The Japanese Lover (22 page)

“Other people in the ring have been arrested, Irina. Powerful people who have money.”

“Those men didn't do anything to me. There's only one guilty man, Mr. Wilkins.”

“Listen to me, Irina. You've had to change your identity and where you live. You lost your mother, your schoolmates, and all the other people you knew. You live practically hidden in another state. What happened is not something in the past; it could be said it's still going on, and that there are lots of guilty men.”

“That's what I used to think, Mr. Wilkins, but I decided I am not going to be a victim forever. I've turned the page. Nowadays I am Irina Bazili and I have another life.”

“I'm sorry to have to remind you, but you're still a victim. Some of the accused would be more than happy to pay you compensation if it meant they could avoid a scandal. Will you authorize me to give your name to a lawyer who specializes in this kind of thing?”

“No. Why stir all that up again?”

“Think it over, Irina. Think it over carefully and call me on this number,” said the agent, handing her his card.

Irina accompanied Wilkins to the gate, and put his card away with no intention of using it. She had sorted things out herself, she didn't need that money—as far as she was concerned it was tainted and meant she would again have to face the same questions and sign statements that revealed the most disgusting details. She had no wish to fan the ashes of the past in the courts; she was an adult now and no judge would exempt her from having to face the accused. Not to mention the press. She was horrified at the thought that the people she cared about would then hear about it: her few friends, the old ladies at Lark House, Alma, and above all, Seth.

At six that afternoon Cathy called Irina on her cell phone and invited her to tea in the library. They installed themselves in an out-of-the-way corner close to the window and far from anyone passing through. Cathy didn't like tea in condoms, as she called the bags they used at Lark House, and had her own teapot, china cups, and an endless supply of a French brand of loose tea, together with butter cookies. Irina went to the kitchen to pour boiling water into the teapot but didn't try to help Cathy with the rest of the preparations, as that ritual was important to her, and she always managed it despite her jerky arms. Since she was unable to raise the delicate cup to her mouth, she had to use a plastic one and sip the tea through a straw, but seeing the cup she had inherited from her grandmother held by her guest gave her pleasure.

“Who was that black man who gave you a hug in the garden this morning?” Cathy asked her, once they had finished commenting on the final episode of a TV series about women in prison that they were both avid fans of.

“J-Just a friend I hadn't seen in a while . . . ,” stammered Irina, pouring Cathy more tea to hide her shock.

“I don't believe you, Irina. I've been studying you for some time, and I know something is gnawing away at you.”

“Me? It's your imagination, Cathy! As I told you, he's just a friend.”

“Ron Wilkins. They told me his name at reception. I went to ask who your visitor was, because I thought you were upset after he left.”

The years of being unable to move and the tremendous effort she had made to survive had shrunk Cathy, so that she looked like a child in her enormous powered wheelchair, but she still conveyed the impression of great strength, softened by the innate kindness that her accident had only served to emphasize. Her permanent smile and cropped haircut lent her a mischievous look that contrasted with her age-old monk's wisdom. Physical suffering had freed her from the inevitable bonds of personality and had polished her spirit like a diamond. The strokes she had suffered had not damaged her intellect but, as she said, had altered the wiring, and stimulated her intuition so that she could see the invisible.

“Come closer, Irina,” she told her.

Cathy's cold arthritic hands clasped the younger woman's arm.

“Do you know what helps most in misfortune, Irina? To talk. Nobody can go around in this world all alone. Why do you think I set up the pain clinic? Because shared pain is more bearable. The clinic is useful for the patients but is even more useful to me. We all have demons in the dark recesses of our soul, but if we bring them out into the light, they grow smaller and weaker, they fall silent and eventually leave us in peace.”

Irina tried to free herself from the tentacle-like fingers but failed. Cathy's gray eyes drilled into hers with such affection and compassion that she could not avoid them. She fell to her knees on the floor, resting her head on Cathy's rough knees, and allowed herself to be caressed by her stiff fingers. No one had touched her like that since she had left her grandparents behind.

Cathy told her that the most important thing in life was to clean up one's own mess, commit oneself a hundred percent to reality, place all one's energy in the present moment, and to do so right now, immediately. Since her accident, she had learned that there was no point waiting. Her condition gave her the time to think things through, to get to know herself better. To just be, to be in the moment, enjoying the light of the sun, people, birds. Pain came and went, nausea came and went, but for some blessed reason or other, they did not overwhelm her for long. By contrast, she was able to enjoy every drop of water during her shower, the sensation of a pair of friendly hands shampooing her hair, a deliciously cold lemonade on a summer's day. She did not think of the future, but took each day as it came.

“What I'm trying to say, Irina, is that you shouldn't stay trapped in the past or be frightened of the future. You only have one life, but if you live it well, that's enough. The only reality is now, today. What are you waiting for to be happy? Every day counts, I can tell you!”

“Happiness is not for everyone, Cathy.”

“Of course it is. We are all born happy. Life gets us dirty along the way, but we can clean it up. Happiness is not exuberant or noisy, like pleasure or joy; it's silent, tranquil, and gentle; it's a feeling of satisfaction inside that begins with self-love. You need to love yourself as I do, as all those who know you do, especially Alma's grandson.”

“Seth doesn't know me.”

“That's not his fault. The poor devil has been trying to get close to you for years, anyone can see that. If he hasn't succeeded, it's because you hide yourself. So tell me who this man Wilkins is, Irina.”

Irina Bazili had an official version of her past, one that she had constructed with Wilkins's help and that she used to satisfy other people's curiosity, if it was impossible to avoid it. Part of it was true, but it wasn't the whole truth, only the more bearable aspects. When she was fifteen, the courts had assigned her a psychologist, who treated her for several months until she refused to go on talking about what had happened and decided to adopt another name, move to another state, and change addresses as often as necessary to start over. The psychologist had insisted that traumas don't go away just by ignoring them, that they are an insidious Medusa waiting in the shadows who at the first opportunity attacks with her head of writhing snakes. Rather than face up to this, Irina had run away. Ever since, her existence had been one long flight, until she reached Lark House. She sought refuge in her work and the virtual worlds of video games and fantasy novels, where she no longer was Irina Bazili but a valiant heroine with magic powers. Wilkins's arrival had shattered this fragile, illusory world yet again. The nightmares of the past were like dust that had settled along the way: the slightest gust sent them billowing up once more. Irina surrendered, realizing that only Catherine Hope and her golden shield could come to her aid.

In 1997, when Irina was ten years old, her grandparents received a letter from Radmila that would change her destiny once and for all. Her mother had seen a television program about sex trafficking, and learned that countries such as Moldova supplied fresh young flesh to the Arab Emirates and the brothels of Europe. With a shudder, she recalled the time she had spent in the hands of brutal Turkish pimps and, determined to prevent her daughter from suffering the same fate, convinced her husband (the American mechanic she had met in Italy and who took her to Texas) to sponsor the girl for immigration to the United States. Her letter promised that Irina would have everything she could dream of: the best possible education, hamburgers with French fries, ice cream, even a trip to Disneyland. Her grandparents ordered Irina not to tell anyone so as to avoid their envy and the evil eye, which has a habit of punishing those who boast, until all the hurdles needed to obtain a visa had been completed. The process dragged on for two years. When at long last the passport and ticket arrived Irina was twelve, with almost white-blond hair and an indomitable spirit, although she resembled a malnourished boy of eight as she was short and very thin. Her incessant dreams of America had made her aware of the poverty and ugliness around her, something she had never noticed before because she had not had anything to compare it with. Her village looked as if it had been hit by a bomb: half the shacks were boarded up or in ruins, packs of starving dogs roamed the unpaved streets, loose hens scratched in the garbage, and old people sat on their doorsteps smoking black tobacco in silence, since by now everything had been said. In the course of those two years Irina bade farewell one by one to the trees, to the hills, and to the land and sky, which, according to her grandparents, were the same under communist rule and would remain unchanged forever. Irina bade a silent good-bye to her neighbors and school friends, to the donkey and the goat, the cats and the dog who had been her childhood companions. Last of all she bade farewell to Costea and Petruta.

Her grandparents filled a cardboard box with Irina's clothes and a new image of Saint Parascheva that they bought in a holy icon market in the nearest town, and tied it up with string. Possibly all three of them suspected they would never see one another again. After her escape from Texas, Irina had wandered around for years, and the only fixed point in her tumbling life was the altar she set up wherever she landed, even if only for one night, with the saint's image and the single, carefully hand-tinted photograph she had of her grandparents. It was taken on their wedding day, and they were decked out in traditional costumes: Petruta in an embroidered skirt and wearing a lace veil; Costea in knee breeches and a short jacket, with a broad sash around his waist. They stood upright and were almost unrecognizable, since the years of hard toil had not yet crippled their backs. Not a day went by without Irina's praying to them, because they could achieve more miracles than Saint Parascheva; as she had told Alma, they were her guardian angels.

The girl somehow managed to get from Chisinau to Dallas all on her own. She had only traveled once before, when she went with her grandmother to visit Costea in the hospital in the nearest city, when he had his gallbladder removed. She had never seen an airplane close up, only in the sky, and knew no English apart from the latest pop songs, which she had learned by heart without understanding their meaning. The airline put a plastic envelope around her neck with her name, passport, and ticket in it. Irina had nothing to eat or drink on the eleven-hour flight, because she didn't know that the food on board was free, and the air hostess neglected to tell her, or in the four hours she was stranded and penniless at Dallas airport. The gateway to the American dream was that enormous, confusing place. When her mother and stepfather finally arrived, they said they had gotten the flight's arrival time wrong. Irina did not recognize them, but they saw a very blond little girl sitting on a bench with a cardboard box at her feet and were able to identify her from a photograph they had. All Irina could remember from that first meeting was that they both stank of alcohol; that sour smell was very familiar to her, as her grandparents and the other villagers often used to drown their sorrows in home-brewed wine.

Radmila and her husband, Jim Robyns, drove the new arrival to their home. To Irina this seemed the height of luxury, even though it was an ordinary-looking clapboard house in a working-class neighborhood in the south of the city, and was very run-down. Her mother had made an attempt to decorate one of the two bedrooms with heart-shaped cushions and a teddy bear with the string of a pink balloon tied to one of its paws. She advised Irina to sit in front of the television for as many hours as she could face: that was the best way to learn English, as she herself had done. In forty-eight hours Radmila had enrolled her in a public school where the students were mostly black or Hispanic, two races the girl had never seen before. It took Irina a month to learn a few phrases in English, but she had a good ear and could soon follow her lessons. Within a year she could speak English without any trace of an accent.

Robyns was an electrician. He belonged to a union, charged the maximum hourly rate, and was protected against accidents, but didn't always have work. Contracts were awarded according to a list of union members, the first job going to the first on the list, and so on. When one of them finished a contract, he was put at the end of the list, and sometimes had to wait months before being called again, unless he was well connected with any of the union bosses. Radmila worked in the children's clothing section of a department store; it took her an hour and a quarter to get there by bus, and the same to come home. When Robyns had work, they hardly ever saw him, because he made the most of it and worked all hours to the point of exhaustion; he was paid double or triple for overtime. During these periods he did not drink or take drugs, because any slip could mean he was electrocuted, but in the lengthy periods he was laid off he got wasted with alcohol and used so many drugs it was amazing he could still stand.

“My Jim is as strong as an ox,” Radmila boasted, “nothing can knock him out.” She joined him on his sprees as far as possible, but her body could not take as much as his, and she soon collapsed.