After Love (28 page)

I left Moscow in early September and spent some time in Leningrad, Kiev and Odessa. I even risked visiting Yakutsk, and was surprised that no one harassed me for travelling without a proper visa. A student at the Institute who remembered Leonid Mikhailovich took me to Tatyur. I managed to locate the birch tree with the bench beside it and sat there for a few minutes.

The student told me that Maria had been killed in a boating accident, and that the cabin now belonged to a local club of nature-lovers who used it as a meeting room.

I wanted to catch a boat up the River Lena, but the student warned me that the water was beginning to freeze and I would be marooned.

I returned to Berlin in the last week of December. One bright sunny day I went to the River Spree and scattered Vladimir's ashes which I had carried with me in an urn.

The following day, as children were opening their Christmas presents, Mikhail Gorbachev signed some papers in the Kremlin and the Soviet Union vanished forever from the face of the world.

For some a dream was over. For others, a nightmare had reached its end.

I left Moscow promising never to return. But I did return, not once but many times, each time taking away with me a fragment of the city attached to something given to me by a friend or acquired in a shop, theatre or forest.

After Vladimir's funeral Katya had asked me if I wanted to keep something of his and I chose the book from which he always used to read. It was signed by his mother and had been given to him on his fourteenth birthday.

From Shurik I received two small photos, one showing Lena standing on a tank. But the thing which would determine the future course of my life was a small photo of Maya with her guitar.

Maya meets her Papa

Anna

I hadn't expected a call so early in the morning, since Aunty Olga knew the time difference. I picked up the phone and the question came straight at me. No hello, no sorry, just: ‘Has Vasu phoned?'

Of course he hadn't. But her question confirmed what I had seen on the telly. The man standing with Shurik and Yasya in front of the White House was definitely Vasu.

‘He's in Moscow,' Aunty Olga said.

‘I know. I saw him on the news. So he came to see you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you told him about Papa?'

‘No. The nosy neighbour told him.'

‘Was he upset? Vasu was very fond of Papa.'

‘Of course. But he was more upset about something else. He even cried. I'm sure you know why.'

‘Yes, I suppose I know.'

‘So why didn't you tell him about Maya? That's so terrible Anna, so horrible.'

‘I know. But I didn't. I don't know why. Perhaps I was selfish. Perhaps too proud. Perhaps I felt betrayed and hurt. I just don't know.'

‘He said the same thing when I asked him why he didn't go looking for you. Even his words were the same,' said Aunty Olga. ‘Stupid.'

‘I know him. He's so correct, so self-righteous, so bloody decent.'

I was furious at myself for the anger I was showing.

She said: ‘You're still angry at him, aren't you? But you were the one who left him. And you never even told him why.'

I didn't reply and for a while Aunty Olga was silent too.

Then she said: ‘He asked for Maya's photo and I couldn't refuse him. I've given him your address and phone number too. He's sure to call you soon – or write.'

‘Let him call.'

‘But you should let Maya know. You don't want to hurt her, do you?'

‘She'll be upset, but that's normal. I was upset too, don't you remember? Sooner or later she would have found out. I'm sure she already suspects something.'

There was silence between us for a few moments and then I asked something which surprised us both. ‘How did he look? Was he all right?'

Aunty Olga told me that he had seemed more depressed than usual, probably because he had come to say goodbye to Vladimir. He had also been shocked by the coup and the rapid collapse of the Union.

‘He looked old and tired and burnt out,' she said. She described how he had spent a night in the apartment sleeping on the floor in the library; said that he had given her two packets of Belgian chocolates and hadn't known what to do with the jazz cassettes he had brought for Leynya; that in the morning as he was leaving she had gone to the window to see him walking away and that he had seemed desolate. She felt really sorry for him.

‘Meeting Maya would make him happy,' she said. ‘Do your best to make it happen.'

Maya

A couple of nights ago I heard Mama talk to someone on the phone. Must be Babushka Olga, I thought, because it was quite late at night and she was speaking Russian. I was already in bed and could only hear a few words.

Usually Mama tells me everything about her conversations with Babushka, but next morning she said nothing. I'm ready to wait. Let's see how long she can keep her secret from me.

My full name is Maya V. Eisner. Like all Russian names, the letter ‘V' stands for my father's name.

I did ask Mama once about my father's name.

‘Do you really want to know?' Mama had said. There was something strange about her tone, and not only her tone, but her whole face, particularly around the eyes. She looked hurt. It made me ask myself why I was putting her through this. But I needed to find out more. However this time, so as not to disturb her, I just said ‘Not really' and pretended to forget our exchange.

But I didn't forget and I am sure she remembered it too. One thing I know for certain: she wouldn't have told me the truth then. She's very clever, you know, good at spinning stories and all that bullshit. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that.

I know I could always phone Babushka Olga and she wouldn't hide anything from me, if I asked. So why haven't I? Am I crazy or what? No, it's because I'm in no hurry to meet my father. I'm fine here without him.

They say that he is alive and well and that one day he'll certainly come looking for me. I don't feel any strong urge to meet him. I don't need him at all. I'm quite happy without him.

Anna

We live in a small cottage attached to Milos' big house up in the Blue Mountains outside Sydney. Maya likes the cottage but for me it's nothing more than a place to stay, although I'm pleased that we don't have to move for a while. I'm happy living with Milos and he seems satisfied, at least for now. It's a simple arrangement that suits us well.

During the summer the cottage is rented to the tourists and Maya and I move into the main house and look after them. Maya knows the area well and often takes them on guided walks. I cook for them and in the evening if they are in the mood to be entertained we play for them.

Milos bought
Laura
, the house, from an architect who designed it for his wife. But she was killed in a car accident before she ever lived in it. The house has two storeys, the second up among the leafy canopy of grand old trees. Milos' studio is up there, surrounded on three sides by a deck. We can walk along the deck and touch the leaves.

The studio has a huge east-facing window that is much bigger than the ones on the other three sides. A fireplace sits in the centre. The dark parquet floor is covered with cheap rugs and carpets. The studio contains two chairs and a wooden divan stacked with cushions. It is unusually tidy and empty for a sculptor's studio. Milos has a workshop on the ground floor where he does the dirty work. In the studio he just waits for the muse that often arrives in the form of women of all shapes and sizes. Their faces, I've noticed, aren't pretty but their bodies exude pleasure.

Does their presence annoy me? Occasionally.

‘Why don't you say something to him?' Maya scolds. But we both know we don't have a choice, at least for now.

‘He gets his usual quota from them,' I could have told her. ‘That means I'm spared.'

I consider myself the housekeeper. My job is to look after Milos as well as his house. Luckily there isn't much to take care of, which leaves lots of time for Maya and me to do what we want. I give music lessons and sometimes work in an antiques shop in Katoomba. Once a fortnight we visit an old Russian woman, Larissa Andreevna, who lives in a small dilapidated house down in Bondi. We help her with the chores around her house, fill the cupboard with groceries and ensure that her fridge has enough food for a fortnight. We read out her mail to her, deposit cheques and pay bills. Most importantly we talk to her in Russian.

‘I miss being called Larissa Andreevna,' she tells us each time we visit her. Then she begins to mumble the same old story, which we all know is believable but not quite true.

In her story she is the ‘real' Lara in Pasternak's
Doctor Zhivago
. Unlike the Lara of the book she accepted the offer of a rich merchant, a spy, and escaped to Shanghai. There he tried to pimp her in clubs and bars and for a short time she complied. ‘To make a bit of money and buy some time,' she says now. She doesn't blame him for anything. ‘Those were bad times.'

Larissa Andreevna came to Sydney just before World War II and opened a salon in Bondi where she became known for her ‘secret' séances. Her knowledge of the tarot was phenomenal and so was her knack for reading bumps on heads, hairy or bald. She even tried her hand at acupuncture and enjoyed considerable success in the use of Chinese herbs, potions and other similar concoctions to ‘cure' people.

‘It was such fun,' she often laughs, ‘and made me good money too. People are so stupid and gullible, I tell you.'

Maya

‘I have something important to tell you,' Mama said. We were washing our hands after putting away some gardening tools in the shed. Saturday afternoons were for gardening and we both enjoyed pottering around together, gossiping and listening to music on the radio.

On this particular Saturday, she went quiet.

‘Is it about Babushka's call?'

‘So you listened in, did you?'

‘Just a few words. I was sleeping you know. And then in the morning you didn't say anything so I knew you were hiding something. You're such a bad liar, Mama.'

‘I was going to—'

‘I know it's about my Papa. I did hear his name. It's Vasu, isn't it? I wrote it down as soon as I got up that morning.'

‘What else did you hear?'

‘Nothing much. Then I went to the library to look it up. An Indian woman at the reference desk told me that it was an Indian name and that all ancient Hindu architects were called Vasu. So is he an architect?'

‘Not exactly. An urban designer.'

‘And you met him in a library?'

She was amazed. ‘How did you know that?'

‘Where else would you two be? Not at dances, that's for sure.'

She pushed a large packet towards me. ‘This is for you,' she said.

The Canadian stamps on it were really beautiful. Inside were two envelopes. One was open and addressed to Mama. I read that letter first, then opened the other that was addressed to me. After reading a few lines, I got up and moved to the other end of the garden and sat on a rock near the little pond to finish it.

I read the letter twice. My first reading was quick, just to check if it contained anything tragic or terrible. The second was slow and careful.

Then I folded the two A4-sized sheets and put them in my pocket. There were also three photos in the packet. One showed a small house and the other two a large lake, which Mama said was Lake Ontario. There was no photo of my father. Later I found his picture on the dining table where Mama had left it. It was a little black-and-white picture of a man sitting by himself on the steps of our family's
dacha
in Prudkino. On the back there was no name, just a date in Mama's writing.

We decided to go and spend the night in the open in our favourite spot, near Evans Lookout. We often go there to sleep in the company of stars. Mama pinches a bottle or two of wine from Milos' precious cellar, and I fill the thermos with strong coffee. We sit up singing and playing the guitar.

That night we sat for a while leaning against the metal fence and watching the darkness creep up on us. The night was raven black; the tiny sickle moon dim against the glorious stars. They were slow to appear but once they decided that it was their night, they flooded the sky with such abundance that my heart ached with joy.

Then I heard Mama crying, quietly as she always does. I didn't stop her. I wanted to hug her but I didn't. ‘Let her cry,' I said to myself. ‘She needs to let it all out. It will help her relax.' That sounds silly, doesn't it? But crying always seems to calm her down.

While I was waiting I started strumming on the guitar. Finally she looked up at me, smiling her lovely sad smile. I suddenly wanted to give her a big sloppy kiss. That was unexpected!

‘In the photo he looks like a boy,' I said. ‘Does he still look like that?'

‘I bet he does,' Mama replied. Overhead we heard a possum moving in a tree. She picked up the guitar, strummed it, and began to sing. It was her favourite song, about her lovely Staryi Arbat, an old part of Moscow.

‘She'll never give up these corny songs,' I thought to myself.

Soon, as usual, she asked me to join in.

‘
Davai vmeste
,' she said and waited for me to begin. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the stars, the melody and her beautiful voice. We sang together, in perfect harmony.

‘Feels good, doesn't it?' she said after we finished. I knew that my dear lovely Mama was pining for her Russian home.