, now open the last one, Ion – quickly!’
He seizes the package (this is the largest of the three) – pulls off the paper, and draws in his breath. There in his hand is a brightly coloured package of sugar-coated chocolate sweets – M & M’s. He looks up at her, awestruck and speechless, then utters one word, half-questioning, half-exclaiming: ‘Mama!’
‘From the dollar shop,’ she explains.
Part One
But yet I bid my mother’s soul to wait
Beside the well for me.
Into the well I shall look down to see her,
Yet shall not dare to gaze upon her face;
But she will take a long, long look at me,
To see my face, my girdle and my shift.
And then upon my girdle there shall be
Many more pearls tomorrow, on my shift
More golden spangles.
Upon the house, too, she will look, and then
Sunshine will linger round the house tomorrow.
Upon my heart, too, she will look, and then
My heart will be at rest.
And I shall ask: ‘How is it in the grave?’
Then shall I see her image, in the well,
With finger on its lips.
from The Bard of the Dîmboviţa (1897)
One
The city was in darkness, a dense, palpable blackness relieved by no lights – even at its centre. When the first dim streaks appeared in the sky, in the earliest hour before anyone stirred, they did not alter the essence of the dark – only its degree. Pitch
y, stifling, clinging around the nostrils like carbon, the darkness simply eased itself sluggishly into a lighter, drizzling gloom – which only a spirit of determined optimism might call ‘day’.
Ana heard the rain before she woke, a needling in her subconscious which made her tense and curl even more tightly, as if by making herself as small as possible she could avoid the cold. Then Ion coughed, a tiny rasping sound which penetrated the thin wall between them. She opened her eyes wide in an instant, anxious desire pinching, as it had since he was a newborn baby.
‘Ion – are you awake?’ she called softly. But there was no reply, only the smallest of rustles as he turned in his sleep.
Relieved, Ana sat up, bracing herself for the shock as her bare feet hit the linoleum. She felt for the candlestick on the floor by her bed, and at last managed to light it. Teeth chattering, she tugged off her nightdress, and pulled trousers and a sweater over the underwear and T–shirt she wore beneath it. The clothes only seemed to trap the cold in layers around her body; thick socks and old suede boots with zipped sides made her freezing feet even more clumsy. Hands shaking, she bent to light the paraffin stove, and cursed aloud when, strike after strike, the matches failed. At last a blue flame leapt, and she took the broken shard of earthenware from the floor, placing it on top of the stove to radiate heat into the tiny sitting-room. Then she bundled her bedding into a cupboard, picked up two books from the floor, and at last pulled back the thin curtains and looked out.
Every day of my life the same. Walking, mean and cold and small, down this narrow corridor, for ever and ever. The towering concrete walls a few hundred yards away, with their rows and rows of blank, black eyes, all looking this way, and behind them – what? Small people like me, existing in their warrens, pale and thin, knowing only that to look over the shoulder is wise, to look ahead the way to madness.
The faintest stain of light was turning the sky from black to grey, so that the square outline of the tower block opposite loomed indistinct. Ana looked at her watch, irritated with herself for the luxury of even those few seconds’ delay. Then she turned quickly, leaving the single candle burning on the small table, bundled herself into her windbreaker and tied a woollen scarf over her unbrushed hair. She allowed herself the pleasure of a glance into Ion’s tiny bedroom, with its faint aroma of boy’s hair and skin, mixed with the camphor she had rubbed on his chest – breathing deeply before letting herself out of the flat.
It was a seven-flight walk downstairs, in total darkness, but Ana knew the stairs well, and barely needed to grip the bannister. She knew the point, at the fourth floor, where someone had, inexplicably, taken a knife to the wooden rail, gouging out huge chunks in a frenzy. Frustration or madness, Ana supposed, removing her hand instinctively to avoid splinters. Sometimes, if she had remembered her gloves, she would keep her hand on the rail, taking a perverse pleasure in the roughness, the screaming absence of wood where the holes were dug, the way a long splinter might embed itself into the imitation leather on her hand, almost impeding her progress down. Sometimes, the small piece of vandalism could even cheer her, as evidence of some honesty: a spirit crying out with each slash, ‘No!’
Outside, she picked her way carefully through puddles and potholes, knowing roughly where most of them were, but occasionally stumbling. Soon, inevitably, her feet were wet, but she did not notice. It was growing lighter, although the sky was still grey. She was later than she intended, and started to run across the open land, and across the road.
The queue had, of course, already formed. A long row of people, most of them women, snaked back silently from the bakery. There were no passers-by. Everyone around at that hour of the morning had but one purpose: to join a queue. All over the city people were standing in long lines, with an intensity of purpose that was, despite its urgency, curiously dead. Newcomers would take their places quietly at the end of the straggle of silent people, eyes down, neither greeting nor even glancing at anyone. You simply waited, that knot of anxiety growing in proportion to the length of the line, cursing yourself for your tardiness, as Ana did today. Or was it hunger? Hard, in the end, to disentangle the physical from the mental; what mattered was to keep both at bay, bowing your head, accepting – all to avoid the day when otherwise you would scream and take a knife or axe to wood. Or worse.
As she approached the queue Ana felt rebellious. Instead of shuffling forward like everyone else, she strode up and stared boldly at the two women at the end, wheeling to stand behind them. One of them she recognized as also living in Block 12 – a hunched grey-haired woman who looked in her late fifties, although Ana had seen her with her children, who were not much older than Ion. The woman had forgotten her headscarf, and rain matted her hair, trickling down her neck. On an impulse Ana felt in her pocket for the plastic rainhat she always carried, and tapped the woman on her shoulder. When she turned, Ana held out the folded hat on the palm of her hand. The effect was immediate. Her neighbour hesitated; the nervous expression was replaced by one of mistrust; then she shook her head hurriedly, turning her back on Ana once again.
Ana shrugged. The bent, brown shoulders in front of her were solid and still. Were they to turn again, were she to make another unique overture, not of friendliness but of mere humanity in this shuffling line, the torso would swivel round, with sickening slowness, and present to her a shining blank oval instead of a face. An absence. A zero. A void which would be none the less terrifying for the domesticity of its shape.
It took an hour for her moment to come. She reached the front of the queue, seized two loaves, thrust them into her old canvas shopping bag, not daring to press them too hard, then turned and headed back to her block, not even glancing at the long line of people who still waited and stared, not at the faces of the successful shoppers, but at the bulk of their bags.
When she reached home, panting after the long, punishing climb, Ion was up and dressed. He was used to waking to her absence. And now the lights were on.
‘Is the bread fresh, Mama?’ he asked.
Ana shrugged. Her son’s face was serious; he rarely smiled, even when he told her about some good marks at school. ‘It’s bread,’ she said shortly, and strode over to the table to blow out the candle, adding, ‘you should learn not to waste candles, Ion.’
Unused to that tone, he looked at her in puzzlement, his mouth twisting slightly as if he would cry but stopped himself by a huge effort of will. Ana felt guilty, hating herself for letting it hurt him. It was not his fault, no more than the presence of Him elsewhere in this city was Ion’s fault. What could the child do; what could any of them do?
‘Oh, come here, you bad one!’ she called, feeling, as her son’s arms tightened around her waist, that now any stranger might wear the face of this child: wise, benevolent and old, somehow – a face that had seen and known much, even before birth.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t blow out the candle, Mama,’ Ion whispered.
‘It doesn’t matter, my Ion, my Ionica,’ she said, in a dreamy, singsong voice, ‘after all, the lights might have gone out again, and then you wouldn’t have been able to see, would you?’
Pleased, he shook his head.
As Ana walked through to her narrow galley-kitchen, where damp ran down the walls and bubbling growths erupted in the top corners, Ion followed her like a puppy. She filled the kettle, and set it on the flame, then took the precious pot of jam from the cupboard.
‘There’s no butter, dear,’ she said.
He shrugged, as if he was thinking of something else, picking at the chipped surface of the one tiny work surface, until Ana laid her hand on his to stop him. ‘You know something, Mama? I told Daniel Corianu that we speak English most of the time at home, and he didn’t believe me!’
Fear was like a permanent mechanism turning over within you, which could instantly be knocked into a higher gear. Yet Ana did not show it at first. She said casually, ‘Oh, but you’re not speaking English now, Ion. You’re not so very clever.’
‘Ye
s, but I told him,’ he insisted, ‘about all your books, and how you say one day we will go away, and that’s why I have to speak English properly …’
She could not bear it. ‘ION!’ she shouted, wincing as the child flinched, and lowering her voice to an urgent whisper. ‘You know I’ve told you before … you must never never tell them in school what happens here, at home. Never!’
‘But Daniel Corianu’s my new friend. He used to play with Maryon all the time, but now …’
‘It doesn’t matter, Ion! What happens here is between you and me. This is our own little world – do you remember I used to make up those stories for you, about the world down the well, and we climbed down the ladder and lived there, and no one could get at us … remember?’
He nodded.
‘Well, now you’ve got to pretend this flat is another world, and we’ve our own language, and no one out there can understand us. Is that all right, Ion? Do you see?’
Making the tea, Ana watched her son out of the corner of her eye. Something worried her lately. It wasn’t his cough, although she was glad that soon the warmer weather would come. But there were moments – and this was one, in that tiny hesitation before his nod – when Ion seemed closed off to her. It would be for an instant, no more, but she would see the shutter slide across, for an instant, like the flicker of a lizard’s eye, and her child would slip away, beyond her reach.
Perhaps it is just growing up, thought Ana. Ion was ten now, although he looked younger. Pale and small for his age, he stood out from the other boys at school. What was it that set a child apart?
The others had no means of knowing the beginning. She and Ion agreed on their fiction: Ion’s father was dead – an engineer who died when the boy was not yet one, slewing his Dacia into a fallen tree. The details were important. But of course, they knew differently, and who knows who told whom the truth? That is, if truth were an allowable word, a possible notion even, in this non-life they had somehow created for themselves. Ah, but there you go again, said the voice in her mind, accepting the blame. We tell ourselves we can do nothing, and it is true. But was it always true? Was there a moment when there was a choice, when it could have been different?
