by Shamim Sarif
“He told me that he had hoped to have made a difference during his own lifetime, but that he now placed his hopes in me.”
“And is he pleased with your work?”
Alexander nods. “I think so.”
“But you don’t have the passion that drove him.”
“No. That is a rare thing, and everyone must find it where they can.”
Katya opens her mouth to reply, but thinks better of it. Why should I be concerned about this young man and his family? And yet she cannot help herself.
“Tell me,” he says, for he is watching her hesitate. “Whatever it is, tell me.”
“How will you find your passion in life if you are following your father’s dream?”
Later, alone in the kitchen while he makes her some strong tea to warm them after their walk, he hears her ask that question again. He could not answer at the time, and if he is to be completely honest with himself he was shocked at her words, at her talk of passions and dreams and following paths. It was so different from anything he had ever considered before, and yet there was a sense of some part of his mind shifting, of something falling into place, though he cannot pin down what exactly. As he thinks over their conversation out there in the glow of the snowy streets, he is caught between embarrassment and elation at her incisive, clear mind, and at the way she got the measure of him in minutes, showing him things he had preferred to hide even from himself. For his part, his questions and encouragement and genuine interest in her life has brought him hardly any closer to knowing her than he had been when they first met.
As she sips at her tea, he mentions her parents, a gentle query, and she shakes her head slightly.
“They are both dead.”
He nods and waits, so she will understand that he already knows this, but it seems she does not wish to elaborate. He asks something else, to change the focus.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“One brother,” she says, in barely more than a whisper, nodding. “Yuri. He left here. Four years ago.”
Alexander nods, but is inwardly shocked again. It is rare for anyone to be able to get out, to escape, for that is what she means. There is no leaving this country; one can only escape, and that is rarely successful. He is about to ask how and why, but her eyes are dark and he does not want to upset her. Her brother’s leaving must have made her life harder – not only that he is now lost to her, but that suspicion would automatically be transferred to her, like a blanket that she must always carry around.
She takes a small taste from the customary saucer of jam that he has placed alongside her tea glass, and holds it on her tongue while she drinks. Only then does she look up at him again.
“You know they were taken?” Her voice is matter-of-fact, but her eyes look sad. But then, they often do, he thinks. “My parents, I mean?”
“Yes. How old were you?”
“Twelve years old.”
“Just a little girl,” he says quietly, and in her mind she curses him, for she is feeling again that strange wave of emotion that overcame her at the party that night of their first meeting. The feeling that she cannot possibly hold everything together any longer, that she is about to scream or cry, or both. It must be him, she thinks. He is the common factor here. It must be him. With a snap, her eyes focus on his face, and with an effort of will that he cannot detect she speaks, coolly:
“They were anti-Stalinists, and they were quite open about it. They knew the risk they were taking.”
He is shocked, and disbelieving.
“But they were your parents. And it is not wrong to have an opinion…”
“It is. It was then. And they knew it. And they still kept their opinions, and made them known.”
“Didn’t you think the same way as them?”
“No. Not really. I was twelve, when they were taken away. I didn’t think much about anything, except playing and school.”
“And it didn’t turn you against the State? Or its systems? Afterwards?”
Is he testing her? Checking her credentials? Her suspicion splashes over her like a sudden burst of freezing water, and it wakes her out of the warm, relaxed state into which he has lulled her. Lured her. It is easier now that she suspects him a little. Now she knows once more where she stands and who she is.
“No. It didn’t turn me against the State. My beliefs came to me as an adult, and I have thought them through, and know them to be rational and true.”
“And so you remain a good communist to this day?”
She shrugs. “Of course. The crimes or mistakes that one man may have made does not negate a whole ideology, does it?” And I have striven to be the perfect communist, she thinks, to avoid the taint of my parents’ beliefs and my brother’s actions. And if they must watch me a little more closely, and if that makes my work harder, it also makes it more satisfying.
“No, but they were your parents! Can you be so rational when your own mother has been taken from you? Katya?”
Why does he say her name that way? She closes her eyes and despite herself, she feels the moist hotness of tears searing the edges of the lids. He watches her for a moment, sorry that he has failed to see through her calm, logical bravado. Then he is on his knees by her side, and he touches her hair and finally puts a sure arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to her again and again. “I’m sorry.”
She puts his arm away, firmly, but kindly.
“It’s over,” she tells him, and when she looks at him her eyes are clear and calm, and her voice is steady.
“It’s over, Sasha.” It is the first time that she has addressed him by his informal name. She shrugs, and gives him a smile.
“I hardly think of it any more.”
She does not allow him to escort her all the way to her apartment. Instead, at the metro station, she insists that he leaves her, and turns back. He is reluctant – he would like to see her safely home, but is also eager for more time with her, even twenty minutes on a train. But she has been shaken by certain feelings that have bubbled up within her while she has been sitting there in his apartment. There was a moment towards the end of their long evening together when she felt herself relax, when she suddenly, unexpectedly, felt that she would be happy never to leave, that she would be content to just stay there with him, this young man who is still little more than a stranger to her. She had noticed this weakness within herself at once, and within five minutes she had come up with a convincing reason why she needed to leave immediately, and she had pulled on her coat and left, with Alexander almost running beside her, at least as far as the station.
She needs time to think, and as she sits limp and tired in the underground carriage, her body swaying with the rocking of the train, she asks herself what she will do next. He likes her, she would have to be blind not to see it, and this is exactly as she would have wished. The more he likes her, the more he will learn to trust her. It will take time, of course, and subtlety and caution, but she can do it.
The train slows inside the blackness of a tunnel, and she blinks away the sudden darkness. The key is to think of him as a means to an end, not as a person. She nods to herself as the carriage emerges into the light of her station. She stands and waits by the door. Forget his kindness, and his handsome eyes, and his open smile. He is a means towards an end, an important end; he is not a person. She steps off the train and runs quickly up the staircase. At the station exit, the freezing night air is waiting for her; the cold pulls her back to herself, and with a deep breath and a nod, she walks briskly back to her home.
Chapter Five
Boston
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, they walk down to Newbury Street. The morning sky is dim, cloud-filled, with a feeling of late afternoon to it. Alexander is grateful for the lights of the shop windows, the coloured bulbs strung over balconies and railings, the mocha-tinged steam that escapes into the chill air from all the coffee shops. Leaving Lauren at a small gallery, he goes to get his last gifts.
When at last they meet in Copley Square for lunch, she is radiant, glowing – there is excitement in her face, and the frost has quickened her blood, so that energy and warmth pulsate through her, even through the sheets of cold that beat down from the steel sky. He watches her walking across the paved stones, pleased that she is with him for the holidays, happy to share her liveliness and delighting in the pleasure that shows in her eyes when she recognizes him standing outside the restaurant, muffled up in a yellow cashmere scarf. In moments they are inside, overtaken by dry warmth, talking over the Christmas music, drinking down a small whiskey each. The alcohol curls through him, reaching thin tendrils of heat through his chest and stomach. With a contented sigh he puts down his glass and smiles.
“How were the galleries?”
“Oh, fine.”
He smiles. She is hiding something, suppressing it without much success beneath eyes and a mouth that are conspiring to give her away.
“What are you up to, young lady?”
“Nothing. I’m picking up your present after lunch.”
“Oh good,” he says. “I’m sure it’s huge, I’ll help you carry it.”
“Uh-uh. You’re going home; I’ll collect it and we’ll meet back at the house.”
“Are we opening things tonight or tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
“It is Christmas Eve.”
“Tonight it is, then. After dinner.”
Lauren struggles into the house, swaying slightly under the weight of the parcel. Now, suddenly, as she carries it over the threshold of her uncle’s house, this beautiful, comforting house, she has her first sense of misgiving. Arms aching, she pauses in the hallway and props the present against a wall. It is large, and wound around with an outsized ribbon and bow. In the gallery she had thought the bow a festive, bright touch, but here in the warm darkness of Alexander’s home, and considered in the light of her new uncertainty, the gold ribbon appears garish. She reaches over and tugs at it, but the bow is firm and does not unravel at a touch. She pulls off her gloves and scarf, her lip caught between her teeth as she considers.
“Lauren?”
He is calling, from the kitchen of course. She can hear pots sliding on the stove, and the tap running.
“Coming!”
But he is already in the hall, a blue apron around his waist, and a towel between his hands. She looks round and sees him with her artist’s perception, for she is still in that other space in her mind, and his age shocks her for a moment. Not that he looks any older than he did the day before, or even six months before, but now she notices him as an older man – his silvery hair, still holding the pattern of his comb; his veined, slightly crooked hands, the light spots that run under the grey hair of his forearms. She greets him and glances at her own hand as it touches his shoulder, and she notices the planes of the bones and the flicker of muscle and vein. She feels like drawing it, immediately.
“Is that for me?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Shall I open it now?” he says, playing the excited child, when in reality she knows his small pleasure in unwrapping it will only be enhanced by a period of anticipation.
“After dinner,” she says, and leads him back into the kitchen.
An hour before their meal, she is upstairs, immersed in a hot bath, from which he knows she will not emerge for at least thirty minutes. He thinks with pleasure of the new candles he had thought to scatter around her bathroom, and he knows she will be lying there with every one of them lit. Since there will be only the two of them he has decided to serve beef rather than turkey, and the joint of meat is almost done, it’s savoury juices melting slowly into the pan where the potatoes are crisping. The wine is decanted, and he has the remaining vegetables browning, bubbling or roasting, according to their needs.
When the telephone rings, he considers leaving it, but the bell is persistent, and finally he scoops up the handset and flicks it on.
“Merry Christmas.” He recognises Estelle’s voice at once. He puts the pan he is holding back onto the stove and sits down at the kitchen table.
“And to you. How was California? Did you succumb to a facelift?”
“Are you implying I need one?” she returns.
“Of course not. I was thinking of your postcard, that’s all.”
“I have to say, I think LA has nothing going for it except maybe silicone implants and orange juice. How are you? Melissa told me the deal is probably off.”
He notes the word ‘probably’. Perhaps there is a chance to complete this sale after all. “Yes it is. But it happens. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right fit.”
“That’s too bad.” She sounds unconcerned. “Listen, I wanted to see if you’re free to come over for tea tomorrow. And your niece, if she’d like to.”
Alexander accepts, trying not to sound over-eager. He is pleased to hear from her. He had liked her relaxed tone, her forthrightness, the lack of formality, during their lunch – as he gets older, he has little patience for the careful treading that most new friendships require.
“How did you know Lauren was here?”
“Melissa mentioned it. In one of her few moments of conversation.”
“She’s with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“Yes. Right now she’s at one end of the apartment typing away on a laptop as thin as a wafer,” Estelle continues, “while at the other end, her father is scratching out literary criticism with a fountain pen that looks like something Dickens might have used…”
He smiles at the image, then risks a more intimate remark.
“Sounds lonely for you.”
She hesitates. “I’m used to it.”
His perception has unbalanced her, and he feels at once that the easy tone of the conversation has been lost. Without remaining on the line for much longer, she simply confirms the time for their visit and hangs up the phone.
After dinner they sit in the living room, almost stupefied by the food.
“I can’t believe I ate that much. I can’t move,” Lauren tells him.
He offers her a chocolate truffle. “Are you trying to kill me?” she asks.
“Certainly not. I want my present first.”
She struggles up with looks of exaggerated anguish, but refuses his offer of assistance. With difficulty she slides her package into the living room. He comes to where she holds it upright, and glances to her for permission to open it. She nods, an edge of anxiety scoring into her, as she watches him pick at the tape.
“Just rip it open, Uncle Alex. It’s a portrait,” she admits suddenly, unable to wait.
“A portrait of whom?”
She smiles and they continue unwrapping together, leaving curls of gold paper all over the floor. He is about to ask the question again, but now enough strips of paper are removed that what was initially just swathes of textured paint now reveals itself as a white blouse, a neck, a throat… then a chin and a mouth – a familiar mouth. The smile freezes on her face as she sees his watching eyes change from anticipation to shock. Or is it horror?
“Uncle Alex?” she says, taking hold of his hand. She has stopped peeling away the paper, but his free hand reaches up and pulls it loose, an impatient, urgent movement. He must see the rest of it at once. He gasps for air, an alarming sound, for in its shock, his body has forgotten to breathe. Lauren’s hand is on his forehead, stroking, panicking.
“I’m fine,” he whispers.
“Are you sure?”
He does not reply. He is engrossed in the painting. He now realizes that he had forgotten what Katya looked like, how she really was. The shape of her nose, the tilt of her chin, the lines on her forehead. Those details that get blurred in memory after months and years, that you find you can only recall by staring at the two photographs that you came away with, and that only return for sweet, ephemeral moments when the beloved’s face comes unsummoned into dreams or recollections. He feels he might cry if he speaks so he says nothing, and Lauren
knows him well enough to wait in silence while they both look at the portrait. He forces himself to focus on the work involved, on Lauren’s achievement, as a way out of the labyrinth of emotion that has suddenly claimed him. His niece, Katya’s niece, has captured her aunt with such vivid clarity and life that he has to remind himself that she has in fact never even met her.
“Was it the wrong thing to do?” she asks finally.
He shakes his head to buy time, though there is a part of himself that is almost resentful of what his niece has done. How she has forced right before his eyes, in unrelenting clarity, the vision of his lost wife. His lost love. She waits, sensing that he is displeased in some way – she watches him biting his lip slightly. Perhaps he is trying to regain some control. Then he speaks, as quietly and calmly as he is able.
“Tell me about it,” he says.
Still gripping his hand, she speaks, slowly, carefully, explaining how she worked from the two pictures that he has, and from a couple of Yuri’s photographs, taken when Katya was a teenager, the Katya that he knew before he left Russia. Her features and facial structure were the same, of course, and gave her different angles and expressions to work from.
