Homesickness

by Murray Bail

  ‘What?’ the Russian leaned forward.

  Hofmann shook his head. ‘He didn’t look after himself.’

  He tried to close the mouth.

  ‘Lenin never had enough time,’ the Russian answered. ‘And he liked to dine not with tourists but with the chauffeurs and workmen.’

  Then seeing both photographers staring open-mouthed—only Kaddok aimed a camera—he elbowed Ivan then the other. ‘Bolkan!’

  After Hofmann closed the mouth Gwen Kaddok at the other end dipped into the reliquary and grappled with a leg. It was stiff but she managed to lift it up. The black shoelace was undone and he had no socks.

  Mrs Cathcart shook her head. Nothing would make her touch him.

  Gwen struggled to put the leg back. ‘He’s alive—I mean he’s not false. I can see it’s not wooden or anything,’ she frowned at the cameras. ‘It’s a leg.’

  Hofmann stared at Louisa. ‘My wife has a great passion for truth. So go on.’

  Tentatively she touched the necktie. The others would have laughed at Gwen and Lenin’s leg if it weren’t so serious; and easily embarrassed Gwen crossed and rolled her eyes.

  ‘We ask,’ the Russian interrupted Louisa, ‘that you prove the existence of him, of his solid body, and not his decorations. Of course his clothing is authentic! Clothing is clothing.’

  But the tie abruptly came away from the waistcoat. It had been cut short—was only a few inches long. In the strict analytical sense it was not a real necktie.

  ‘Oh dear. That was so unexpected.’

  ‘See what you’ve done?’ Borelli joked.

  ‘Enough!’ said the Russian harshly.

  The cameras were lowered as the tie was gingerly tucked back into place.

  The incident, so human in its unexpectedness, lightened their mood and they chatted among themselves. Anything is possible after a time.

  Returning them to the task the Russian had to speak loudly.

  ‘Some say revolutionaries are basically lazy. For example, that is the English view. But it has been estimated that Lenin wrote ten million words.’ He pointed to Borelli. ‘Now you, why not see if that is true?’

  Borelli thought for a second, then bent over the coffin: fresh outburst of camera whirring and clickings. He lifted the writer’s finger and twisted it back and forth under the lights.

  ‘Careful,’ murmured North.

  ‘Is it worn?’

  Borelli nodded. ‘Where his fountain pen must have rested. There is a distinct flat spot—’

  ‘Speak up,’ the Russian smiled at the cameras.

  ‘A distinct flat spot, shiny, almost a callus. The finger has formed a lot of words. Dirty fingernails.’

  ‘Did you know,’ Kaddok boomed out from Lenin’s feet, ‘Soviet nail polish is the longest-lasting in the world! It’s made from old films.’

  The Russian looked surprised and Borelli stepped back, wiping his hand on his jacket.

  ‘It was quite waxy to touch,’ he told Louisa and Sheila, ‘and stiff but it was a finger all right, just as it looks. My uncle I was telling you about would have appreciated this.’

  Because Phillip North wore a grey beard he was elected to test Lenin’s: suddenly the expert, Auditor of Beards, to the world at large. It was important. The beard was one of Lenin’s most conspicuous features, and all along comments had been made of its false appearance. It was ginger and glistened too much.

  All North had to do was touch it, tug at it. This he did several times to everybody’s satisfaction: the physical aspects corrected the visual.

  ‘I think we believe he’s the real McCoy,’ said Doug slipping into argot. ‘I’d say he’s genuine enough. I’m convinced.’

  ‘I haven’t had a go yet.’

  Stepping forward Garry Atlas raised Lenin’s right arm to 45 degrees. He let it go with a satisfied expression. But it remained in salute. The other Russians shouted and moved forward, ducking under the rope. They pushed Atlas away. International incident at——. It took two heavily built Russians cursing and perspiring, and Ivan who gave Gerald his camera to hold, to press the arm back.

  ‘You’re a silly bugger,’ Hofmann snapped. ‘You could have had us all shot. Do you know what you did?’

  ‘What d’you mean? That wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ North soothed.

  The Russians had returned to their corner, glowering; and Ivan took his camera back. Their spokesman straightened his lapels and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we very much thank you. It was unfortunately a brief, necessary task. You will understand. It should convince’—his voice rose—‘the most hardened reactionary lackey. Some things have a force of their own, are a statement of fact. Lenin lives!’

  The glass lid was carefully replaced, fitting beautifully, and a snap of his fingers produced two bottles of Stolichnaya and glasses on a hexagon-shaped tray. Setting it down near Lenin’s head he poured them each a nip.

  ‘Vodka straight?’ Garry turned to the others.

  ‘We are not monsters,’ the host joked.

  ‘What about the others waiting to come in?’ Sheila asked. She looked up at ground level but there were no windows. The Russian waved his hand.

  The chilled glasses left moist overlapping circles on the lid. A party atmosphere naturally prevailed, and small circles developed. Violet and Sasha found cigarettes, and the Russian rushed over with matches.

  ‘Well, that was an eye-opener,’ said Doug rocking with his glass. ‘That’s what I call an experience.’

  ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’ Sheila asked Gerald. To Sheila it epitomised travel.

  ‘You have been honoured,’ Anna smiled. ‘It is not every day…’

  ‘I found it instructive,’ Gerald admitted. ‘Very Russian, it seems.’

  ‘What did you try?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘The leg. Remember?’ Gwen cupped her mouth. ‘I nearly died.’

  Sasha and Violet laughed. The Russian glanced at his watch and nodded to the others. He opened a second bottle.

  Sheila wondered again about the people waiting in the queue.

  ‘Let them be,’ he waved. ‘Our people are patient.’

  ‘I’m more concerned about the Scots,’ said North.

  ‘At least it’s nice and cool down here,’ Mrs Cathcart observed, ‘and clean.’

  Doug glanced around. She was right as usual.

  Garry Atlas who had asked Ivan, ‘So what’s it like being a communist?’ (well, because they didn’t look any different), broke off: ‘I bet old Hammersly’s fuming!’ He threw his head back. ‘If only he knew. Drink up! How long have we been down here?’

  Taken for granted now, the shape of the tomb had blurred. The walls had gradually fallen away; tired walls. It was as if they were alone. There was nothing unusual—nothing novel—in the shape of the grey claque in the corner, backs turned, and the cleaner with the dribbling hose gaping at them. The body of Lenin lay alongside them but behind, for they had turned, and anyway it was difficult now to distinguish his embalmed features, so many glasses and marks left by moisture, and palms of hands, as well as Violet’s handbag were on the lid.

  The Russian proposed a toast.

  Repeating his gratitude and their wide experience (‘men and women of the world’) he added a few statistics on tourism in the Soviet Union and a dubious plug for the safety record of Aeroflot. He bowed graciously. ‘Tell your people what you saw.’

  In reply Phillip North reddened.

  ‘We too are grateful. I’d like to think that in realising something for the first time we come close to ecstasy. Is it possible? At any rate, that should be the essence of observations. I’d say it is. Um—all things—I mean the inanimate as well as the mobile—have a life of their own. Every experience is a journey.’ (Hear, hear!) ‘What we have seen today I don’t suppose we shall ever forget. But time is needed to sort out impressions.’ Always the zoologist North closed with some obscure lines from Vvedensky, and an appreciative wo
rd on the overwhelming proof of the vodka (joke, joke).

  Laughter mingled with the clapping and genial smiles from their hosts. Returning to his place Sasha squeezed North’s arm.

  Both Sheila and Mrs Cathcart would write postcards that evening, their last:

  ‘Hello everybody. You’ll never guess what happened to us today—’

  But now they congregated behind the dead leader, holding the empty glasses in their hands like trophies. Each one formed a previously decided, tested facial expression for Kaddok’s tilted composition. Louisa and Sasha smiled.

  ‘This is a rotten place. It’s awful; empty.’

  They could hear Sasha being homesick in the basin. These rooms were nothing but partitions jerry-built in the second five-year plan, the sloping ceilings plastered with varnished travel posters: the metal products of Tula and the wonders of Samarkand.

  ‘Never mind,’ North soothing, ‘cover yourself up.’

  ‘The waiter was rude. I hate the food.’

  After shouting their orders to the kitchen in his thick tongue he’d leaned on the servery window watching them. And the Soviet cutlery had felt queer to handle. The rest of the dining room was empty. Borelli had said the world was speeding by, separate from them. They were flung out at the edges; it felt as if it would be hard to get back.

  ‘I can think of worse,’ North assured her. ‘We’re just being left alone, that’s all. It’s educational.’

  To comfort her, he sat on a tabouret which revealed his short woollen socks. Violet had gone off to another room. He stroked Sasha’s hand which fluttered and fidgeted. The swallows had migrated south weeks ago.

  ‘You don’t care,’ Sasha pouted.

  From her bed Sheila heard:

  ‘But I do care. ’Course I do.’

  ‘Do you wear pyjamas?’ the voice as transparent as vodka and ice.

  North coughed. ‘Beg your pardon?’

  Although she was sick a few minutes before Sasha gave a rattle-laugh and came to life under the eiderdown, finally resting with her cheek on her hand. That was the creaking.

  ‘Cover yourself,’ North advised: traces of anxiety. ‘Sasha? You’ll get cold!’

  ‘He’s embarrassed! I think he is!’

  ‘Shhhh,’ whispered North, ‘you’re being silly.’ But the way he spoke showed he was smiling, looking at her. Sheila could tell.

  The acoustics were activated by the angle of the ceilings and the varnish. The layers of tourist posters also contributed.

  ‘Do you know eiderdown,’ North changed the topic, though not quite, ‘comes from the Icelandic: Eider, being a species of duck; dunn, if I’m not mistaken, is Old Norse for the soft underplumage of fowls and so forth.’

  ‘Chooks,’ Sasha inspected her elbow. She wasn’t interested.

  He coughed again.

  ‘You like to educate us,’ she said. ‘You can’t resist, can you?’

  ‘I imagined you’d be interested.’

  ‘Eiderdown—what difference does it make? I suppose that’s why you came here. You find every little thing interesting.’

  ‘Nothing much happens to us. It’s all happened before, at some other time. We can see it in the museums or the libraries. It’s been stored for us to see. There are almost too many things.’

  ‘There he goes again,’ Sasha yawned. ‘How boring. Youch! I’m going to get rid of that beard. Now don’t be such a prude. Listen’—her voice descended to that of a child’s. Sheila couldn’t quite hear.

  Gerald also lay in his room, trying to read.

  ‘There’s only this one night.’ That was Borelli’s voice: cramped, as if he was lifting something. ‘You don’t like it much either?’

  On his bed sat Louisa Hofmann, the married woman.

  ‘You know; I told you why. The places make very little difference.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Look at all the washing you’ve got to do.’

  Borelli didn’t seem to hear. Standing on his bed he was peeling from the ceiling a lime-green shot of the Volga, revealing now a corner, and finally the whole of Riefenstahl’s 1936 Games. ‘A-ha! I thought it was.’ It was one of the original posters. The ceilings were decorated with them.

  ‘Where’s old Gerald? He’d be interested in this.’

  ‘I’m trying to read!’ the voice shouted. An aerial view would show where.

  Borelli pulled a face and Louisa laughed.

  She leaned back on her elbows, her legs vaulting into the shadows of her skirt; above her the planks and congested angles of a wooden church seemed to crown her head. Gold hung on Louisa’s wrists and curled on her lobes; a fine chain fell like wheat down inside her blouse. She’d been watching Borelli. At the same time she seemed to look past him and into herself; or in the near future. Borelli sat beside her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Louisa smiled. ‘I didn’t say a word.’

  Sheila, for one, listened.

  Borelli’s voice of understanding; ‘But what though? What were you thinking?’

  ‘But you always ask me that.’ She added, quite mysteriously, ‘But it’s nice…’

  ‘Has Ken gone somewhere else?’ Borelli asked. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t care where he is.’

  She touched the edge of the eiderdown.

  Borelli hesitated but now leaned towards her, and kissed Louisa. They could hear Gerald somewhere clattering the pages of Pevsner; Sheila heard Louisa sigh as if turning in her sleep. ‘Doug, what’s the name of Jean’s eldest?’ came Mrs C’s voice, polishing off the postcards. They heard Louisa: ‘What’s going to happen now?’ Fumbling, Borelli undid the French buttons of her blouse. Louisa began murmuring something (inaudible); her young man put his finger to her lips. Her blouse opened like a coat. He kissed her throat, her breasts, pressed his cheek between them. Louisa held onto his hair. She began crying, but so softly. ‘What for…?’ Borelli asked. ‘Nothing!’ Louisa cried. Gerald loudly coughed and blew his nose.

  No one ever knew what the Kaddoks spoke about. The tidal murmuring could be heard, mainly Kaddok’s monotone as he changed a film, using a device like a black coat turned inside out; but now they were shouting. Gwen was shrill. Kaddok preferred single, curt words, patient spitting—both in a foreign tongue, a private language. Soon they were quiet.

  Sasha and North were laughing, and he was old enough to be her father.

  Sheila heard the interruption. Slamming the door Violet shook all the other partitions. Her voice was high. ‘Violet, wait a sec,’ said Sasha.

  She took no notice of them. ‘He’s a pig, and I know them. He’s disgusting.’

  ‘What?’ said North.

  Sasha held his arm. Tipping out her bag Violet searched for cigarettes.

  ‘Sit down. Tell us. They’re on the dressing-table.’

  ‘Smoothie-chops. I could clip him one. I pity her, poor girl.’

  ‘I’ll toddle off,’ said North.

  ‘Stay! Violet, you sit down. Now calm yourself. It doesn’t matter.’

  Violet laughed. ‘Listen to her.’

  ‘Nothing much matters,’ North offered. ‘What can we do about many things?’

  His hands rested on his knees.

  ‘What do you know?’ Violet turned. ‘I’m talking about myself.’

  ‘At least we’re together,’ said Sasha. ‘We’re supposed to be on a holiday. I’ve been sick.’

  ‘So I heard. Shit.’

  The relentless snoring of Cathcart could be heard, yards of gravel raised then rolling down a tin slope. Sleep: a form of death rattle.

  Someone banged on the wall. Everyone could hear everyone else.

  Sheila had to laugh.

  There was Hofmann’s voice, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Louisa said. She began whistling.

  ‘I asked a question.’

  ‘Then I can ask: where have you been?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You weren’t very successful? You poor man.’

>   And Violet nearby began crying. ‘She’s so nice, from the beginning I always thought.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Louisa told him. ‘I’m retiring.’

  Sitting up Sheila buttoned her pyjamas. In the midst of a group, among friends, the world was so intensely and constantly changing: even alone there was so much to see. The door unexpectedly rattled, then opened. It was Garry Atlas: almost falling in.

  ‘Whoopsie! Fuck, where’s the light?’

  Sheila covered herself as Garry sat heavily on the bed.

  ‘There we are…’ said he.

  Looking around the room he smacked his lips. Almost neat, on the sharp side, in his new Simpson’s coat, the knitted shirt and flared trousers, Garry’s bibacious face had rushed infra-red in places, blown slightly off its axis, and breathed heavily. Below the eyes, around the nose: flesh had shifted away. Someone staring like Sheila could glimpse the bone contour and sunken expression of twenty years’ time. Already his mouth was crimped as if he had lost his teeth. From the lapel pocket protruded the uncircumcised tip of a Cuban cigar.

  ‘Well, Sheil,’ he sighed. ‘How’s it going?’

  He was tired.

  ‘I met some really interesting people downstairs, Sheil. Really interesting, good people. But I couldn’t speak their language.’

  Clutching at her shoulder, the eiderdown slid off.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, Sheil. Are you having a good time?’

  But Sheila tried to straighten the covers.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sheila. Live dangerously! I’ve been meaning to tell you. That’s your problem. You’re cooped up.’

  Garry belched.

  ‘Listen, Sheila. Are you having a good time?’

  She stopped pulling the eiderdown.

  ‘I see interesting sights and customs; I like people. I think everything can be interesting.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Garry leaned forward, ‘What sort of angle is that?’ A perplexed solemnity entered his face, and held. ‘I feel we’re the odd ones out.’ He was breathing heavily, looking at her. ‘We’re the dark horses, you and I. They know fuck-all about us.’

  Someone coughed.

  ‘I had never thought…’ Sheila started.

  Garry nodded significantly. Think about it.’

  He sat up and raised his chin like a rooster: ‘And you know the other dark horse?’