by Rose Tremain
“I know. Sure, but . . .”
“So where will the water from the falls run to? Into Baryn city and out again the other side, precisely through the new designated ‘Perimeter Zones.’ And water’s still a nice thing to see. Or do you want your apartment to look out on a factory wall or the back entrance to a brothel?”
He had a first glimpse of it then, the place where his life would eventually have to be lived. He saw it as a small but clean place, painted white, with electric heaters attached to the white walls. He imagined the river swirling along—still agitated from its fall— outside the window.
“Lev? Are you listening? Sometimes I think you’re very obtuse. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother to help you.”
“I agree. I don’t know why you bother to help me. But I’m grateful. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten the rest of your loan to me . . .”
“Don’t send me more money. I don’t want it. This Crillon bathrobe I’m wearing costs almost two hundred pounds and Pyotor would buy it for me if I asked him. Send money to Rudi.”
“I’m going to honor my debt, Lydia.”
“Sure, but not now, don’t be stupid. Pyotor gives me so much, you can’t imagine. Today he bought me oysters, followed by sole, for lunch. Then from Hermès, the most beautiful silk blouse, almost three hundred euros . . .”
She couldn’t disguise it, the pride in her voice: pride that love— love for the woman once mocked as Muesli—could be measured in the finest luxury commodities.
Lev smiled and said, “Tell me more about your new life, Lydia. Are you happy with your maestro?”
“Well, you know, Lev, my life is really incredible.”
“That wasn’t precisely my question.”
“No.”
Lydia was silent for a moment. Then she said, in a whisper, “At the moment, Pyotor has very bad bowel trouble. Concert stress makes life quite difficult for him. I could kill Sibelius—were he not already dead. But I do my best to comfort my dear maestro. Now I want to tell you what he said about Baryn . . .”
“Tell me that you’re happy. I’d really like to know this.”
“Yes. I am happy, Lev. Now, Pyotor is a wise man and he has seen how the future could be for a city like Baryn.”
“Do you make love?”
“Well, my dear, that’s really none of your business.”
“True. It isn’t.”
“But we do, yes. When he’s free of his intestinal pain, he can be very intense. Are you satisfied now?”
Lev lay on his elbow, smoking. He could hear a night bird chirruping alone in the darkness outside. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me what Pyotor says about Baryn.”
“Well, this is very good news, Lev. Are you going to listen to me when I tell you some good news?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Well, Pyotor believes, once the dam is built, Baryn will become quite a prosperous place. Bring power to a city like that, reliable power, and a lot of other things follow. New businesses will come. New housing will be built. Parks. Facilities. Smart cafés and shops.”
“It’s hard to imagine a lot of smart cafés and shops in Baryn,” he said.
“I know. It’s remained backward. But that’s going to change. Why make the dam if they didn’t think it could change? Pyotor points out that its situation is good: fine countryside around it—at least to the south, where they didn’t use up all the trees—winters cold, but summers quite long. Perhaps they’ll make a lido on the new reservoir. I don’t know. Anything one can imagine might arrive there in time. A football stadium, maybe. A new ice rink, with spectator seating.”
“A new ice rink?”
“Yes. Sure. Why not?”
Lev was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I hope they’ll do that. Maya loves to skate. She’s on her way to achieving toe loops.”
Early the following morning Lev was riding the tractor with Midge along a narrow lane, hauling a wooden trailer to pick up straw bales for the summer fruit. The dog Whiskey was between them, with his dog stink, but his nose cold and his tail wagging. Poplars bordered the lane, their leaves flashing gray in the sunshine. At the feet of the poplars, swathes of damsel’s lace. And Midge nearly let the tractor swerve, his pouched eyes were so fixed on this sight.
“Worth the winter,” he said. “Eh, Lev? Worth all the dark days, to see that.”
Lev looked at it: white embroidery on a flounce of May green. He let his gaze wander there, in its fragility and in its permanence, and it was at this moment that his Great Idea arrived in his mind.
The Idea was beautiful.
For a moment, it deprived him of breath. He felt it as something irresistible, calling him on. It seemed as obvious, as elegant, as a theorem, proved beyond doubt.
He almost blurted it out to Midge, then recognized, no, it had to grow in secret, like the hedgerow lace. He had to hold it inside, and he vowed to do this. Long ago, in his boyhood, Lev had understood that secrets gave him a feeling of power. This power was at its most intense when the secret was one he was capable of keeping from Rudi.
The Idea needed three things: information, money, and will.
It made his heart beat wildly to consider how he could set about acquiring these. His mind boiled with audacious tasks and hopes. Already, on this early May morning, as Lev helped Midge load up the bales of straw, he began to make lists in his head. The dog danced round him, yelping wildly, as though he could smell a world that was suddenly new.
“What’s wrong with Whiskey?” said Midge. “Yew got choc drops hidden in your pocket?”
Lev bought a ruled notebook and started to scribble in it. Instructions to himself tumbled out so fast that later he found them almost illegible. At night he lay on his bed, dreaming everything into existence. He could see it all and he wanted it, wanted it. He felt like a youth, in the grip of an obsession. The seductive power of his Idea was so strong, it almost had a scent. And, as with all obsessions, it wore him out and wouldn’t let him rest. After five or six sleepless days and nights, he began to long for respite.
On the evening of his forty-fourth birthday, he walked through the dusk to the Longmire Arms with Vitas, Jacek, and the Mings. He decided to be reckless with his carefully saved money, bought beer and vodka chasers for everybody, and waited for the drink to still his raging mind.
The Mings, always sensitive to his moods, stood close to him, watching him, examining his expressions, as if wondering at his new euphoria.
“Rev. You okay?”
“Rev. You lirrel crazy?”
“Yeah. I guess. It’s my birthday. I’m a little crazy.” But he wanted to say to them, No, not crazy exactly: lost. Lost in the Secret, lost in the Idea.
He draped his arms round their shoulders. Wanted to ask them: Help me go somewhere else, you and the vodichka, help me find a few moments of peace . . .
They drank and drank. Played billiards. Snagged up the baize with some outlandish shots. Had the landlord bawling at them: “Fucking immigrant idiots!” Caught the Mings’ contagious laughter. Hor-hor-hor-hor! Hor-hor-hor-hor-hor-hor! Stood in a huddle, with their bodies gyrating to some wild tune. Vitas and Jacek took off, but Lev and the Mings stayed on, swaying to beer, swaying to vodka, munching crisps and peanuts, laughing till their sides contorted. Laughed at Big Berri, at the shitty caravan, at yellow oilskins, at Lady Muck, at what beans did to the gas in your gut, at the catastrophe and joy of being alive. Money dripped away . . . dripped and leaked away and was gone . . .
“Money gone, Rev?”
“Yeah.”
“Bad shit. Wha’ we do now?”
Hor-hor-hor-hor! Hor-hor-hor-hor-hor-hor!
They staggered the quarter-mile home under a bright moon, heard a fox howling. Lev was half carried by the Mings, one on either side, his brothers, his sweet protectors.
They put him into their bed. It was scented with their bodies.
“Rev,” they said, “we care of you? You wan’?”
“What?”
Soft hands unclothed him. Felt the cool of the air on his naked form. Saw two faces looking down on him, with tender smiles. Then, on his cock, careful, gentle fingers, slippery with some perfumed oil, soft and unhurried as a girl’s. A ripple of quieter, less violent laughter, like a stone skimming on water . . .
Thought, So this is what I hear in the nights, this is the meaning of the sighing and crying, the fretful sleep. But always gentle, like this . . . as if it were hardly happening at all . . . as silent as a kiss . . .
Tears on his face. His or theirs? Gratitude? Or sorrow that he would refuse what they were offering?
He reached down, to move the hand away, but his yearning to still his mind to rest prevented him.
“Rev. We care of you. You don’ wan’?”
“Rev. You don’ wan’ lirrel Tong Zhi now?”
The voices so sorrowful, so tender . . .
“Jimmy, Sonny . . . I don’t know. I’m very drunk . . .”
“Ssh, Rev. No hurt you. We care of you, that awl.”
“On your bir’day. Then sleep.”
He woke in his own bed, the sheet and blanket covering him, the morning a lemon haze at the tilting window.
His head ached, but his mind felt stilled and calm. He looked over to the Mings’ curtain and saw it drawn across their part of the van, exactly as it always was. He could hear their soft snores, regular, untroubled.
He dressed quietly, picked up his mobile phone, and went outside. Looked over at the raspberry field and saw that the canes were suddenly coming into leaf. Thought, Things happen unseen; they overtake prediction. Regret isn’t always appropriate.
He went into the shower room and stood under the warm water for a long time, then dried himself and dressed again and sat in the sunshine not far from the washing line. He noticed diminutive violets pushing up among the new grass.
He knew it was too early to call Christy, but he had to find out about the room at Belisha Road. He punched the number there and got the message machine, then tried Christy’s mobile and heard the familiar voice, husky with sleep.
“Christy Slane.”
“Christy, it’s Lev. Sorry to call early.”
“It’s okay, fella. Hold on a tick . . .”
He heard Christy talking to someone, then a door closing.
“Christy,” said Lev, “got a question for you. Did you let my room?”
“No. Agents couldn’t find me anybody yet. Told me I should replace the bunk beds. Said people don’t like sleeping piled up like that, like in a prison cell. But that was Frankie’s bed. I can’t get around to throwing it out.”
“Sure, it’s Frankie’s bed.”
“You understand why I’m reluctant. Keep thinking she may be allowed to stay over one night.”
“I understand. But listen, Christy, I have to come back to London. May I have the room? Okay?”
“Sure. Excellent. Be glad to see you. How are you, then?”
“Okay. I’ll explain to you when I get home.”
“ ‘Home.’ It’s nice you used that word about Belisha Road. I’d have missed you more, except I’m not there that much.”
“You working?”
“Yeh. Got some smart new cards done. Christy Slane: All Your Plumbing Problems Solved. Count on Me for Fair Hourly Rates. What you think?”
“Good. I like.”
“Got me energy back for it, that’s the thing. Probably because I’m not drinking. Jasmina doesn’t like me to drink alcohol.”
“Jasmina? You at Palmers Green, Christy?”
“Right first time. Lucky fella, aren’t I? Me eczema’s cleared right up. I’m going to introduce you to her when you get back. So, when do you plan to get here?”
“Maybe tonight?”
“Tonight? Well, the flat’ll be a bit dusty. Haven’t visited it for a while. Couldn’t be certain there aren’t oranges going gray in that old Pyrex bowl. But you won’t mind, eh?”
“No.”
“Only one other thing to tell yer: Angela came and carried off the Wendy house. I said, ‘Oh, you’re going to live in that now, Angie, are you? Tony Myerson-Hill’s shown you the door, has he?’ But she wasn’t amused.”
Lev began to walk in the direction of Midge’s house. He knew that lonely people woke early. The dog came running to him and he stroked its neck. The back door was ajar. Lev could see Midge Midgham in his kitchen, lumbering between table and stove.
“Want some porridge?” he said.
They sat down and ate. Whiskey waited in his cracked old wicker basket, impatient for the day.
“So,” said Midge. “Come to tell me you’re moving on?”
“You guess?”
“Reckon I can see it in your face.”
Lev looked up at Midge. Big Berri. Lev thought, He looks as stupid as a cake of mud, but deep down in the cake is some unexpected ingredient.
“If you want me to stay one week, I will,” said Lev.
“Yew leave when you like. I know the damn dam business has got you jumpy. Crikey. You got things to take care of, I see that.”
The porridge was comforting and good. He remembered G.K. once saying, “It’s what I always have for breakfast. Lasts you the day, if it has to.”
Midge poured tea, so strong it was almost black, from a stained blue teapot. Whiskey turned circles in his basket and lay down. Outside, the sun was already warm.
“Forecast good,” said Midge, staring at the window. “I think we’re getting lucky with the weather. Should be able to pick for nine hours or more today and t’morrow. Hard on yew, those long days, but the bors don’t seem to mind. Vitas and his bunch can get a bit crusty, but I have to hand it to the Mings: never seen them anything but happy, have yew?”
“No,” said Lev.
“There’s a knack, eh? Never been like that. Wish I were. Always laughing, joking. Always grinning away like Punch and Judy. Wish I knew their secret.”
“Well . . .” said Lev.
“Yep?”
“I think, in England, they feel more . . . free than in China. And this freedom gives them happiness.”
“Yew reckon?” Midge seemed to ponder this for a long while. Then he said, “Never think of our lives as ‘free,’ do we? Think of them as one long work shift. If yew asked me what freedom meant to me, I wouldn’t rightly know what to answer. But perhaps, in this country, we take a lot for granted. I den’t know. ’Spect that’s why Donna got sick of me: never knew much ’bout anything. Used to say to her, ‘Den’t you ask me, girl. Den’t you go botherin’ asking me, for I den’t know nothin’ at all. Only about Lady Muck. She, I know, awright. All her moods, all her likes and dislikes. Tha’s why I can make a living. But she’s about the sum of it.’ ”
Midge finished his breakfast and took down the pay ledger he kept on a sideboard, which, during Donna’s brief day, might have been set out with glass or china but was now piled up with machine catalogs, magazines, and newspapers, old Jiffy bags, maps, broken pens, pruners, and balls of garden twine. He put on a pair of narrow spectacles and squinted through them at his own untidy handwriting.
“Looks like I owe you a hundred and thirty-three pounds. Four extra hours in the chiller this week. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Shame you can’t stay for the soft fruit, later on. We do Pick Your Own at weekends.”
Pick Your Own.
Lev had a sudden memory of Lydia seeing these words through the coach window and admitting that she didn’t understand them.
“What is Pick Your Own, Midge?” he asked now.
“Fruit,” said Midge. “Pick Your Own Fruit. It’s when I let the public loose in a strawberry field. Come swarmin’ in on fine days, they do. Never know who you’re going to meet there.”
Pick Your Own.
Lev smiled. He imagined the silence of Longmire Farm broken by the laughter of women in pale summer clothes. “That’s good, Midge,” he sai
d. “Maybe you meet someone new this year.”
“Who knows? But is it worth it? Crikey. All that aggravation. Perhaps I’m better off with just me and the dog.”
Midge went out and returned with Lev’s money in an envelope.
“I’ve called it one three five,” he said. “Haven’t got the coins.”
“I give you change?”
“No. Yew keep it. You earned tha’, fair and square. Sorry to lose yew, I am.”
There was a part of Lev that wished he could just slip away from the Mings without saying good-bye: tenderness and embarrassment mingled.
But when they saw him packing his things, they came and stood at his elbow, staring sorrowfully at him.
“Rev. Why you reaving?”
“Rev. You hate us now?”
“We no’ hurt you, Rev . . .”
“You in crazy mood, Rev. So we take care you. Is awl.”
He reached out for their hands. They came to him and he held them close to him, like children. He said he was grateful that they’d taken care of him, that he would always remember them.
They clung together, the three of them like that, for a moment. Then they heard the toot of Midge’s Range Rover summoning the Mings to the asparagus fields. They grabbed their old canvas satchel, which contained their lunch, tugged on their boots, and scuttled out into the sunshine. Before they reached the car, they turned and waved.
“You good man, Rev!” called Sonny.
And the echo from Jimmy: “Yah, you good man, Rev!”
19
The Room of Colored Glass
A GREEK FRIEND of Christy Slane’s, Babis Panayiottis— usually known as “Panno”—ran a popular taverna in Highgate Village. Christy had recently replumbed Panno’s kitchen, installed a new hot-water boiler, a glass washer, and some deep-bowl sinks and smart drainers, overseen the setting up of a gas-fed charcoal grill. And Panno had said to him, “Lovely work, Christy. Just how I like it. From now on, you be my guest sometimes.”
Staff came and went from Panno’s taverna. He preferred to employ Greeks, or Greek Cypriots, claimed the customers liked to be reassured, in a city of mixed-up cultures, that people were who they pretended to be. But he admitted to Christy that hiring Greek staff was difficult. “A lot of Greeks get miserable in London,” he said. “Not their fault. They just can’t take the climate.”
